The inner keep's corridors were narrow, lit by thin slits of torchlight. Every step Kiro and Ara took echoed against the cold stone, but it wasn't just sound that stalked them—something else brushed against Kiro's mind, feather-light and probing.
He didn't need Ara to tell him. They know we're here.
At the base of a winding stair, Ara stopped. "Top floor," she said, jerking her chin upward. "That's where the Regent's mentalist will be. You want the advantage? You'll have to hit them before they anchor themselves."
Kiro nodded, though his pulse was already pounding. The threads he felt now weren't just single lines—they were a web, stretching through the keep like invisible steel cables. At the center of that web was a single, bright pulse.
"Go," Ara whispered.
They took the stairs two at a time. Guards appeared at the landing—three of them, eyes glassy, movements eerily in sync.
"Puppets," Kiro muttered.
Ara pulled a knife, but Kiro stepped forward, thrusting his will through the threads. The other mentalist pushed back immediately, a sharp, cold pressure against his mind.
It felt like two hands gripping the same rope, each trying to yank it away.
Kiro pushed harder. One guard faltered, his blade lowering. The other two hesitated—then snapped back into formation, surging forward.
Ara slashed one across the knee, sending him sprawling, while Kiro forced the first guard to turn his sword on the third. The clash of steel rang loud in the stairwell.
The mentalist's pressure withdrew slightly, and Kiro seized the moment to shove all three guards into a single, frozen trance.
"Go!" he barked.
The stairway ended at a pair of massive doors, inlaid with symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly. Ara pressed her ear to the wood, then kicked them open in one brutal strike.
Inside was a circular chamber lined with hanging banners of black and silver. At its center stood a figure in long robes, their face hidden behind a mirror-polished mask.
"So," the figure said, voice carrying easily in the vaulted room, "you're the anomaly."
Kiro stepped forward, every thread in the chamber blazing in his perception. "And you're the one pulling the strings."
The masked head tilted. "Pulling? No. Weaving. Your threads are… crude. Rushed. But interesting."
Ara moved along the wall, flanking. The figure didn't even glance at her—just raised a hand.
Kiro felt it immediately—Ara's thread tightening, twisting. She gasped, dropping to one knee.
Kiro lunged forward mentally, trying to pry her free. The mentalist's grip was like iron.
"Your mind is loud, boy," the voice purred. "But untrained. Let me show you—"
The chamber dissolved.
Kiro blinked, but the keep was gone. He stood in a vast, endless plain under a sky split by a jagged, burning scar. Threads hung everywhere, suspended in the air like constellations, shifting and tightening as the masked figure walked toward him.
"This is my loom," they said. "Here, your will is mine to shape."
Kiro clenched his fists. "We'll see about that."
He reached for a nearby thread, yanking hard. The sky rippled. The ground surged upward into a jagged wall. The figure didn't flinch—just flicked a hand, and the wall exploded into dust.
The force slammed into Kiro's chest, knocking him back. His lungs burned, though he knew none of this was real.
The masked voice echoed. "You can't win here. You're a child playing with blades."
Kiro forced himself up, grabbing three threads at once. He twisted them together, and suddenly the plain shifted—the ground beneath the figure cracked open, swallowing them waist-deep.
For the first time, the masked head turned sharply, the tone less smooth. "Ah. You are learning."
Kiro grinned, though sweat ran down his temples. "Guess I just needed the right teacher."
The figure's threads flared, and the crack closed violently. "Then let's make this… final."