The village was quiet as Kael approached, the kind of silence that pressed against the bones like a heavy cloth. The houses, low and crooked, seemed to recoil from the darkening sky. No children's laughter, no distant chatter—only the whisper of wind through the trees and the distant cry of a lone owl.
Kael's steps were measured. The thread on his arm thrummed faintly, a living pulse beneath his skin. Every beat reminded him of what he'd done—what he'd become.
He slowed as he reached the outskirts, eyes flicking toward the central square. Lanterns flickered faintly—embers of a dying fire, or perhaps the last breaths of hope. No one was awake, no one watched.
He knew they sensed the shift, though they wouldn't admit it. The elders called it "the curse," the curse of the Hollowborn, the darkness that seeped into the bones of the village every cycle. But Kael knew better. It was a change, yes—a seed planted deep in the soil of their world.
And soon, it would bloom.
He slipped through the narrow alleyways, avoiding the main street, and entered his small hut at the edge of the village. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, closing it behind him.
The darkness inside was thick, almost tangible. He moved to the corner where a small, cracked mirror hung. His reflection was pale, eyes brighter than they should be. The thread's mark burned faintly against his skin—a shadow of the sigil, an echo of what he had done.
He sat on the worn cot, pulling the sleeve of his tunic back. The bleeding fingers from earlier still tingled, a dull reminder of the cost.
He pressed his palm against the mark. A faint pulse, like a heartbeat—alive, restless.
The voice in his mind whispered: This is only the beginning.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. The memories of the forest, the explosion of sensation, the figure with the obsidian mask—all burned behind his eyelids.
He thought of the elders' warnings, the stories passed down in hushed tones—of the Thread and the Path, of the cycle that never truly ended. They spoke of balance, of harmony, of the elders' sacred duty to keep the darkness in check.
But Kael knew the truth was darker still.
The Thread was not a gift. It was a chain.
And he had just begun to grasp its weight.
A faint knock at the door made him tense. Without hesitation, he reached beneath his cot, pulling out a small, carved wooden box. Inside, a few remnants—an old coin, a shard of glass, a scrap of cloth—things he'd kept hidden, tokens of his past.
He opened the door a crack. A shadowy figure stood there—one of the villagers, eyes wary.
"Kael," the figure whispered, voice trembling. "They're talking again. About the Thread. About you."
Kael's jaw tightened. He stepped into the dim light. "Let them talk," he said softly. "It changes nothing."
The villager hesitated, then nodded and slipped away into the darkness.
Kael closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling slowly. The weight of the Thread pressed heavier now. The elders' warnings echoed in his mind—about the price of such power, about the darkness that lurked beneath.
He looked once more at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The eyes that stared back had changed—more focused, more determined.
He had bound the first Hollow Thread. But the true test was yet to come.
The cycle would repeat, and with each turn, the shadows grew deeper.
And Kael Riven—soon to be Vain—would have to decide: surrender to the darkness... or carve a new path through it.