The alley faded around me, replaced by the sun-scorched streets of my childhood village. I was seven again, a small figure crouched behind a barrel, knees pulled tight to my chest. The heat of midday pressed against the dusty air, carrying the mingled scents of baked bread, livestock, and sweat. Children laughed and ran between stalls, their Threads catching the sunlight and leaving faint trails of silver and gold that twisted in the air like liquid fire. I had none. My wrists were bare. My skin was exposed.
Threadless, someone hissed behind me. Cursed. Mistake.
I froze, my small chest heaving with every rapid breath. One look from an adult, one whispered word to the village elders, and I could be marked, reported, punished. The world did not forgive those without Thread. I had learned early that survival meant hiding, moving unseen, slipping through cracks in the world like smoke. Every misstep could be fatal.
I melted into the shadows, weaving carefully between carts and stacked crates. Each footfall was measured, every breath stilled when a passerby glanced too closely. I memorized every patrol, every merchant route, every adult whose gaze could betray me. Every footstep behind me became a warning, every laugh a potential threat. Hunger gnawed at me, but the fear of discovery was sharper, more precise, and it drove me faster, made me smaller, more careful.
From the corners of my vision, I watched the other children play, their Threads spinning above them in arcs of belonging. They did not notice me, nor would they. I had no one to fight for me. No one to shield me from the Loom. If the villagers caught me, they would turn me in or cast me out to face whatever dangers lay beyond the walls. The constant fear of being seen sharpened me, taught me patience, cunning, and instincts honed by necessity.
Every stolen meal, every narrow escape, every insult endured carved a resilience into me. I had nothing but my wits, my reflexes, and a stubborn will to survive. The world had treated me as nothing, yet I had survived anyway.
Back in the alley, I pressed myself against the cold brick wall, the events of the night still raw in my muscles. The remnants of destruction, the broken crates, the jagged shards of glass, the frayed ropes, were scattered across the ground like a miniature battlefield. The Threads inside me pulsed faintly, writhing as if they had been alive all along, responding to my thoughts and whims.
I concentrated on a small shard of glass. It quivered, lifted, and hovered in the air as though drawn by invisible strings. Encouraged, I attempted something riskier. A tiny spark leapt in my mind, and a small flame flickered along the dry edge of a crate. My stomach twisted with both exhilaration and fear as smoke curled and mingled with the salty tang of the docks and the metallic scent of blood.
If anyone had seen me now, guards, villagers, even children watching from windows or alleyways, they would have reported me immediately. They would call me a monster, a demon, a child cursed by the Abyss. I pressed my back harder against the wall, every shadow now a potential witness, every flicker of movement a danger. Survival had always required secrecy, and this was no different.
I stomped on the flames, smothering them with dirt and the edge of my boot. The Threads pulsed insistently beneath my skin, reminding me that even small actions carried consequences. Every experiment, every flicker of newfound power, could draw attention. The world had already marked me as abnormal. I had to remain hidden, even as the power I possessed whispered possibilities of its own.
I flexed my fingers, watching the shard of glass drift back to rest at my feet. I was alive. I had survived. But the cost was heavier than any hunger or cold I had endured before. This power was dangerous. Uncontrolled, it could destroy me or anyone foolish enough to stand nearby.
I exhaled shakily. The alley had returned to silence, but my mind was a whirlwind. Alone, still Threadless in the eyes of the world, I now carried a weapon inside me, a force that demanded attention. The Threads pulsed like coiled serpents, teaching, tempting, warning. Control, caution, survival, these were no longer just necessities; they were the rules of a game I had only just begun to understand.
[Objective Updated: Master Threads quietly. Avoid exposure. Survive.]
Every shadow now seemed alive, every distant footstep a potential threat. I had power, but the world was still full of eyes ready to condemn the Threadless, the abnormal, the dangerous. I had to move carefully, think carefully, and survive as I always had, only now with the added weight of something far more potent than hunger or fear.
I hugged the alley wall, heart hammering, fog drifting off the docks and clinging to my clothes. The smell of salt and fish stung my nose, pulling me back to the present, back to the chaos of the night. My gaze flicked toward movement in the corner of the alley, sharp and deliberate. A figure dropped from the rooftops with the grace of a predator, landing silently a few feet away.
I froze, unable to move. The man was tall and wiry, lean but coiled with energy that suggested a lifetime of movement honed to perfection. Threads shimmered faintly around his wrists, catching the dim light of the streetlamps. His eyes swept the alley with precision, scanning every shadow as though he could see the unseen.
Then chaos arrived. A group of thieves emerged from a side passage, knives gleaming in the moonlight. Their movements were sloppy, confident, unaware of the danger closing in. My stomach churned. I could not fight them.
The stranger did not hesitate. Threads shot from his wrists, twisting, snapping, and lashing like living cords. They wrapped around the thieves' limbs, yanking knives from hands and throwing attackers off balance. One struck the wall and slid across the slick cobblestones, panic breaking over their faces. They fled into the foggy streets without another thought.
I sank to the ground, trembling, caught between awe and fear. Who was this person? How had he moved before I even noticed? I had never seen anyone like him. My hands itched with the memory of threads, a strange blend of fascination and terror.
I did not know him, but I knew he had saved my life.
I backed against the alley wall, chest heaving, mind racing. "Who… who are you?" My voice barely rose above a whisper.
He lowered his stance, threads pulsing faintly. "Name is Doran Kade," he said calmly. "I have seen enough Spinners and Weavers to know talent when I see it. What just happened back there, that was not instinct alone. You interfered with fate itself."
I shook my head, swallowing hard. "I don't know what you mean. I am… I am nothing."
Doran's lips curved into a small, knowing smirk. "Nothing, huh? That is the lie you have been telling yourself for far too long. Someone like you does not stay unnoticed for long. The Loom, the Abyss, they have noticed you. And not everyone who notices will save you next time."
Fear and curiosity twisted together inside me. Special, dangerous, noticed, words I did not fully understand clawed at something deep within me. "Why help me? You do not even know me," I said, voice trembling.
He straightened, threads pulsing like a heartbeat. "Call it experience. Someone with your potential does not get the luxury of mistakes. I help because I have seen what happens when people like you are left to flounder. You need guidance. Even if you do not want it yet."
I shivered, uncertainty twisting my gut. I did not know him. I did not trust him. And yet, somehow, he saw me, not the boy everyone ignored, but what I could become.