"Okay," she said finally. "Why did we run?"
Tieran didn't answer.
She grabbed his sleeve. "Was it the commander? Do you know him?"
He hesitated.
Then: "You're an illegal threadsbound. Of course we had to run."
She blinked. "Wait—me?"
"Yes."
"But I didn't even buy the thread!"
"You tried."
"But how would they know?"
He paused. "They have… thread-sniffing dogs."
She stared.
"Specially trained," he added. "They sniff emotional residue."
She gasped. "That's horrifying. And impressive."
He didn't correct her.
She nodded solemnly. "I'll stop touching thread in public."
"Good."
They kept walking.
The trees grew taller. The light dimmed.
Ivy looked up. "It's getting dark."
Tieran didn't respond.
She stepped closer. "I don't like the dark."
Still no answer.
She reached for his arm, fingers trembling slightly. "I really don't like the dark."
He stopped walking.
She clung to him—arms wrapped around his waist, face buried in his cloak, breath shaky.
"I'm not scared," she whispered.
"You're hugging me."
"For warmth."
He didn't move.
But slowly, his hand rested on her back—just for a moment. Not a comfort. Not a promise. Just a presence.
The forest was quiet.
The book in his cloak pulsed once.
The forest was too quiet.
Then came the howl.
Low. Distant. But close enough to make Ivy jump.
She clung tighter to Tieran, her breath shaky, sweat prickling at her neck. "Was that—was that a wolf?"
"Several," he said calmly.
She whimpered. "I'm tiny. I'm snack-sized."
"You're a threadsbound," he reminded. "Cast something."
"I don't have thread for that!"
He turned, reached out, and plucked a single strand of her hair.
"Ow!"
"Use this."
She stared at him. "That's rude. And unhygienic."
Another howl echoed—closer.
She squeaked. "Fine!"
She fumbled with the hair, fingers trembling, heart racing. "Okay, okay, light spell. Just a little glow. Nothing dramatic."
She whispered the incantation, voice cracking.
The thread pulsed.
The air shimmered.
And then—
Moths.
Glowing, fluttering, shimmering moths burst from the thread, swirling around them like living lanterns. Their wings sparkled with soft gold, casting gentle light across the trees.
Ivy blinked. "I summoned bugs."
Tieran stared. "You summoned a swarm."
One moth landed on his hood.
Another perched on Ivy's nose.
She giggled nervously. "They're kind of cute."
The wolves didn't howl again.
The moths glowed brighter.
And for a moment, the forest felt… enchanted.
The glowing moths swirled around them, casting soft golden light across the trees. Ivy stood in the center of the swarm, eyes wide, cloak fluttering, looking like a stitched spell come to life.
"Oh my stars," she whispered. "They're beautiful."
One landed on her shoulder.
She gasped. "This one's name is Pickle."
Tieran blinked. "Pickle?"
"Because he glows like regret and smells like herbs."
Another moth fluttered past. "That one's Fern. And that one's Moonbutt."
He didn't respond.
She turned to him, grinning. "You're not naming any?"
"I'm trying not to panic."
She tilted her head. "Why?"
He touched his cloak—just briefly. The book pulsed again, faint but insistent, like a heartbeat stitched with warning.
"They're leading us somewhere," he said.
Ivy looked up.
The moths had begun to drift—slowly, deliberately—toward a narrow path between two trees. The air shimmered faintly, and the ground was marked with old thread lines, barely visible.
She stepped forward. "Should we follow?"
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
They walked in silence, the moths lighting the way, Ivy occasionally whispering new names—"Cinnamon," "Glowbean," "Emotional Support Wingy."
Tieran's grip on the book tightened.
The path curved, dipped, and narrowed.
And then—
The trees parted.
A clearing opened.
And in the center stood a stone pedestal, cracked and moss-covered.
The moths circled it once.
Then vanished.
Ivy stepped forward.
Tieran didn't move.
The book pulsed again.
The clearing was quiet.
The pedestal stood in the center, cracked and moss-covered, pulsing faintly with old magic. Ivy stepped forward, drawn by instinct and chaos.
Tieran stayed back.
"Ivy," he warned.
She didn't listen.
Her fingers brushed the stone.
The air shifted.
A pulse rippled outward—soft, golden, threaded with memory. The trees shivered. The moths flickered. Ivy gasped.
Images flashed—too fast to grasp. A boy in a cloak. A blade dipped in ink. A thread stitched into skin.
She stumbled backward.
Right into Tieran.
They crashed together, his hood slipping, her satchel spilling, and—
The book fell.
It hit the ground with a soft thud, pulsing once, then twice—louder now, like it recognized the pedestal.
Ivy saw it.
She grabbed it instantly.
"What is this?" she whispered, eyes wide.
Tieran snatched it back, voice low. "Don't."
"But it's humming."
"I said don't."
He shoved it back into his cloak, breathing hard.
She stared at him.
"You bought it," she said quietly.
He didn't answer.
The pedestal pulsed again.
But this time, it felt… colder.
The pedestal pulsed again.
Ivy stepped back, heart still racing from the memory echo. She turned to Tieran, eyes sharp.
"You bought the book," she said.
He didn't answer.
"You lied."
"I didn't lie," he said quietly. "I didn't tell you."
"That's the same thing."
He looked away.
She stepped closer. "Why? What is it?"
Before he could answer, the pedestal shimmered—soft light rising from its surface, forming symbols in the air. Threaded runes, stitched in gold, floating like breath.
Ivy gasped. "It's reacting to me."
Tieran stepped forward. "It's threadsbound language."
"But I can't read it."
"Neither can I."
The symbols pulsed once.
Then faded.
Ivy stared at the empty air, her chest tight. "It wanted to say something."
Tieran didn't respond.
She looked at him again. "You're hiding something."
He didn't deny it.
Her stomach growled.
Loudly.
She blinked. "Okay, dramatic moment over. I'm starving."
Tieran sighed. "I'll go find something."
"I'm coming."
"You should stay."
"I'll starve dramatically."
He didn't argue.
They walked through the forest, the path barely visible, the light fading fast. Ivy stayed close—too close—her hand gripping his cloak, her steps uncertain.
"I don't like this," she whispered.
"I know."
"I'm not scared."
"You're holding onto me."
"For warmth."
He didn't respond.
But he didn't pull away.
Ivy's stomach growled again—louder this time, like it was trying to summon food on its own.
She turned to Tieran, eyes wide. "I'm going to cast a food-summoning spell."
He raised an eyebrow. "You don't have thread."
She grinned wickedly.
Then reached out and plucked a strand of his hair.
"Ow."
"Consider it a donation."
"That's not how magic works."
"It's how my magic works."
She held the hair like it was sacred, whispered an incantation that sounded suspiciously improvised, and traced a circle in the air.
The thread pulsed.
The forest shimmered.
And then—
Chaos.
A swirl of edible nonsense burst into existence: floating dumplings, bouncing berries, a loaf of bread that giggled, and a soup bubble that hovered mid-air before popping dramatically.
Ivy gasped. "I summoned snacks!"
Tieran stared. "You summoned a food riot."
A dumpling hit him in the shoulder.
He sighed.
While Ivy tried to catch a flying biscuit, Tieran knelt by a patch of moss, pulled out a small pan from his satchel, and began gathering the edible chaos with quiet efficiency.
He added herbs from his pouch, a pinch of salt from his cloak, and somehow—miraculously—turned the madness into a warm, fragrant stew.
Ivy sat beside him, watching in awe. "You're like a soup wizard."
He didn't respond.
But he handed her a bowl.
She took it, eyes soft. "Thanks."
He nodded.
The forest was still.
The book pulsed once in his cloak.
But for now, they ate.
Together.
The stew was gone.
The moths had vanished.
The forest was quiet again—too quiet.
Ivy yawned, long and dramatic, then flopped down beside Tieran like a tired cat. "I'm cold," she mumbled.
He didn't respond.
She scooted closer.
Then closer.
Then wrapped herself around his arm like a sentient blanket. "You're warm."
"You're clingy."
"I'm sleepy."
She was already snoring.
Tieran sat still, back against a tree, eyes scanning the shadows. The book pulsed faintly in his cloak—soft, rhythmic, like it was dreaming too.
He didn't sleep.
Not really.
Ivy mumbled in her sleep, something about floating dumplings and soup that sang lullabies. Her breath fogged the air, her grip never loosened.
He watched the stars flicker through the canopy.
The book pulsed again.
And somewhere, deep in the forest, something pulsed back.