The trial began before the sun rose.
Sura woke Malik with a single word.
"Stand."
The camp was silent except for the faint groans of wind rolling down from the ice cliffs. Forty survivors remained. Each of them was led by a guide toward the obsidian ring at the center of the pass.
The ring was strange — smooth as glass but warm, pulsing faintly with a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
"This is where you anchor your Thread," Sura whispered. "Step inside, and the world will split you until you find the weave that's yours."
"What happens if I don't find it?" Malik asked.
Her answer was a long, slow look. "Pray you don't find out."
The Descent
When Malik stepped into the ring, the mountain disappeared.
He was falling through a tunnel of mirrored light, each reflection showing a different version of himself:
One was bloody, eyes burning like coals.
Another was rich, draped in gold and laughing with strangers.
Another was old, sitting alone by a fire, staring at the ice.
The falling stopped when his feet hit a floor made of shifting threads — silver, gold, and black, weaving themselves into patterns that unraveled just as fast.
A voice slid through the air, neither male nor female:
"Choose your weave, Malik of the Split Sight."
The Challenge
Threads rose from the ground, wrapping around his wrists. Each one hummed with a different rhythm.
One thread was pure speed, like wind tearing through a forest.
Another was heavy, grounding, a mountain in his chest.
The last was strange — two heartbeats in sync, one pulling him forward, the other holding him back.
"That's mine," Malik muttered, reaching for the double-beat.
The instant he touched it, the ground cracked, and something massive emerged — a beast with an ice-cracked hide and antlers made of black crystal.
Its roar shattered half the floor, sending threads whipping into the void. Malik barely kept his footing.
Two sights, he thought. Two choices.
One eye showed the beast charging him.
The other eye showed himself charging the beast.
He moved both ways at once.
The Bond
When his spear struck the beast's chest, the world folded.
Threads wrapped around him, sinking into his skin. His chest burned, his vision blurred — but when the light faded, the double-beat was steady, anchored inside him.
Malik gasped and dropped to one knee back in the real world. His breath steamed in the cold air. The obsidian ring under him felt alive.
"Thread Forging complete," Sura said. "You're not prey anymore."
A New Face
As Malik staggered toward the campfire, someone caught his arm.
She was tall, with sharp cheekbones, braided dark hair, and an easy smirk. Her eyes flicked to the seal on his hand.
"Not bad," she said. "Most people come out of the First Weave crying. You came out looking like you just smoked a blunt."
Malik grinned weakly. "That's… actually my friend's influence."
She tilted her head. "Maybe I should meet him sometime." Then she leaned closer and whispered, "But I think I'd rather meet you again first."
Before he could reply, she was already walking away, hips swaying like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Zyren appeared out of nowhere, grinning. "Who's that? And why do I feel like she's the type that'd ruin your life in the best way?"
Malik just shook his head. "Don't start."