Every child of the Veyne Clan took the Trial of Knots at age eight.
It was a tradition older than the Bloodbound War, older than the founding of the Binding Houses themselves. Most clans tested for swordsmanship, aura, or spellwork.
The Veynes tested for control.
Control of pain. Control of obedience. Control of curses.
And Eliar's was a year early.
Lady Meressa Veyne—his mother by blood, stranger by nature—summoned him to the inner hall at dawn.
She sat on the marble throne dressed in gray, the family's crest stitched into her sleeve. Her hair was bound tight, silver pins stabbed through the braid. Her voice was colder than the tiles beneath his bare feet.
"You're to take the Trial tomorrow."
Eliar didn't flinch. "Yes, Mother."
"You're seven."
"I am."
She narrowed her eyes. "You aren't gifted with aura."
"No."
"No mage spark either."
"Correct."
"You've shown no signs of our Binding blood."
"I haven't," he agreed.
Her tone turned curious. "Then why do you seem so calm?"
He met her gaze evenly. "Because I don't intend to fail."
The Trial took place in the Threadhall, the oldest chamber beneath the estate. It was carved into bedrock, shaped like a spider's web, with twelve pillars stretching toward a domed ceiling. At the center stood a stone table with three items:
A blade wrapped in black cloth.
A thin leather collar.
A sealed scroll marked with the sigil 🜏.
Five judges waited at the edge of the room, all blooded members of the inner house. Lady Meressa stood behind them, arms folded.
Eliar walked to the center, his footsteps echoing.
The judge to the left, an old man with white gloves, spoke first. "State your name."
"Eliar Veyne."
"Lineage?"
"Son of Meressa Veyne. Grandson of Erold Veyne."
"Do you accept the trial?"
"I do."
"Do you understand the terms?"
"I do."
"If you fail, you will be Bound."
"I understand."
That meant he would become a servant—his curse sealed, his will erased. Many failed. Some never left the Threadhall again.
The middle judge, a woman with a hollowed throat, unrolled the scroll and read.
"You must bind one of the following to yourself. Only one. You may not speak, cry out, or falter."
Eliar stepped forward.
He already knew which one he would choose.
He ignored the blade. It wasn't a real weapon—just a cursed fragment, dull and stained. The collar would attach a subjugation curse to his neck. If he flinched or moved wrong, it would activate.
But the scroll… That was different.
Sealed by the founder himself, its contents were unknown. Few chose it. Most who did, died. The last one had bled from the eyes before he could finish reading.
Eliar placed both hands on the scroll.
The judges went quiet.
He pulled the wax seal free.
Inside was a single phrase.
Burned into the parchment, not written. Not ink, but curse-flame.
"Unbind the Self. Knot the Other."
The scroll exploded into ash. Pain surged through his arms as invisible threads slashed across his skin. He saw nothing—but felt everything.
Fingers digging into his thoughts. Hooks behind his eyes. Voices whispering names that didn't exist.
He dropped to one knee.
Then stopped himself.
No—not yet.
He focused on the words.
Unbind the Self. Knot the Other.
He remembered the ghost in the training hall. The Echo. His own dead self.
A theory formed.
What if this wasn't about binding something external?
What if he was meant to bind an echo of himself?
The pain sharpened.
Blood dripped from his nose.
His vision blurred.
He focused inward—past flesh, past the Cursekeeper Core that pulsed against his ribs.
"Thread it," he whispered in his mind. "But not to me. Not again."
The Core reacted.
A black thread extended from his chest, floating in the air like a pulled nerve.
From the shadows behind him… something moved.
A silhouette stepped out.
The same as before—but different.
This Echo wore no wounds. He looked whole. Calm. Confident.
"Who are you?" Eliar asked, silently.
The Echo smiled faintly.
"I'm who you become if you pass this trial."
They stood in silence.
Eliar raised the thread in his mind.
"Then take it."
The thread pierced the Echo's chest.
The pain disappeared instantly.
Eliar stood tall.
The judges all leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
The lead judge walked to the center.
"You did not scream."
"No."
"You did not fall."
"No."
"You did not bind yourself."
Eliar said nothing.
The judge tilted his head. "Explain what you bound."
"I bound a future," Eliar said. "A version of myself that survives."
Murmurs broke out among the judges.
Meressa's voice cut through them. "Silence."
She descended the stairs, each step ringing like a blade on stone.
When she stood in front of him, she reached out—and placed a cold hand on his shoulder.
Her words were quiet.
"Pass."
Then she leaned closer.
"And do not fail again."
---
Later that night, Eliar sat in his room alone.
The candle was low. The walls were still.
He looked down at his palm. A faint thread mark glowed beneath the skin—visible only when he flexed.
He was no longer untested.
He had a place now.
He had a title.
Not a warrior.
Not a binder.
Not even a blooded heir.
Echo-Knot.
A forgotten branch of the clan. Erased from most records. A cursebound who could carry alternate selves.
He could already feel it: the memory of future pain.
It buzzed in his nerves like a second heartbeat.
He smiled.
This was only the beginning.