Smoke curled upward from the fire, dancing in spirals toward a sky that refused to clear. Zen sat sharpening his blade while Koshiro lay on his back, staring at the clouds like they might offer answers.
The silence had stretched too long.
"So," Koshiro said, tossing a pebble into the ash, "Synthetic souls, God-machines, Ascendants, All hunting me now."
Zen didn't look up, "Technically, us."
Koshiro groaned. "What a generous correction."
The silence was broken by a sound that didn't belong, a loud slurp, followed by a satisfied sigh.
"Good stew," said a voice.
Both whipped around.
A man sat cross-legged atop a broken pillar behind them, sipping quietly from a small steaming bowl. He wore a loose, dark coat, a strip of cloth tied over his forehead, and a grin that stopped just short of sincerity. His hair was a wild tangle of dark red, like it had never once backed down from the wind.
"Who—" Zen began.
"Whoa there, Stoneface," the man said, raising a hand. "Let's keep introductions casual. I've had a long walk, and your hospitality's lacking."
Koshiro stood, eyes narrowing. "You're not Syndicate."
The man pointed his spoon like a sword. "Correct, I'm worse."
He jumped off the pillar, landing soundlessly. The bowl remained in his hand. He didn't spill a drop.
"My name is Solas. Don't forget it. I won't answer to anything else—except maybe 'supreme thread-babe,' depending on the mood."
Zen looked unimpressed. "What do you want?"
Solas slurped again, then tossed the empty bowl into the air. It vanished.
"Curiosity, Boredom, Fate. Take your pick," he said. "You stirred up quite the dance back at that Thread site, got the Syndicates twitchy. I thought I'd see who dared to hum back at them."
He walked closer, the air shimmering around his feet.
"You're Koshiro, a Threadwalker with a fancy rod, am I right? And you must be Zen, grumpy with the sword, Love the dynamic, so nostalgic."
Koshiro's eyes narrowed. "How do you know us?"
"I used to be them, you know," Solas said, tapping the side of his head, "Syndicate, Ascendant class, Asereth division. Until I realized following floating gods with bad fashion sense wasn't my thing."
Zen tensed "You're lying."
"Pfft! I wish I was." Solas grinned. "Truth is, I walked away after a little... disagreement. Let's call it creative differences. They wanted obedience, I wanted freedom and better coffee."
He turned serious, just for a heartbeat.
"You've seen only a sliver of what the Syndicates are doing, Asereth is the most 'civilized' of them and they're building soul machines. But the Crimson Fold? They want to burn the Threads down and build a god out of the ashes."
He tapped the air and a small flame hovered between his fingers, flickering with faces Koshiro didn't recognize, faces in pain and faces of believers.
"They say the Fold found a way to bind emotion directly into reality. No Instruments. Just will. Their 'Prophet' can crack Veilspace like glass."
Koshiro watched the flame die. "And why tell us this?"
" Because someone else is watching the Syndicates. Someone even they fear." Solas leaned in. "And that someone's interested in you, Koshiro. Not Zen, Just you. That's gotta sting."
Zen folded his arms. "It doesn't."
"It stings a little," Solas added helpfully.
Koshiro ignored the jab. "Who's watching us?"
Solas straightened. "Can't say. Let's just call him... an old lover of ruin, likes mirrors, hates lullabies, collects regrets like wine."
The grin returned.
"But don't worry. You'll meet him eventually. Probably right before something explodes."
The wind picked up. The ashes danced.
Solas began to walk away, already fading.
"Oh," he said over his shoulder. "Next Thread site is a week east, near the broken spire. But beware the hummingbirds. They're not birds. Not anymore."
He vanished in a shimmer.
Koshiro and Zen stood in silence.
"Do we trust him?" Koshiro asked.
Zen shook his head. "No."
"Do we follow his lead?"
A pause.
"Yes."
Above them, the clouds parted for a moment.
Far in the distance, something blinked in the sky—a mirror, cracked and turning.