The library tower on the north ridge was nearly always empty by dusk.
Too drafty, too far from the main halls. Most nobles preferred the atrium archives, where the spellfire kept the air warm and the walls shimmered with everlight.
Virel preferred the cold.
She walked the long aisle of genealogy and history without drawing breath. Each book was like a thread—too heavy, too dense, too full of half-truths curated by House-scribes desperate to rewrite the past.
And then she found it.
Or rather—it waited for her.
A slender black volume, unmarked spine, nestled on a shelf of war records that hadn't been touched in years. It wasn't labeled by code. It had no borrowing seal. It simply… existed.
She knew the moment her fingers brushed the cover.
This wasn't forgotten. It was placed.
She carried it to the far alcove, away from lantern-light, and opened the first page.
The scent hit her first: cedar and dust, the ink old but recently disturbed.
The title was hand-written in gold script: On the Fall of Thornevale: Reflections and Forbidden Theorems.
Her throat tightened.
The inside pages were precise, elegant. The writing matched her uncle's. The one who vanished before the purge.
The chapter titles were worse.
On the Use of Mirrorbound Memory
Emotive Anchorcraft and the Spiral Web
Threadwork Beyond Will: Applications for Imperial Subversion
Virel flipped faster.
Halfway through, a margin note: "Keln suspects. Do not allow him access to this version."
And beneath it—two names.
Vauren Calverrex
Elandra of the Hollow Court
She didn't breathe.
She snapped the book shut and wrapped it in her cloak.
"Dangerous hobby," a voice said.
She turned slowly.
Selvine sat backward in a chair two aisles over, spine curved like a resting cat, hands folded under his chin.
"You stalk everyone," she said.
"Only the interesting ones."
He nodded toward the cloak-wrapped book.
"That one's inked," he said. "Two tracking spells and a passive scry tether."
She didn't answer.
"If you open it in the wrong tower, the wrong noble will know."
Still, she said nothing.
Selvine stood.
"I recommend fire," he added, already walking away.
That night, in her chamber, Virel burned the book in the washbasin.
But not before memorizing every name, every diagram, every word.
When the last page curled into ash, she held the sliver of spine between two fingers and whispered:
"You placed it for me. I'm sure of it."
She placed the ashes in a sealed pouch.
And slipped it under her mattress, beside the ring.
The invitation came wrapped in silk.
Its lettering was hand-scripted in gold, its seal that of House Velthain: a sun partially eclipsed by a bloom. Symbolic. Predictable.
The card read:
You are cordially invited to an evening salon of ranked discourse and courtly entertainment, hosted by Aurelle Velthain. Curated guests only.
—An opportunity for grace. For all tiers.
Virel stared at the words for a moment longer than needed.
Then she folded the card in half—once, cleanly—and placed it in her satchel.
Salon nights were where noble students flexed their true strengths—not just magic, but presence. Dueling was for grunts and show-offs. This was real war: alliances spoken in riddles, secrets exchanged like weapons, humiliation wrapped in compliments.
And Virel had no right to be there.
Which was, of course, the point.
The salon was held in Velthain's ancestral suite—high above the rest of Umbrelspire. Columns of translucent blue veined the walls, light filtering through enchanted quartz. Music played, but low and slow, like someone whispering a lullaby into a glass of wine.
When Virel arrived, eyes turned.
A few students smirked. One girl laughed behind her hand.
Aurelle descended the stair in seafoam silk, radiating careful ease.
"Threadless," she said warmly. "You made it."
Virel inclined her head. "I was promised an opportunity for grace."
"And grace is nothing without an audience."
Aurelle gestured toward the middle of the floor, where couches formed a circle of polite entrapment.
"We're playing the Exchange Game," she said. "Each guest contributes one fact—true or false. The others must wager status on whether they believe it."
Virel's eyes flicked across the group: Maelion sat at the center, expression unreadable. Selvine leaned against a pillar with a drink, watching the whole room like it amused him personally.
She took a seat.
Round after round passed—nobles flashing false charm, baiting rivals, exposing small scandals in exchange for laughter.
Then it was her turn.
Aurelle smiled sweetly. "Your move, Virel."
Virel sipped her wine, set it down, and said softly:
"One of you is secretly pledged to two Houses. Both of them enemies. And both unaware."
A ripple passed through the room.
A few students laughed. One froze.
Maelion's gaze turned ever so slightly toward a tall blond noble near the edge—Cyran Daviel, of House Daviel.
Virel watched him go pale.
"I call false," he said quickly.
Aurelle raised an eyebrow. "Anyone else?"
Selvine sipped. "True. Absolutely."
Cyran laughed too hard. "I said false."
Aurelle gave him a long look. "Of course you did."
No one laughed when Virel left.
The chamber for individual magical evaluations was warded six layers deep.
No external threads, no emotional echoes, no ambient resonance. Just raw pressure, like standing inside a stone lung.
Virel hated it the moment she entered.
She was the only student assigned that hour—an administrative oversight, she was told. But she knew better.
This was a test.
Professor Mireth Galis, a quiet, thin-lipped woman known for her scrutiny, stood by the glyph circle. "Spell demonstration," she said briskly. "Five minutes. You may perform or observe. But you must engage."
Virel nodded.
She stepped into the center, heart steady.
She didn't need to cast anything. She only needed to see.
The threads weren't visible. Not here. Not clearly.
The warding was too thick. But Galis… she radiated something. Not fear. Not pride. Something thinner, harder to read.
Doubt.
Not about herself—about the students.
Virel reached quietly toward the edge of that feeling, trying to trace the line of it, just enough to see how it fed into Galis's decisions.
She pulled, softly.
And the thread snapped.
The feedback hit her like a lash to the chest.
A sharp static pulse ran from her temple to her spine, followed by vertigo so violent she staggered.
Her knees buckled.
She caught the edge of the circle just before falling flat. Her stomach heaved, though she didn't retch. Her vision bent at the edges like the world was trying to curl inward and vanish.
Galis didn't move.
"Are you finished?" she asked, voice neutral.
Virel forced herself upright. "Yes," she said. Her voice was low, rough. "Apologies. Migraine."
Galis nodded once and made a note.
"Dismissed."
Outside, the corridor seemed too bright.
She leaned against the wall until her balance returned.
Her pulse was still erratic. She hadn't realized how vulnerable she was in that moment—not because she was caught.
But because the thread hadn't broken cleanly.
It had broken inside her.
That night, in her dormitory, she tried again.
Alone. In silence.
This time, she reached not outward—but inward. Toward the tangled roots in her own chest. Her own grief. Her own rage. Her own memory.
And what she saw stopped her breath.
A thread—frayed and blood-dark—was coiled around a younger version of herself.
A child in fire.
Mouth open. Screaming.
Clutching a silver ring in a hand too small.
Virel dropped the weave. Collapsed onto the floor. Her hands were shaking.
She hadn't seen that image in years. Not even in dreams.
She reached for the ring beside her bed and held it until her knuckles went white.
"I'm not her," she whispered.
But the thread still shimmered, deep in her chest, like it knew better.
The accusation arrived in the form of silence.
Virel returned to 13C to find Jessa's bed stripped bare. Her cane, usually resting against the frame like a challenge, was gone.
The others wouldn't meet her eye.
One boy muttered, "She talked too much."
Another whispered, "It's because of the Veyn thing. Someone traced it."
Virel's pulse cooled, not spiked.
She had planted that rumor. Jessa had only helped deliver it.
And someone—clever, bitter, or just bored—had followed the thread back to her.
The trial wasn't public.
That was the danger.
No court gallery, no record, no defense scrolls. Just a sealed chamber and the word "sedition" hanging in the air like a curse with teeth.
Students were rarely accused of it. Even more rarely cleared.
But Virel still had time.
She didn't run.
She didn't protest.
She arrived at the disciplinary wing in silence.
Inside the chamber: one tribunal member from House Veyrant, one from Velthain, and—of course—Professor Keln.
Jessa stood near the back, face calm, hands folded.
Her cane was missing.
"I'm not answering anything," she said flatly. "Because I didn't do anything."
"She didn't," Virel said, stepping through the threshold.
Everyone turned.
"Miss Nocten," said the Velthain arbiter. "You are not listed for this—"
"I am now."
Virel walked to Jessa's side and stood beside her, arms crossed.
She didn't speak again.
She didn't need to.
The silence that followed cracked like a spell breaking.
Keln's gaze flicked between them once, then down to the file.
After a long pause, he said simply, "The claim lacks anchor. No House sigil. No ledger chain. No testimony beyond hearsay. Dismissed."
The others bristled. But they didn't argue.
They couldn't.
Outside, in the hall, Jessa exhaled for the first time.
"I could've handled it."
"I know."
Jessa looked at her. "Why stand beside me?"
"Because standing apart," Virel said, "is only useful when no one else is watching."
Jessa smirked. "That sounds like strategy."
"No," Virel said. "That was loyalty."
For a second, the two girls just stared at each other—neither blinking.
Then Jessa muttered, "You're dangerous."
"I'm Threadless," Virel replied.
Jessa shook her head. "Not for long."
It was past midnight when Virel returned to her room.
She had spoken to no one on the walk back. She preferred the silence. It was clearer than any answer.
She pushed open the creaking door, expecting shadows and stillness.
Instead, she found a letter on her pillow.
Pale parchment, thick and folded, sealed in wax that shimmered faintly under moonlight.
The wax bore a sigil she had not seen since her family's banners burned.
House Thornevale.
A silver thorn curling through a broken mirror.
Her chest went tight. Her breath stilled.
No one should have had access to that seal.
The emblem had been declared treasonous ten years ago. Possession of it was enough for expulsion. Or worse.
Virel didn't sit. She didn't light the lamp.
She broke the seal.
Inside, the message was written in ash-colored ink:
You are not alone.
That was it. No name. No time. No place. No sender.
She read it three times.
Her hands didn't shake. But her throat felt tight.
Then, slowly, she reached into her drawer, pulled out the fire-pouch of ashes from the burned book, and placed the letter inside with it.
She didn't burn the whole message.
Just one edge.
Enough to watch it curl and blacken.
The rest she kept.
Later, as the sky hinted at morning, she stood by the narrow window, fingers tracing the old scar beneath her sleeve.
The one left by the blade she'd pressed against her own palm when the fire came.
The scar was faded now.
But the thorn hadn't dulled.
The sky was bruised with early light when Virel finally sat again.
Not on the bed. Not at her desk.
On the cold floor—legs crossed, back straight, palms up.
She breathed.
Threadweaving wasn't just for others.
In theory, it could be used inward. To sever, suppress, or strengthen certain emotions.
She'd tried it before.
Only once.
It had gone badly.
Now, she tried again.
Slowly, she reached into the space behind thought—where feeling hadn't yet become reaction. She envisioned the threads within herself as lines of faint silver, drifting from the cage of her ribs like strings plucked by memory.
She touched the one closest to the surface: a dull throb of anxiety coiled around her spine.
She twisted it gently.
It unwound into cool stillness.
She tried another. Shame, tied to the memory of Jessa's missing cane. It didn't resist.
Then she reached for the one that burned like a hot wire behind her heart.
She tugged.
And the world shattered.
She saw herself—no, a younger self—kneeling in ash, blood on her palms, fire in the halls, the silver ring gripped so tightly it dug into skin.
But the worst part wasn't the fire.
It was the moment afterward. The moment she was pulled from the rubble by hands not meant to rescue. The moment she saw her House crest lying in the mud, trampled underfoot.
The scream that never came.
Virel flinched back from the vision, the thread snapping like wet sinew in her mind.
She gasped.
Sweat clung to her neck. Her hands trembled.
And when she looked at her palms—she saw faint red lines again. Ghosts of the ring's bite.
She rose.
Slowly.
Walked to the mirror.
Stared.
The girl who stared back was pale, calm, and expressionless.
But her eyes—
They were burning silver.
She touched her reflection's cheek with the back of her hand.
"I am not her anymore," she whispered.
But the girl in the glass didn't blink.
She only watched.
And waited.