Krix hadn't slept since Nysha's cloak came back torn and empty-handed, and it showed in the way his fingers kept finding each other across the war table, lacing and unlacing, a nervous arithmetic he probably didn't know he was performing.
"My Lord, I need you to understand I've tried reading this three times now. The threads don't usually resist like this."
"Try a fourth."
"I have. That's — that's rather the problem I'm trying to explain to you." He glanced toward the door as if it might offer him an exit, found none, and folded his hands flat against the table instead, forcing them still. "ThreadSight shows me where fate is thick. Crowded. Too many futures converging on one point for the world to keep them all separate. I've never seen it this thick before. Not even at the Cathedral."
