The rain had stopped sometime during the night, but the trees still wept with dew. The world smelled like earth and fresh moss—damp, clean, and quiet. Keal sat on the wooden porch of their cottage, chin in his hands, watching ants carry crumbs across a cracked stone tile like it was a battlefield.
"Do you think they feel anything?" he asked.
Nylessa was shelling beans in a bowl beside him. "Ants?"
Keal nodded. "Their threads are tiny. Like hairs."
Nylessa paused, one finger resting on the rim of a pod. "You're seeing threads again?"
Keal shrugged. "Only sometimes. When I'm not thinking too hard."
She set the bowl down and looked at him fully. "You're not supposed to be seeing anything. Not yet."
He looked at her, confused. "Why not?"
"Because your soul's still knitting itself together. Tug too hard, and the pattern might unravel."
He blinked. "Like socks?"
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Yes. Like socks."
He grinned. "Then I want striped socks. With lightning on them."
"Lightning is dangerous."
"So am I."
She laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes.
---
They spent most of the day around the cottage. Keal helped carry water from the stream, split kindling, and collected mushrooms Nylessa pointed out with quiet precision. There was something comforting in the rhythm of it all. Quiet, clean, like they were tucked away from the rest of the world.
But Keal could still feel it—the hum beneath everything. Like the world had threads too. And some of them were plucked just wrong.
That afternoon, they sat near the edge of the woods, watching dragonflies skim the pond's surface. Keal threw a rock, then another, trying to skip it like Nylessa taught him.
"I saw something strange yesterday," he said.
Nylessa raised an eyebrow.
"A man, I think. But his thread was silent. Like… it was hiding."
She didn't move for a long moment. Then she picked a blade of grass and twisted it between her fingers.
"Some threads don't want to be seen. Doesn't mean you should chase them."
"But what if they're hiding something important?"
Nylessa looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Especially then."
He didn't reply. Just stared at the water and watched a frog ripple it.
---
Evening came early under the forest canopy. The firelight in their cottage painted the walls with slow-moving shadows. Keal sat curled in a blanket while Nylessa stirred stew, humming a soft melody.
"Did you ever meet a god?" he asked.
Nylessa's ladle paused mid-stir.
"Yes," she said simply.
"Were they scary?"
"Yes."
"What did they want?"
Her voice lowered. "They wanted obedience. They hated questions."
He played with the frayed edge of his blanket. "Then I don't think I'd like gods very much."
"They won't like you either."
That made him grin. "Good."
---
Night crept in like ink.
Keal lay awake, the blanket warm but his chest cold. He could hear Nylessa downstairs, flipping pages of the Codex Veila again. The sound was faint, but it pulled at him like a thread of its own.
Something buzzed beneath his skin. Not pain.
Curiosity.
He slipped out of bed, climbed the creaky attic ladder, and stepped onto the roof.
The tiles were chilly, but the wind was gentle. He lay on his back and stared upward.
And blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he saw them.
Threads.
Not the small, colorful ones that clung to people.
These were vast. Ancient. Stretching across the sky like glowing veins, crisscrossing the stars.
Some drifted slowly, pulsing like heartbeats.
Others shimmered like rainbows in water.
One thread knotted into itself, twisting in an impossible loop.
And far, far above—
He saw it.
A thread unlike the others.
It didn't pulse or sway.
It didn't shimmer.
It was still.
A line of pure black—so black it made the night around it seem pale. It didn't block light. It devoured it. No other threads neared it.
It was perfect.
Terrifying.
Familiar.
His heart thudded once. Then again, harder.
It felt like he wasn't supposed to see it.
Like it was seeing him.
---
He didn't scream.
Didn't move.
Just stared.
His breath was shallow, but his thoughts were loud.
What was that?
Why did it feel like it knew him?
---
Then a creak from below. Footsteps. The attic door slid open.
"Keal?" Nylessa's voice, sharper than usual.
He didn't respond.
She came up quickly, worry carved into her face.
When she saw the look in his eyes—frozen awe—her breath caught.
"You saw it," she whispered.
He nodded. "The black thread. It's not like the others."
Nylessa dropped to her knees beside him, pulled him close.
"You didn't see that," she said gently.
"But—"
"You didn't see that," she repeated, firmer now. "Just sleep."
He opened his mouth to ask more, but her expression stopped him.
Not anger.
Fear.
She held him tighter, and he let her. Together they sat under the threads, both watching the sky—one with wonder, the other with dread.
Above them, the black thread stayed perfectly still.
And somewhere behind her calm tone, Keal felt a thought she didn't say:
"Not yet."
---