It was a new question. His mother had never asked him that before.
Theron considered his answer carefully. "I believe that 'inert' is a convenient explanation for something they don't understand. I believe that the scholars who tested me were looking for responses that matched the seven known Threads, and when they didn't find them, they stopped looking." He met her eyes. "And I believe you know more than you've told me."
Elena's expression didn't change, but Theron saw something flicker in her eyes—calculation, maybe, or reassessment. She released his hand.
"You're fifteen today," she said. "Old enough to start making your own judgments about the world. Old enough to begin understanding that not everything is as it appears." She moved to the shop's interior door, checking that it was securely closed. "But you're also young enough that certain truths could get you killed. So I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. Can you be patient?"
"Patient with what?"
"With not knowing everything immediately. With trusting that I have reasons for the things I teach you, the way I've raised you, the precautions I take." Elena turned back to face him. "Can you wait for answers until the time is right to give them?"
Theron wanted to say no. Wanted to demand explanations for all the inconsistencies he'd noticed over the years, all the questions she'd deflected, all the secrets she clearly kept. But he was smart enough to recognize a test when he heard one. And smart enough to know that pushing too hard, too fast, would only make her guard her secrets more carefully.
"I can be patient," he said. "But I won't stop learning on my own."
A small smile crossed Elena's face. "I wouldn't expect you to. You're too much like your father for that."
His father. A topic she almost never mentioned. Theron felt his pulse quicken but kept his expression neutral.
"What was he like?"
"Curious. Stubborn. Too smart for his own safety." Elena's smile faded. "And very, very careful about who he trusted. A trait I hope you've inherited along with his other qualities."
She moved to the shelf and pulled down a small wooden box, old and worn at the edges. Theron had seen it before, always locked, always in his mother's possession. She opened it now and withdrew something wrapped in cloth.
"I was going to wait until your mark lit up," she said. "But given recent... circumstances... I think it's time."
She unwrapped the cloth to reveal a knife. Not large—the blade was perhaps six inches long—but beautifully crafted. The steel had an unusual dark sheen, and the handle was wrapped in leather that had been worn smooth by years of use. Most striking was the small inscription near the hilt, written in a script Theron didn't immediately recognize.
"This was your father's," Elena said. "He carried it every day. It's not a Threadmark conduit—it won't enhance your abilities or channel Thread energy. It's just a very well-made knife by a very skilled smith. But it's balanced properly, it holds an edge, and it's saved my life more than once since he left it to me."
Theron took the knife carefully, feeling its weight. The balance was perfect—it felt like an extension of his hand rather than a separate tool. He tested the edge lightly against his thumb and found it razor-sharp.
"Why are you giving this to me now?"
"Because you're old enough to carry it safely. And because..." Elena's jaw tightened. "Because the world is more dangerous than I'd like it to be. Because travelers are asking questions. Because I need you to be able to protect yourself when I'm not there."
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere, if I can help it. But 'if I can help it' is doing a lot of work in that sentence." She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Keep it on you. Practice with it—I'll show you more techniques tonight. And Theron? If someone ever asks to see your mark, if they start asking questions about where it came from or what it might mean... you show them nothing. You tell them nothing. You run if you can, fight if you must, but you never, ever let them take you. Understood?"
Theron looked at the knife in his hand, then at his mother's face. She was afraid. Actually, genuinely afraid, in a way he'd never quite seen before. Whatever was happening, whatever those travelers were looking for, she believed it posed a real threat.
"I understand," he said.
"Good." Elena took a breath, visibly composing herself. "Now, I made honey cakes this morning. They're upstairs. Go eat, take the afternoon for yourself. Tonight we'll have a proper birthday dinner, and I'll start teaching you how to use that knife properly."
Theron nodded and headed for the stairs, the knife tucked carefully into his belt. As he climbed, he heard his mother return to her grinding, the steady rhythm of pestle against mortar resuming as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
His mother had given him his father's knife. She'd as much as admitted that people were hunting for marks like his. She'd told him to run rather than let himself be captured. And she'd said his father had been "too smart for his own safety."
Past tense. But she'd never actually said he was dead.
Theron reached his small room on the second floor and closed the door behind him. He drew the knife again, examining it more closely in the light from his window. The inscription near the hilt was clearer now—definitely words, though in a script he didn't recognize. He'd have to research it.
He moved to his desk and opened the hidden compartment where he kept his private journals. Three years of observations, questions, research notes about Thread theory and historical anomalies. Three years of trying to understand what he was, what his mark might mean.
His mother wanted him to be patient. To wait for answers. But Theron had been patient his entire life. And patience had given him nothing but more questions.
He opened his journal to a fresh page and began to write, documenting everything from the morning. The fight in the alley. Mira's warning about travelers. His mother's gift and her fear. And beneath it all, one central question that he'd been circling around for three years:
What had happened two hundred years ago that was erased?
Whatever it was, Theron was beginning to suspect it had everything to do with marks like his. And he intended to find out the truth. Because if there was one thing fifteen years of being dismissed and underestimated had taught him, it was this: being overlooked was the perfect cover for learning things people didn't want you to know.
Theron smiled and kept writing.