Chapter 6 – Pull Too Hard
The mist sat low over Ilnar, clinging to the thatched rooftops and silent fields like a memory that wouldn't fade.
Vael watched it from the edge of the orchard, hands tucked in his sleeves, the band around his wrist loose — but not loose enough to reveal the mark.
His breath came out in curls.
The Threads were everywhere now.
He didn't have to concentrate anymore. They were just… there.
Some drifted like smoke between villagers. Some pulsed, sharp and vibrant, tethering people to places they hadn't yet gone. Others twisted in strange ways — fraying, spiraling, trembling.
But it was the still ones that unsettled him most.
Threads that didn't move.
Like they were waiting for something.
Or someone.
---
A thread flickered at the corner of his eye. Pale green. Thin as a reed. It led to an old man sitting on a stone bench near the mill.
Vael knew him — Master Ollem, a weaver by trade, known for his gentle voice and failing memory.
The thread looped around his chest… then split.
One strand reached out toward a child running in the distance. A granddaughter, maybe.
The other curled inward, frayed and sickly.
Vael stared.
He doesn't have much time, he realized.
Not from violence. Not from any tragedy. Just... time.
---
That night, Vael sat by the cottage well, lantern light swaying gently in the breeze. Mireal had already gone to bed, but not before giving him her usual look — that quiet warning stitched with worry.
He hadn't told her he was going to try again.
Not after what happened with the visions.
But he had to understand.
---
Near the base of the well, a wilted violet clung to life between two stones. Its Thread was soft — dull green and barely present.
Vael crouched beside it, hands resting on his knees.
He didn't reach for it right away.
He watched it.
Watched how the thread pulsed faintly with the flower's weakening heartbeat.
It wasn't just life. It was a story.
Everything in this world — plant, person, beast — was made of threads and stories.
Vael reached out.
Let his fingers hover above it.
His shadow-thread shifted beneath the wrappings on his wrist.
Slowly, gently, he touched the flower's Thread.
It resisted at first — like silk caught in static.
Then it bent.
He gave it the faintest tug.
---
The violet trembled.
Its petals unfolded. Color returned. The stem rose slightly.
Vael let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
For a moment, it felt like a miracle.
Then the thread pulsed.
Once. Twice. Then snapped back.
The flower's bloom withered instantly — worse than before. Its stem blackened. The Thread curled in on itself like it was trying to hide.
And inside Vael's skull, a dull ache bloomed.
Not a scream. Not a vision. Just… pressure. Like the world was telling him:
> "Not yet."
---
He stumbled back onto the cold stone, gripping his wrist.
The shadow-mark pulsed once beneath the cloth.
Not angry. Not in pain.
Just… aware.
---
Vael stayed there for a while.
Staring at the dead flower.
The first time he'd changed a thread, he'd felt power.
This time, he'd felt weight.
It wasn't just a thread.
It was a life.
And he had tugged it out of place.
---
When Mireal found him the next morning, she didn't ask questions. She just handed him a piece of bread and sat beside him on the well's edge.
He hadn't told her what he'd done.
He didn't need to.
She looked at the flower — still withered — and then at his wrist.
"Don't pull too hard," she said.
Vael didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure how hard was too hard.