Kael had not run.
The others would think him a coward, skulking in the shadows while the fissure-beast tore through the valley. Let them think it. He had seen more than they could imagine.
While Marek roared and Seris loosed her arrows, while Elara burned her sun-eye raw, Kael had watched the threads.
And the threads had watched back.
He stood now at the far ridge, the fissure's glow painting his face in crimson. The earth pulsed beneath his boots like a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes. For a moment, there was only silence. Then came the whispers.
You are not blind like them.You saw the lattice before it woke.You could be more than a man.
Kael's hand tightened on his sword hilt, but he did not draw it. His blade meant nothing here.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered into the fissure.
The silence answered with chains grinding faintly, a sound that stirred deep in his chest.
We want nothing. We only reveal what is already inside you.
He opened his eyes and stared into the fissure. Shapes writhed within — half-formed, not yet beasts, but possibilities. Limbs uncoiled, faces pressed against the glowing surface before dissolving again.
One shape lingered longer than the rest.
It had eyes.
Not hollows, not voids — eyes like molten gold. Eyes that looked too much like Elara's.
Kael staggered back, breath torn from him.
"No," he hissed.
Yes, the voice whispered. She is a mirror. You are the flame. Together, you could unmake the Hour — or crown it.
Memories surged unbidden. Chains. Screams. The moment he had first seen Elara burn the threads apart with her gaze.
He had felt awe. Envy. Something darker.
And now, the fissure fed it, fanning the ember.
Kael gritted his teeth. He wanted to believe he was different from her. He wasn't chosen, wasn't marked. He was only a man.
But the fissure pulsed again, and he felt the threads tug at him. Not pulling him down — binding him in place.
Like he had already been woven into its design.
Distant roars rolled across the ridges. The other fissures were opening. The beasts were rising.
Kael knew he should return. Warn them. Stand with them.
Instead, he stared into the glow, trembling, whispering to the silence.
"Show me."
The fissure answered. Threads burst into his vision, burning, weaving, pulling his mind apart until there was no valley, no sky, no self. Only the lattice.
And at its heart, something vast and waiting.
Something that knew his name.
The lattice burned into Kael's mind, a thousand threads tangling, unraveling, weaving into shapes he could barely comprehend.
At first, it was chaos — light and shadow colliding, twisting like serpents. Then it sharpened into visions.
He saw the valley cracking open like an egg. He saw beasts rising in endless ranks, their hollow faces turned toward the oak. He saw fire and chains and silence falling like a shroud.
But he also saw himself.
Not cowering at the ridge. Not a man with a blade and nothing else. He stood at the center of the lattice, threads coiled around his arms like serpents of fire. The fissure-beasts bowed to him, their void-faces lowered.
And beside him — Elara.
Her sun-eye burned like a star, but instead of resisting the lattice, she held it in her hands, weaving it with him. Together they pulled the threads into a crown of light and ash, setting it upon the Hour itself.
The vision shattered, leaving him on his knees, gasping, sweat pouring down his face.
"No," he whispered, clutching at the soil. "I am not yours."
The fissure pulsed beneath him. Chains ground faintly, like laughter.
Not ours. Not theirs. Only yours.
Kael staggered to his feet. His sword felt heavier than iron. He wanted to fling it into the fissure, to reject what he had seen.
But he couldn't.
He thought of Elara's face when she had unleashed her light, the awe in the others' eyes, the way Tomas — broken, bleeding Tomas — had still stood beside her.
And Kael had only watched.
He had always been the second blade, the one just behind Marek, the shadow trailing the fire. Never chosen. Never marked.
Until now.
The fissure's glow reflected in his eyes, red and gold. He realized with a shiver that part of him did not want to resist.
Part of him wanted the crown.
He turned from the fissure at last, stumbling back toward the valley. His legs shook, his heart thundered, but his face hardened into the mask he had worn since chains first cut his wrists.
The others would be waiting. They would demand answers.
But he would give them none.
Not yet.
For now, he would walk among them, blade at his side, silence on his tongue. They would think him a coward. Perhaps even a traitor.
Better that than the truth — that the lattice had already claimed a place for him.
And in the shadows of his mind, the whisper lingered.
Watcher. Weaver. Crown-bearer.
Kael clenched his fists, forcing the words down.
But in his heart, he knew: the Hour had seen him.
And it would not look away.
By the time Kael reached the edge of the oak's shadow, the fire had burned to embers. He paused there, unseen, listening.
The survivors murmured in uneasy sleep. Marek's deep breathing, Seris's restless tossing, Nalia's low lullaby to calm Jorn's dreams. Elara alone was awake, her golden eye faintly lit, watching the fissures from the ridge.
Kael's throat tightened. For a heartbeat, he thought she might turn, see him, pierce him with that burning gaze. But she didn't. Her attention was fixed outward, on the scars in the earth.
He stepped silently back into the circle of firelight.
No one stirred. No one challenged him.
Coward, they would think when morning came. Silent, absent, unreliable. That mask was safer than the truth.
He sat with his back to the oak, sword across his knees, and let the whispers curl around him like smoke.
They will never see you as more than shadow.But we see.
He closed his eyes, pressing his palms against his ears, but the voice was inside now. Not sound. Thread.
At dawn, Marek's eyes narrowed when he noticed Kael's presence. "You returned."
Kael said nothing. He only lifted his chin, expression blank, and began sharpening his blade.
Seris spat into the dirt, muttering, "Too late for courage."
Elara glanced at him once. Her gaze lingered — searching, weighing — but she said nothing either.
Better this way, Kael thought. Let them dismiss him, mistrust him. Their suspicion was armor.
Later, while the group argued again about whether to stay or flee, Kael drifted from their circle, pretending to scout the ridge. In truth, he sought silence — but silence no longer existed for him.
The fissure's pulse echoed in his veins, faint but constant, like a second heartbeat. Every crack in the soil hummed with potential. He could feel where the lattice stretched, even without seeing it.
And when he closed his eyes, visions pressed against him like hands on glass.
He saw Marek crushed beneath chains of his own making.Seris shooting arrows into shadows until none remained but her.Nalia holding Jorn in arms of stone.Tomas burning, not with light, but with emptiness.
And Elara — Elara crowned in flame, her gaze unmaking the world.
Kael staggered, gasping. The whispers twined tighter.
You are not powerless. You are chosen to stand beside her. Or against her. But you will not be forgotten.
That night, he swore a vow into the embers.
Not to them. Not even to Elara.
But to himself.
"I will not be shadow. I will not kneel. If the Hour claims me, it will be on my terms."
The fissures pulsed faintly in answer, red and gold.
And Kael, clutching his sword, let the darkness wrap him in its threads, knowing he was already half theirs.