Spencer's Thread Trace connected to Rand's thread and nearly burned out his perception.
The ta'veren signature that had been blazing for weeks now erupted like a sun going nova. Golden light flooded Spencer's consciousness, overwhelming his ability to process, drowning everything in brilliance that carried weight — the weight of prophecy fulfilling itself, of destiny crashing into reality like a wave against stone.
Spencer gasped and released the trace. But the impression lingered: Rand's thread converging with something massive, something ancient, something that had been waiting for three thousand years.
"What is it?" Nicola asked from across the room.
She'd been practicing the focus exercises Spencer taught her, sitting cross-legged on his floor while he monitored the southern situation. Now she was on her feet, her dual-Talent thread pulsing with alarm.
"Falme," Spencer managed. "The battle. It's—"
The sky screamed.
Not literally — but that's what it felt like. Spencer stumbled to the window and saw what every person in Tar Valon was seeing: the clouds above the city flickering with impossible light. Images formed in the heavens — fire and shadow, a figure wreathed in flames, another figure dark as the void between stars.
Rand was fighting Ba'alzamon above Falme, and the Pattern was broadcasting it across the world.
---
The Tower erupted into chaos.
Sisters poured into corridors, craning their necks toward windows, channeling saidar to enhance their vision. Novices clustered in dormitory hallways, Accepted gathered in common rooms, servants stopped their work to stare at a sky that had become a battlefield.
Spencer didn't need Thread Tracing anymore. He could feel Rand's ta'veren pulse from a thousand miles away — a drumbeat in his consciousness that matched the flickering images above. Every strike of flame, every surge of shadow, resonated through the Pattern in ways that made Spencer's teeth ache.
"The Dragon," someone whispered in the corridor outside. "The prophecies..."
"It could be a trick," another voice argued. "The Black Ajah—"
"You saw the three prisoners! You know they're real! And now this—"
Nicola pressed close to Spencer's side, her thread trembling with the effort of processing what her Talents were showing her.
"I can see it," she whispered. "The threads pulling together. Like... like the whole Pattern is holding its breath."
"It is," Spencer said. "This is the moment. Everything changes now."
The battle in the sky reached its climax. Fire and shadow collided in a burst of light that made windows rattle across Tar Valon. Then — silence. The images faded. The clouds returned to normal.
But nothing would ever be normal again.
---
Nicola went rigid.
Spencer caught her as her eyes unfocused, her body going slack with the particular bonelessness of someone whose consciousness had been hijacked by prophecy. Her thread erupted with the same Pattern-disturbance as her first Foretelling — bright and undeniable, visible to anyone with the right Talent.
Words came from her mouth that weren't hers:
"The Dragon is declared. The Hunt ends. The Horn calls them home. And the Weaver must choose — the Tower's war or the Dragon's road."
Nicola slumped forward. Spencer caught her, lowered her gently to the floor, and felt the weight of prophecy settling on his shoulders like chains.
The Weaver must choose.
That was him. The Pattern had named him again — not the thread that wasn't woven this time, but the Weaver. Someone who shaped the Pattern's threads. Someone who had to decide which threads to follow.
The Tower's war or the Dragon's road.
Stay at the Tower. Fight Elaida's coup. Protect Siuan. Continue the Black Ajah hunt from within.
Or leave. Follow Rand. Assist the Dragon directly. Monitor the Forsaken. Navigate the increasingly divergent timeline from the center of events.
Spencer looked down at Nicola's unconscious face and felt the arithmetic of impossible choices settling into his mind.
---
The decision crystallized over the next hour.
Spencer sat at his desk while Nicola recovered on his bed, and he wrote a list that no one would ever see:
Reasons to stay:
· Verin embedded, needs support
· Siuan warned but dismissive — needs ongoing intelligence
· Nicola needs protection
· Black Ajah Phase 2 (other cells)
· Tower political instability requires management
Reasons to leave:
· Rand's group needs Pattern perception
· Meta-knowledge degrading — need proximity to course-correct
· Forsaken will target Rand directly — need early warning
· Cannot prevent coup without revealing sources
· Siuan won't listen regardless
The second list was shorter but heavier.
I can't save the Tower from here. Siuan won't accept help she doesn't understand. And every day I spend on politics is a day I'm not with the people who actually need what I can do.
Spencer crossed out the list and started a new one:
Before leaving:
· Brief Verin on continuing operations
· Arrange Nicola's protection (Verin + institutional channels)
· Establish coded communication system
· Return borrowed items (Tower books, etc.)
· Collect supplies for road travel
After leaving:
· Head south toward Rand's group
· Thread Trace daily for navigation
· Reach main party before Stone of Tear events
· Assess timeline divergence from meta-knowledge
· Resume Pattern-level operations from field position
The plan was clean. The emotions were not.
---
Nicola woke as Spencer was packing.
"You're leaving," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"The Foretelling. It said you had to choose."
"It did."
Nicola sat up, her thread still unsettled from the prophetic episode. "And you're choosing the Dragon's road."
"The Tower has Verin. It has you. It has Siuan, even if she won't listen." Spencer folded a spare shirt and added it to his saddlebags. "The Dragon's group doesn't have anyone who can see what I can see."
"So you're abandoning us."
The words hit harder than Spencer expected. He stopped packing and turned to face her.
"I'm not abandoning you. I'm going where I'm most needed. And I'm arranging for your protection before I leave."
"I don't need protection. I need—" Nicola stopped, struggling with words too big for seventeen years. "I need someone who believes what I see is real."
"Verin believes you. She'll continue your training."
"Verin is sixty years old and embedded in a spy network. She's not—" Nicola's voice cracked. "She's not my friend."
Spencer sat on the edge of the bed beside her. The contact was closer than they'd ever been — his shoulder against hers, the warmth of another person in a room that suddenly felt very cold.
"I will come back," he said. "When the immediate crisis passes. When the Dragon's road leads back toward the Tower, or when the Tower's war is finished. I will come back."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Nicola leaned against his shoulder for a moment. Then she straightened, her thread settling into the fierce determination that characterized everything she did.
"Fine. Then I'll be ready when you do. I'll train with Verin. I'll learn to control my Talents. And when you come back, I'll be able to help instead of just being someone you need to protect."
Spencer smiled despite himself. "That's the Nicola I know."
"Shut up." But she was almost smiling too.
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