The dreams came again that night.
Roen stood in a city he didn't recognize—tall buildings of white stone, elegant spires
reaching toward a sky choked with smoke. Fire raged around him, consuming everything.
The heat was intense, searing, but somehow he didn't burn. He walked through the flames
like they were nothing more than summer air, each step carrying him deeper into the inferno.
"Hello?" he called. "Is anyone there?"
No answer. Just the roar of the fire and the crackle of collapsing buildings. He moved
through streets that were familiar and strange at the same time, past fountains that had run
dry, past markets where goods lay scattered and burning. The city was dying around him,
and he could do nothing but watch.
Then he saw her.
A girl, perhaps sixteen, with silver hair that seemed to glow in the firelight. She stood in the
center of a square, surrounded by flames, tears streaming down her face. Her mouth moved,
forming words he couldn't hear over the roar of the inferno.
He tried to reach her, but the fire pushed him back. Every step forward was met with
resistance, like walking through deep water. The harder he tried, the further away she
seemed.
Then she looked at him.
Her eyes were white—completely white, no iris, no pupil, just endless pale nothing. And
when she spoke, her voice echoed inside his head.
*"You came. I've been waiting so long."*
"Who are you? What is this place?"
*"This is what could be. What might be. What will be if you fail."* She gestured at the burning
city. *"They'll come for you. All of them. The Empire. The Covenant. The ones who hired the
mercenary. They'll hunt you until one of them catches you, and then..."*
"Then what?"
*"Then this. Fire. Death. The end of everything I tried to prevent."* Her tears continued to
fall, sizzling as they struck the burning ground. *"I gave up everything to stop this. Three
hundred years, trapped in darkness, waiting for someone who could change the thread. And
now you're here, and you don't even understand what you are."*
"Tell me. Help me understand."
*"I can't. Not yet. The words would break you."* She reached toward him, her hand passing
through the flames without harm. *"But soon. When you reach the mountains. When you find
the place where I slept. Then you'll know everything."*
"Why me? Why did Sable choose me?"
*"Because you're like me. Thread-bound, sleeping, waiting to wake. Because your threads
are tangled with mine, woven together across centuries. Because fate is a pattern, and
you're the piece that doesn't fit—but in a way that changes the whole picture."*
"I don't want this."
*"Neither did I."* Her smile was sad. *"But wanting doesn't change what is. The threads pull
us where they will. The only choice we have is how we move with them."*
The fire around them began to intensify, the flames growing higher, brighter.
*"They're coming,"* she said. *"The ones who hunt you. Wake up. Run. Survive until you
reach me."*
"How will I find you?"
*"You already have. I've been with you since Ashford. I've been watching through the
sphere, learning who you are. When you break the crystal, I'll be free."* Her form began to
fade. *"Don't let them catch you. Don't let them take what you carry. Everything depends on
it."*
"Wait! I have questions—"
But she was gone, and the fire consumed everything, and Roen woke with a gasp.
He was back in the ruined inn, his body covered in sweat. The others were still asleep—Tor
on watch by the door, Braken and Senna on bedrolls near the fire, Mirelle curled beside him.
He touched the pouch at his hip. The sphere was warm, warmer than before. Whatever was
inside it, it wasn't just alive—it was aware. Watching. Waiting.
"Can't sleep?"
Roen looked up to find Tor watching him. The big man's face was unreadable in the dim
light.
"Dreams," Roen said.
"Bad ones?"
"I don't know yet."
Tor nodded slowly. "Dreams mean things. For those with threads."
"I'm told I have threads I can't see."
"Then maybe your dreams are telling you something." Tor's voice was surprisingly soft for
such a large man. "My mother used to say dreams are the Weave's way of speaking to us
when we won't listen while awake."
"What does the Weave say to you?"
"Nothing anymore." Tor's expression hardened. "I haven't dreamed since I escaped the Iron
Wastes. The slavers did something to me. Broke something. Now there's just darkness when
I close my eyes."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's in the past." He looked toward the door. "Rest while you can. The road ahead
gets harder."