Chapter 2 – Threads That Shouldn't Be
Vael didn't sleep.
Even long after the whisper faded, he stayed outside, eyes fixed on the silver thread pulsing from his chest. It wound around his body like a slow-dancing serpent before stretching into the dark — vanishing behind the hills east of Ilnar.
It shouldn't be there.
He had no Mark. No Thread. No future. That's what the Ritekeeper had declared. That's what the whole village believed.
And yet… he could see them.
Not just his own — but others too.
Each thread shimmered in different hues:
Red-orange strands that flared violently, then faded.
Cool blue ones that drifted lazily, like water over stone.
Threads knotted together, others frayed or nearly cut.
They connected people, places, even objects. Some were thick and vibrant. Others thin, fragile. Most people never noticed them. They couldn't. This sight wasn't part of any Mark Vael had ever heard of.
But he saw them clearly — like veins of light in the fabric of the world.
By morning, Ilnar had returned to its quiet rhythms. But not for Vael.
He wandered through the village in silence, watching.
Mirael waved at him from the well, her eyes warm — and the soft green thread that tied her to him pulsed gently. Not as fate-bound siblings, but something else. Something deeper. She was his anchor.
He passed Tarin, the blacksmith's son, and saw two clashing threads wrapped around his arms — constantly tightening and loosening, like a struggle. One led toward the southern barracks. The other curled inward, fraying with guilt.
Tarin caught Vael staring. "What?" he snapped. "Still dreaming of a mark, freak?"
Vael said nothing.
But in that moment, he knew something about Tarin that even Tarin didn't. That he stood at a crossroads. That some invisible pull was tearing his fate apart.
And Vael — for the first time in his life — felt like he could pull on that thread.
That night, curiosity burned hotter than caution.
Vael sat cross-legged behind their cottage, staring at his own thread again. It glowed gently, hovering just above the earth. He reached out, unsure.
His fingers passed through it at first — like mist.
Then he focused. Not just with sight… but with intent.
The thread grew solid under his touch. It resisted like stretched cloth. The moment he tugged, his head reeled.
Images. Flashes. Moments that hadn't happened yet. A tree burned black. A mountain with no peak. A girl with no face crying beneath stars. Then it all vanished, like smoke in wind.
Vael gasped, clutching his chest.
"What was that…?"
The thread dimmed. But didn't vanish.
The next day, something changed.
A boy named Kerris didn't show up for his apprentice work at the mill. Word spread quickly — his mother found him collapsed near the woods, mumbling nonsense. A healer was summoned from a neighboring town.
Rumors bloomed like mold:
"He saw a ghost."
"A Thread snapped."
"The gods are punishing the village for accepting an Unmarked."
Vael stood at the edge of the woods where Kerris had been found.
And saw it — a cut thread. Still faintly glowing. Still writhing like a dying snake.
Whatever had happened here wasn't natural.
Vael narrowed his eyes.
Not all Threads were meant to be pulled.
And not all of them could survive being cut.
He turned back toward the village, the silver thread from his chest now glowing slightly brighter.
Something — or someone — was changing his fate.
But this time, he wouldn't run from it.