Sylas Deylen sat hunched in the attic, a candle burning low beside him, the air so thick with dust it made him cough. His brother would scold him for sneaking up here again, but what did it matter? There was never enough to do.
The rain had canceled his job interview, shifted two days later, and the pounds in his pocket were hardly enough for bread. He sighed, glancing at a framed picture of his parents, tucked carefully on a shelf. Five years since they'd died.
Now it was only him, his little sister Liora with her wild dream of becoming a machinist, and his older brother Michael breaking his back as a dockworker, paid less than his sweat deserved. Life was dull, gray, and heavy.
Sylas forced a small smile as he pushed aside a box, meaning to look for his mother's old journal. The wood scraped against the floor, and something fell behind him with a muffled thump.
He turned.
A book lay in the dust.
Frowning, Sylas picked it up. The cover was dark, cracked leather, cold beneath his touch. A strange sigil was stamped deep into the hide—a circle slashed through with jagged lines, tangled like broken threads.
He muttered to himself, "Weird. I haven't seen this here before."
Beneath the sigil, faint lettering spelled two words:
The Weaver Path.
A chill ran down his spine. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the first page.
Station IX: Observer
Formula: – 13 drops of Night-Vanilla extract
– 100 milliliters of lizard blood
– 1 black rose petal
– One's own breath captured under the new moon
Abilities: – Enhanced Memory Recall – remember details with unusual clarity; risk of memories replaying unbidden
– Perception of Anomalies – notice contradictions, illusions, or hidden objects; may sense Veil distortions
– Emotional Intuition – faint awareness of others' intentions; risk of misinterpretation or paranoia
Risks: – Nightmares of endless tangled threads
– Phantom whispers when alone
– Obsession with noticing patterns
– Early "staining": seeing threads where none exist
Sylas's breath caught. "What the hell is this?"
He traced the sigil again. The attic felt colder, shadows stretching longer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a faint whisper seemed to brush against his thoughts, like thread tugging gently at his consciousness.
A sane person would put the book back.
But Sylas Deylen had never been entirely sane.
He tried to turn the second page, but it wouldn't budge. No matter how hard he tugged or pried, it remained stubbornly fixed. Frustration gnawed at him, but it only fed his curiosity.
He had always believed extraordinary things existed. He had studied forbidden languages, translated books others dismissed as nonsense, chased myths and cults for the thrill of it. Nothing had ever yielded results—until now.
Looking at the formula, at the precise instructions, feeling the weight of the sigil under his palm, Sylas felt something stir inside him. Not fear. Not reason. Desire an unshakable urge to seek, to discover, to push beyond the boundaries of his gray, suffocating life and make it burn a little brighter.
That desire simmered, but reality pressed down heavier than curiosity. The ingredients alone night-vanilla, lizard blood, black rose petals were luxuries they couldn't afford. Their family barely had enough to eat this week. As the one managing their scant money, even a small indulgence could ruin them.
Sylas clenched the book tighter. He would have to wait. Wait until he found work, earned some pounds, and maybe then… maybe then he could test what this book promised.
He sighed and blew out the candle, leaving the attic in shadow. One hand gripped the railing, the other clutched the book as he carefully descended the creaking stairs.
"You know Michael forbade you from going up there, Sylas," came a small voice from below.
Sylas froze. His little sister Liora stood in the doorway, eyes wide and scolding, hands planted on her hips.
He forced a smile. "I know… but it's fine. I wasn't breaking anything."
She frowned, unconvinced. "You're always sneaking around up there. Mom and Dad would have—"
Sylas's gaze dropped, the familiar twinge of guilt settling in his chest. "I know."
She tilted her head, curiosity replacing reproach. "What's that you're holding?"
He glanced down at the book. Its leather cover was cracked and dark, the sigil still faintly warm against his palm.
"Just an old book I found… thought I'd read it later," he said, keeping his tone soft.
"I thought you'd already read everything up there twice over. Anyway, I'm cooking dinner today," Liora said, tugging an apron over her head with more force than necessary.
Sylas nodded, still clutching the book. "I'll help you just let me put this away first."
"Don't take forever," she called after him as he headed down the short hallway.
He stepped into the bedroom he shared with Michael. Two narrow beds sat across from each other Michael's on the left, his own on the right—with a single window squeezed between them. A battered desk stood against the wall, cluttered with job notices and a chipped ink bottle that had been dry for months.
Sylas placed the book carefully on the desk. Its cracked leather cover seemed to absorb the dim light, the strange sigil darker than the shadows around it. For a moment, he lingered, thumb tracing the jagged lines. The whisper from the attic brushed against his thoughts again, fainter now but still there.
Later, he told himself. Not with Liora waiting.
He closed the door and returned to find his sister wrestling with a dented pot, her apron tied in a lopsided knot at her waist. She'd already managed to scatter carrot peelings across half the counter.
"Need some help there?" Sylas asked, rolling up his sleeves.
"I can handle it," Liora insisted, then immediately proved herself wrong by nearly dropping the knife. "Maybe... maybe you could do the chopping."
He took the blade from her hands before she could argue. "Stick to stirring. You're good at that."
She huffed but didn't protest, moving to light the stove with practiced movements. The kitchen filled with the gentle hiss of the flame and the rhythmic thock of Sylas's knife against the cutting board.
For a while, the house felt almost normal. The smell of onions and herbs softened the edges of their gray day, and Liora hummed a tune their mother used to sing while she stirred. Sylas let the familiar routine wash over him, pushing thoughts of mysterious books and impossible formulas to the back of his mind.
The front door groaned open, followed by the heavy drag of boots across the floorboards. Michael's voice carried through the hall, rough with exhaustion but warm. "Something actually smells edible in here."
Liora beamed, practically bouncing on her toes. "I cooked! Well, we cooked. But it was my idea!"
Michael allowed a small smile to break through his exhaustion as he hung his jacket on the wall hook. "You did good, both of you," he said, sinking into his chair with a weary sigh.
Liora practically glowed at the praise, bustling around to set out their mismatched plates. Sylas followed with the pot, steam still rising from whatever they'd managed to cobble together from their dwindling supplies.
Once they'd all settled around the small table, Michael leaned forward, forearms resting on the scarred wood. "So. How did the job interview go?"
Sylas's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Canceled. Rain, they said. Rescheduled for two days from now."
Michael's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he kept his voice level. "At least they didn't reject you outright. That's more than most are getting these days."
"It'll work out," Liora said firmly, glancing between her brothers. "It has to."
The words hung in the air with the weight of desperate hope. They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the soft scrape of spoons against bowls and the distant patter of rain on the windows.
Michael cleared his throat. "How was school today, Liora? I heard there was some trouble in that district thieves targeting people walking alone. You're being careful coming home?"
Liora nodded quickly, swallowing her mouthful. "I walk with Sarah from next door. Her father makes sure we stick together."
"If it gets worse, I'll meet you at the school gates," Sylas offered, earning a grateful look from Michael.
"Good," Michael said, though the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "We can't afford any more problems. Any of us."
The unspoken weight of that statement settled over the table. They all knew what 'problems' meant in their situation medical bills they couldn't pay, lost work from injury, trouble with the law. Any one of those could destroy what little stability they'd managed to build.
For a moment, the room held only the gentle scrape of forks against chipped plates. The stew was thin mostly potatoes with a few stubborn bits of carrot floating in watery broth but its warmth spread through them like a small act of defiance against the cold world outside.
Liora was the first to break the comfortable quiet, her eyes bright with dreams too big for their cramped kitchen. "When I become a machinist, I'll build us a proper stove. One that doesn't belch smoke every time someone looks at it wrong."
Sylas snorted softly. "Aim smaller. Maybe start with fixing that door hinge that's been squeaking for two years."
She shot him an indignant look. "Where's your ambition? I'm going to build engines that power whole factories, and you want me to fix a hinge?"
Michael's tired features cracked into something approaching a smile—worn thin but genuine. "If you manage either one, Liora, I'll make sure every soul on the docks hears about my brilliant sister."
Her expression softened, the bravado melting into something warmer. "Then I'll hold you to that promise."
Sylas leaned back, watching the easy exchange between them. For a fleeting moment, the constant weight of their circumstances the empty job boards, the thin soup, the coins that never stretched far enough seemed to lift. Just siblings dreaming in the lamplight, one holding the others steady while they reached for something better.
The moment couldn't last. It never did.
Michael's hand drifted to his neck, rubbing at muscles that ached from hauling cargo. "Work's getting harder at the docks. More ships coming in, but they're cutting our pay. Foreman says we should be grateful nearly half the city's out of work." His jaw worked silently for a moment. "Some of the men are talking about organizing, pushing back, but..." He shook his head. "Striking doesn't put food on the table."
Sylas felt words forming and dying on his tongue. Empty reassurances would only insult Michael's intelligence. Promises he couldn't keep would help no one.
Instead, he lifted his spoon and managed what he hoped looked like confidence. "We'll find a way. We always have."
Michael studied his younger brother's face for a long moment, searching for something hope, maybe, or just the will to keep going. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah. We do."
The dishes were washed, the kitchen wiped down, and the small fire in the hearth dwindled to embers. Liora had already climbed into her bed, leaving the house quieter than it had been all evening. Michael's snores were soft and steady from his room down the hall.
Sylas sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, staring at the floorboards. The rain outside had stopped, leaving the world beyond the window blurred and silent under the silver glow of moonlight.
He reached for the book, resting on the desk across the room. Just for a second, he wanted to make sure it was still there. His hand hovered over the cover, but only long enough to gently tap it. The leather felt cold, unyielding, but undisturbed.
Satisfied, he let out a quiet sigh.
Closing the book, he returned it to its place on the desk, aligning it neatly with the edge. He checked the window, made sure the locks held, and then finally crawled under the covers. Pulling the blankets tight, he rested his head on the pillow, letting the rhythm of his own breathing calm him.
Outside, the wind whispered through the eaves, and the faint rustle of leaves sounded almost like a sigh. Sylas's eyes fluttered shut. The house was safe, quiet, and ordinary.
For tonight, at least, that was enough.