Chapter 7 – The Quiet Between
The days after the flower incident were uneventful — on the surface.
But inside, Vael was unraveling.
He hadn't touched another Thread since that night. Not even to observe. He still saw them — glowing, coiling, whispering — but now they felt like traps waiting to snap shut.
Mireal noticed.
She didn't push, but her glances lingered longer now. Her silences were heavy with things unsaid.
Vael wasn't afraid of the Threads anymore.
He was afraid of himself.
---
By midweek, the festival banners began going up — pale cloth and faded symbols, reused year after year. The Harvest of Marks was approaching — a smaller celebration following the main Rite, where villagers honored their destinies and thanked the gods for their assigned roles.
Vael helped hang lanterns.
No one mocked him anymore.
Not out loud.
They treated him with a kind of nervous politeness, as if not knowing what he was made him dangerous. And maybe… he was.
When Tarin passed him in the square, he muttered, "Still here?"
Vael didn't answer.
But he did glance at Tarin's Threads — still clashing, still twisting. One leading to blood. The other to regret.
---
That night, Mireal spoke.
"You've been quiet," she said, sitting across from him with her knees pulled to her chest.
"Just thinking."
"About the mark?"
He nodded.
She hesitated, then said, "Maybe it's not something to be afraid of."
"It killed a flower."
"It healed it first."
Vael looked at her, really looked — and saw her Thread again: gentle, green, and steady, looping softly through their little home.
"You're the only thing in this world that makes sense to me."
Mireal smiled. "Then hold on to me."
And for the first time in days, the threads around Vael grew quiet.