The air in the Southern Isles was nothing like Nior's.
Warm, heavy, and smelling faintly of sweet fruit and salt. Palm fronds rattled in the wind as Kiro and Ara made their way down a winding dirt path toward a cluster of huts on stilts.
They'd left the rocky outcrop behind and caught a fisherman's skiff into shore. The man hadn't asked questions—he'd just taken the gold Ara offered and vanished back into the open water without a word.
"This place doesn't look like it sees much trouble," Kiro said, taking in the lazy sway of laundry lines and the quiet hum of insects.
Ara's eyes flicked toward a group of children chasing a ball near the waterline. "It's not trouble-free. The Isles have their own rules. And their own way of dealing with people like us."
"People like us?" Kiro asked.
She gave him a small, humorless smile. "People who aren't supposed to be here."
They reached the center of the village, where a wide, weathered platform served as a meeting place. A dozen islanders were gathered there, sitting cross-legged around a fire pit, their clothes simple but marked with intricate beadwork.
As Kiro and Ara approached, the conversation stopped. All eyes turned toward them.
A tall man rose slowly, his skin dark and weathered from the sun, his hair pulled back with a bone clasp. His gaze swept over Ara first, then lingered on Kiro a heartbeat too long.
"You've brought him here," the man said to Ara.
Ara inclined her head slightly. "I didn't have a choice. We were being hunted."
The man's jaw tightened. "And now the hunt will come here."
Kiro stepped forward. "If you don't want us here, we can leave—"
"No," the man cut in sharply. "You don't understand. The sea wyrms don't move for anyone. Not unless they recognize something. And word has already reached the outer islands of a stranger who can touch the mind-thread."
A ripple of unease passed through the gathered islanders.
Ara's tone was calm, but her hand rested near her dagger. "We need supplies and a safe place to rest. That's all."
The man's gaze didn't leave Kiro. "You'll have both. But you won't like the cost."
They were given a hut near the edge of the village—small, with walls woven from palm fronds and a roof of dried reeds. The floor creaked underfoot.
Kiro dropped onto the low cot and ran a hand through his damp hair. "What was that back there? They looked at me like I was—"
"A myth," Ara finished, leaning against the doorframe.
Kiro frowned. "A myth?"
"In the Southern Isles," Ara said, "there's an old story about a Thread God. A being who could reach into the minds of men and beasts alike. They say he vanished centuries ago after the four kingdoms made a pact to kill him."
Kiro gave a humorless laugh. "And they think I'm him?"
"No," Ara said, her voice tightening. "They think you're his heir."
He stared at her. "And you didn't think to tell me this before we came here?"
"I didn't think it mattered," she said. "But if the wyrm recognized you… it matters."
Before Kiro could respond, a low thrum shook the walls. Not from outside—this was in his head.
A thread.
Not human. Not the wyrm.
Something else, brushing his mind like a fingertip. Testing. Probing.
He sat up sharply. "We're not alone."
Ara's hand went to her dagger instantly. "Where?"
Kiro didn't answer. He was already following the thread in his mind, tracing it like a line of silk through the air. It led out of the hut, across the sand, and into the jungle.
He stood, moving without thinking, Ara falling into step beside him. The thread pulled them through tangled undergrowth until they reached a small clearing where the sunlight fell in fractured beams through the canopy.
In the center stood a girl.
She couldn't have been older than twelve, her hair long and tangled, her clothes little more than rags. Her eyes, though—deep green and unblinking—were fixed directly on Kiro.
"You feel it," she said softly.
Kiro's breath caught. The thread wasn't coming from her—it was her. Her mind radiated a raw, untamed energy, like a storm that had never been caged.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The girl tilted her head. "They call me Lune. The island keeps me hidden."
"Why?" Ara asked.
"Because," Lune said, her gaze never leaving Kiro, "I hear the god-thread too. And I've been waiting for you."
The words hung in the humid air.
Kiro took a step closer. "You've been… waiting?"
Lune nodded slowly. "The wyrms told me. One day, someone would come who could open all the threads. Someone who could end the wars of the kingdoms—or burn them all."
Ara's voice was low. "And you think that's him."
Lune smiled faintly. "No. I know."
Before Kiro could speak again, a horn sounded from the village. Urgent.
Ara swore. "That's not a drill."
Kiro turned toward the sound, but Lune caught his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "It's too late. They've found you."
Through the trees, Kiro could already see smoke rising over the huts. And threaded through the air, like a net tightening around his mind, was a familiar, suffocating presence.
The hooded figure.
They hadn't escaped after all.