The morning after Keal saw the sky full of screaming threads, he was unusually quiet. Nylessa didn't press him. She knew the danger of awakening too early—how threads could fray a child's mind if pulled too hard, too fast.
But Keal wasn't scared.
He was curious.
---
That day in the village market, Keal clung to Nylessa's cloak, peering at the people with wide eyes. To others, it looked like a shy child hiding behind his mother.
To Keal, it was a gallery of chaos.
A grumpy butcher with a glowing thread of envy coiled around his daughter. A smiling merchant whose thread pulsed in constant anxiety. A silent beggar with a thread so worn it was almost invisible.
Keal whispered, "Everyone's so loud, even when they don't talk."
Nylessa nodded. "Emotion threads don't lie. That's why the gods hate them."
"Why?"
"Because threads are truth. And gods… love illusion."
He looked up at her. "Can gods see mine?"
"Not yet. But if you keep staring at the sky like last night, they might start staring back."
---
As they walked back to the cottage that afternoon, Keal paused on the forest path.
"Can I… change someone's thread?"
Nylessa frowned. "Why would you want to?"
He pointed behind them. The butcher's daughter had tripped earlier. Her red thread had spiked with shame. "If I could tug it… just a little… maybe she wouldn't feel so bad."
Nylessa knelt before him. "Changing threads is dangerous. You mustn't touch someone's soul unless you're ready for what comes next."
"But what if I just smooth it?"
"Even a comb can cut if you press too hard."
Keal nodded solemnly. But inside, a tiny spark had lit.
---
That night, he practiced with bugs.
Literally.
He sat cross-legged, surrounded by beetles. Each one had a thread—simple, glowing with instincts.
Keal gently brushed one with his finger. The beetle froze. Its thread pulsed blue for calm.
"Nice," Keal whispered. "Now do a spin."
It didn't.
"Rude."
He tried again. This time he imagined a happy memory—a bowl of ramen, warm and steamy.
The beetle's thread glowed faintly gold. It wiggled.
"Yes!"
Then promptly fell on its back.
"…Close enough."
---
Meanwhile, Nylessa sat by candlelight, flipping through the Codex Veila.
> "Thread manipulation in childhood is rare. Dangerous. But if trained, such a child could unweave fates. Even challenge divine law."
She closed the book.
Looked out the window.
And saw a shimmer in the sky.
"Not yet," she muttered. "You don't get to have him yet."
---
In the days that followed, Keal's connection deepened. He began recognizing not just emotions—but intentions.
The cobbler lied about prices. The priest doubted his own prayers. A child was about to steal an apple before deciding not to.
He could feel these turns in their threads.
He didn't tell Nylessa everything.
Especially not the dream he kept having:
A thread, black and gold, stretching into the void.
And hands—his hands—unraveling it.
But the dream never ended.
It always cut off right before something… important.
---
One morning, Nylessa handed him a piece of cloth. "Try sensing it."
Keal blinked. "It's… cloth?"
"Focus."
He held it tighter. Closed his eyes. Reached with his mind.
And suddenly—*
burning
A scream not heard but felt.
He dropped the cloth. Fell backwards.
Nylessa caught him. "That was a god-thread remnant. From the old war."
Keal gasped. "It—it hurt."
"That's what happens when you touch divine threads unprepared."
He looked up. "Do gods burn too?"
She smiled sadly. "Everything with a thread can burn."
---
That night, Keal dreamed of a loom on fire.
And himself, dancing through it barefoot, laughing.
While the gods… watched in silence.
But he could never remember what came next.
Just the feeling—
That something had already happened.
Something he couldn't name.
---