Dawn's first breath had barely touched the stones of my cell before I stirred. The world was colder now, every breath a mist of air waltzing in front of me. My body screamed in areas I didn't even know could scream—shoulders, back, wrists—warnings of tests still to be undertaken. But the Ashmark on my chest pulsed softly, its broken spiral beating in rhythm with a vow: strength was concealed in these patterns, if only I could decipher the weave.
I sat up and let my vision adjust. The cell was still the same: jagged walls wet with condensation, one barred window far above, and the iron chains abandoned at my feet. My quill and scraps of parchment were folded neatly in the corner—Calder's "gift," as he'd said. I didn't believe those words, but tools were tools.
My thoughts wandered back to the aqueduct under Velgarth, where I had initially tested the Ashmark's range. A silver mist had ascended, binding water's current to my command. That evening, Lysanne had walked with me, cord at the ready—her trust in me creating a bond stronger than metal. I could still sense the weight of her eyes, the tug of common cause. We were friends now, but trust was a frayed thread in a fabric of deceit.
A gentle scrape down the corridor shook me out of daydream. Two guards stood at the barred door—mid-watch, yawning, having no more than their usual expectations. I stood up, brushing stone from my knees, and moved to cut them off.
"Water," I said, my voice even. "If you're thirsty, you'll have to get it yourselves."
The taller guard frowned, but when he moved forward, his boots caught on something that wasn't visible. He lurched—eyes going wide as if he'd stepped through a shadow. The shorter guard attempted to grab his partner, but his own boots were stuck to the flagstones. Both men stared down in alarm, battle shouts on their lips that ended before sound.
I stood, unmoved, as they fought for three heartbeats. And with a simple flick of my wrist, they were released—toppling forward in a pile that shook their armor.
Groans reverberated off the walls. I caught their desperate eye. "Free yourselves," I whispered. "But recall: threads can be woven or cut in an instant."
They leapt to their feet and ran, clattering down the corridor. I let myself smile faintly: lesson one, survival.
I stepped quickly to the cell door and laid my palms against the chill iron. Silver threads of mana licked along my fingers, scanning the lock's pattern. Soft metallic exhalation, the bolt slid free.
Beneath, the hallway ran darkly—lanterns flickering, drips of water falling into pools that reflected like black gems. Sigils cut into every pillar stood out to me: binding, warding, warnings in a half-forgotten tongue. The tapestry of fate resided in every inscribed line. I tracked the runes, allowing them to lead me to a concealed alcove. There, hidden beneath an upturned flagstone, was the narrow staircase eroded by water and time—my route home to Lysanne's standing place.
The aqueduct tunnel greeted me with the hiss of water and the cold of stone. Moonlight filtered through grated vents far above, splaying silver streams across the floor. I stopped, listening: far-off currents, the drip-drip of constant flow, the echo of far-off footsteps not my own.
"Late," Lysanne's voice echoed from the darkness.
I moved to catch sight of her standing against the wet wall, arms folded. Her hood was cast back, white hair stuck to her forehead, emerald eyes cutting like knives. The braided cord, with its silver and black threads shining, lay at her feet.
"Had to test something," I told her, closing the distance. "Power without control is a knife without a hilt."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what did you discover?"
I breathed out, catching her eyes on my chest. The Ashmark pulsed stronger now, its threads moving like living threads. "That I can manipulate elements to my command—but only if I learn their pattern. Water was compliant because I knew its flow. Here, these walls… these runes… they'll reveal much more to me."
She opened the vial she bore—ink churning with a small curl of mana I'd seen in Calder's sigil. She touched it to my mark. Silver fog unfolded, flowing into the vial in lacy filaments. "Evidence," she said. "Of your connection to Fate's thread."
I regarded the vial, then her eyes. "Then demonstrate yours.
She looked at me suspiciously, as if measuring a new truth. At last, she went down and placed the braided cord on the palm of her hand. "This cord ties my own strand to yours—together, we can strengthen each other's hold on fate."
I reached out, tracing my fingers across the interwoven threads. A spark flew between us, and for an instant I saw her memories: a war-lost boy, a sister's final breath, a promise to guard the innocent. Then it dissolved, leaving me gasping.
"I trust you," she said, her voice softer now. "But Fate is capricious. We require more then. Allies."
I nodded. "Tomorrow, we seek them out.
She rose, taking up her cord. "Tomorrow, the Council will strike against you. We need to be prepared."
A faraway sound of boots reminded us that time was running out. I put my hand on her shoulder. "One more lesson."
I shut my eyes and concentrated on the soft glisten of the water, the dampness in the air, the bulk of the stone overhead. Soon I began to spin those feelings into my mark, thread by thread. The tunnel was quiet: the water quieted, the drip stopped, the echo faded. We were motionless, each step echoing in the stillness for five heartbeats. Then the world exploded back—boots pounded stone, water continued its course, our breaths came quickly.
Lysanne's eyes were wide. "That was… impossible."
"Possible," I said. "With knowledge. And practice."
She gave me a rare, sincere smile. "Then let's practice."
We crept back through the secret stair and appeared outside the servants' door to the Hall of Records. Morning had lightened the sky to a pale blue, and the marketplace of the city thrummed with activity. I breathed in deep of fresh air—so uncommon in the dungeons below—and let it stiffen my spine.
"First stop," I announced, "the scriptorium."
Lysanne's eyes narrowed. "Where you intend to pilfer evidence?"
"Where I intend to spin a new yarn," I said. "One that reveals another truth."
She nodded, easing her dagger out of its sheath. "Take me there, Master Binder."
Together we blended into the throng—two threads spun together against a fabric of deceptions, poised to unravel each deceitful strand Fate had spun.