The Prophecy's Threads
The dawn that followed was unlike any Elias had ever seen.
Light crept across the hidden forest in strands, not rays—silver filaments unraveling from the treetops and spilling across the moss. The air itself seemed woven with glow, humming faintly, alive. Elias sat up on the soft ground, staring in wonder, while Kaelen doused the silver fire with a flick of their hand. The embers folded inward, vanishing without smoke or ash.
Elias rubbed his eyes, still bleary. "Does everything here breathe?"
Kaelen looked over, one brow arched. "You are not wrong."
Elias shivered. He hadn't meant it literally, but now that he thought of it—the moss had pulsed faintly beneath him all night, the trees had creaked as though whispering, even the air had pressed against his lungs with strange awareness. It was unsettling, but also… marvelous.
They set off through the forest. Kaelen moved swiftly, their cloak brushing past ferns that folded back as if in deference. Elias followed, tripping over roots, staring at every shimmer of light, every shifting shadow.
At one point, they passed under an arch of stone half-swallowed by ivy. Carvings covered its surface—spirals, loops, threads crossing over one another. Elias slowed, running his fingers over the patterns.
"What do they mean?" he asked.
Kaelen paused, studying the arch. Their jaw tightened. "They tell of the Weave—the tapestry that holds all things. Threads of fate, threads of life. Every soul, every choice, bound within it."
Elias frowned. "But why threads? Why not, I don't know, roads? Or rivers?"
Kaelen's lips curved faintly. "Threads can knot. They can fray. They can be cut."
The words sank cold into Elias's chest.
By midday, they reached another clearing, this one filled with standing stones. Unlike the first circle, these stones were taller, carved deep with runes that pulsed faintly. In their center lay a great slab, flat as a table, its surface veined with lines of silver light.
Elias stepped closer, awe prickling his skin. "What is this place?"
Kaelen's expression grew guarded. "An old altar. The Weavers carved it long before my oath was sworn."
Elias tilted his head. "Weavers?"
Kaelen hesitated, then nodded. "The ones who first saw the threads and shaped them. They bound the shadows at the edges of the world. Without them, the hidden realm would have unraveled long ago."
Elias placed his hand on the slab. The silver veins flared beneath his palm. He gasped, jerking back. "It reacted to me."
Kaelen stepped forward sharply, eyes narrowing. "Show me your hand."
Elias held it out, trembling. His skin was unmarked, but he swore he felt a faint vibration in his bones, a resonance.
Kaelen's gaze lingered on him, thoughtful, wary. "It seems the altar knows you."
"Knows me? How?"
Instead of answering, Kaelen moved to one of the standing stones. They pressed their palm against the rune carved there. The stone thrummed, and a voice—old, distant, echoing—rose from it.
Elias staggered back, heart racing. "What is that?"
"The altar remembers," Kaelen said, eyes fixed on the glowing rune. "It carries fragments of the prophecy."
The voice grew clearer, as if pulled from great distance:
"When the weave frays, when shadow spills across the roots of both worlds, one shall cross the hidden door. Not bound, not cut, not knotted—an Unbound Thread. The pattern shall warp, the tapestry tremble. And from choice unwoven, fate shall be rewoven."
The words thrummed through Elias, settling in his chest like a stone dropped into a well. He shook his head, backing away. "No. That can't mean me."
Kaelen turned, face unreadable. "The door opened for you. The altar flared at your touch. Do you think it is coincidence?"
Elias's throat closed. He pressed his fists to his temples. "I can't—I'm not—"
Kaelen stepped closer, their voice steady. "I told you, Elias. The threads do not choose heroes. They choose what the weave requires."
"But why me?" Elias's voice cracked. "I've never done anything. I don't fight, I don't lead—I don't even fit in at home. Why would some ancient prophecy—"
Kaelen cut him off, sharp but not unkind. "Because you are unbound."
Elias froze. "What does that mean?"
Kaelen's gaze softened, though their voice remained solemn. "Most souls are knotted to fate—bound by choices made long before their birth, tied to paths they cannot escape. But you…" They studied him with something almost like awe. "You slipped through. The door would not have yielded otherwise."
Elias's knees felt weak. He sank against the stone slab, shaking his head. "I don't want this."
Kaelen knelt beside him. "Wanting does not matter. The tapestry has already woven you into this."
Elias closed his eyes, wishing he could wake back in his narrow bed in the village, the air smelling of smoke and bread, the ordinary world safe and dull. But when he opened them again, the forest still shimmered, the stones still pulsed, and Kaelen's steady gaze still held his.
That night, they made camp near the altar. Elias sat by the fire, staring at his hands, replaying the prophecy's words again and again: Unbound Thread. Choice unwoven. Fate rewoven.
He wanted to ask Kaelen what it all truly meant, but part of him was afraid of the answer.
Instead, he whispered, "Have you heard this before? The prophecy?"
Kaelen sat opposite him, sword across their knees as always. "Whispers of it. Fragments. But never the whole."
"And you believe it?"
Kaelen's eyes flicked to the silver flames. "I have fought shadows at the edges of this world. I have seen what they devour. If the prophecy speaks true, then you are the one thread that might mend what unravels."
Elias laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Me. I can't even keep my boots tied half the time."
Kaelen's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Threads knot in strange ways."
For the first time, Elias caught a glimmer of warmth beneath the warrior's iron exterior. It didn't erase the fear pressing on him, but it steadied him—just enough.
He drew his knees to his chest, watching the fire. He didn't know if he could be what the prophecy claimed. He didn't even know if he wanted to. But one truth had settled in him since stepping through the door: he couldn't turn back.
The tapestry was moving, with or without him.
And he was caught in its weave.