Ash-gray specks danced in the light of the torches, sighing of hours lost. Every ember a silent timer: two days, one day, sunrise.
I opened my eyes completely. The cell hugged me like a mausoleum—cold stone, iron chains abandoned, and the helical scar under my shirt throbbing to its own rhythm.
Ashmark pulsed weakly, a web of snapped wires inscribed on skin. I curled my fingers, and for an instant, reality rippled. Delicate silver lines etched between flesh and the torch glow, mapping routes I could nearly trace.
An error, maybe—but demonstration. Power stirred beneath the surface.
Steps came—light, considered. Not the clomping tread of guards. Someone who walked with intent. I wedged into the darkest shade.
The door opened silently. A pale arm extended first. Then stepped across the sill: Lysanne.
No court finery today, but clinging leather dyed forest green. Her white hair glistened in the torchlight like moonlit silk; her emerald eyes burned with a quiet ferocity.
She stopped in front of me, head cocked. "Time is short," she whispered. "They'll come for you at dawn." Her eyes darted to the mark. "And they think it contains your soul."
I drew a slow breath. "Then let them witness how you tie it." I moved across the cell and stood in front of her.
With practiced ease, she drew a delicate crystal vial etched with fine runes. She applied it to my chest. Silver strands of mana uncoiled from the Ashmark, flowing into the glass in curling tendrils.
"Evidence," she whispered. "They require proof you're something beyond a corpse in waiting."
"And you?" I asked, my voice unsteady. "Why risk saving me?"
She looked at the vial, and then softened. "Because false fate is as deadly as true power. And you—" she looked at me— "could alter everything."
A guard's yell burst forth in the hallway. Lysanne's body tensed. She put away the vial. "I can hold them back again," she said, her tone urgent. "But I require the rest of your truth. Tonight, at sunset, the aqueduct under Velgarth. Be ready."
She touched my chest, where the threads still hummed weakly. "Master the Ashmark's weave, and you purchase more time. Fail, and destiny unravels you."
And with that, she disappeared into darkness. The thick door thudded shut, leaving me with the sound of her words.
I touched a hand to my chest. The Ashmark glowed hotter now—a warning of power and cost.
Two days to live. Two days to re-write destiny. And the first law of controlling fate: understand power, reveal only as much as you must.
Chapter 3: Threads Unseen Threads Unseen
The cell was quiet, but Kai's thoughts spun compulsively.
Fate. Deception. Two terms now twirled like beasts in his mind.
In his world, fate had been mere coincidence in fancy dress. But here? The rumors in the dungeon corridors, the mark of the "Ashmarked," the manner in which Marshal Calder's eyes skipped when he spoke of fate—everything indicated something far more organized, and far more sinister.
And Kai had always understood that organization could be manipulated.
The parchment still lay on the floor, empty but charged. He had written nothing important, but the prospect—of words dictating results—was strong.
His execution hung over him, but now, so did possibility.
He stretched back against the chill stone, inhaling slowly, recalling every nuance of the exchange.
Calder's uncertainty.
The word "Ashmarked."
The significance to those syllables.
If destiny existed here, it was knotted—a trap as much as a path.
The door creaked open once more.
This time, not Calder. Not a guard.
A woman came in, dressed in dark gray, the clothing rustling like smoke. Her face was still obscured under her hood, but the air changed with her arrival.
"You talk of destiny," she said, and her voice was like the slow draw of a blade. "Do you know the threads you unravel?"
Kai sat up, unflappable.
"Blindly only a fool pulls on a web," he answered, his eyes narrowing. "I like to know where the silk goes."
The woman laughed low in her throat. "And yet you're trapped. Your thread cut short."
"Or tied," Kai proposed. "Threads unravel, snap, get tangled. Fate isn't so tidy as people like to think."
She moved closer, the shadows revealing keen features, green eyes that appeared to glow softly under the hood.
"Some claim fate cannot be altered," she whispered. "Others claim it's a falsehood, sold to the desperate."
"And you?" Kai inquired.
"I claim those who defy fate do not die quietly."
Her hand wandered toward her side—a soft glimmer of sigils dancing above her fingertips. Mana, naked and powerful, curled like ink within water.
Kai braced himself but maintained his expression neutral.
"You were here to kill me?" he asked.
"Not yet," she said bluntly. "Your thread is… unclear."
A white scar throbbed on his chest under his shirt—a sigil he hadn't felt until now. An ash-colored shape, thin as smoke, a spiral that broke into pieces at the edges.
The Ashmark.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"A mark," she said. "A signal for those who tread the Veil. A curse, or a key. Is dependent on how much you deceive the world—and yourself."
Kai's gaze hardened.
"And you tread this Veil?"
"We all do," she replied, retreating. "Most wander blind."
"And you?"
Her mouth curled into a faint smile.
"I walk threads," she said. "And sever them when necessary."
She disappeared before he could say another word, as if drawn from the room by unseen strings.
The cell fell silent once more.
But his heart raced harder.
The Ashmark.
The threads of fate.
And falsehoods garbed in destiny.
Kai rose slowly, gaze fixed.
The game was deeper than he'd guessed.
And if fate was woven, he intended to unweave it.
Piece by piece.
Chapter 4: The Court's Eye
Kai's journey from cell to court was a silent procession. Hooded guards led him through winding corridors where torchlight danced against damp stone, revealing cryptic runes etched into the walls—subtle warnings or declarations of power he could not yet decode.
He strode between two squadrons, each step calculated, each breath calm. His thoughts tallied every feature: the faint resonance in the arches, the iron smell hanging in the air, the dutiful distance nobles maintained from the executed. An audience waited.
Beyond the great courtroom doors, Kai hesitated. The intricately carved wooden panels showed threads woven in a tapestry, unraveling at one end. Fate, made manifest. He pressed a hand against the chill surface, feeling the grain in his fingers. Symbols spoke stronger than words here.
The doors opened.
A silence engulfed the room. Ranks of marble benches occupied by magistrates and aristocrats shifted their faces. Chandeliers above threw pale, trembling light upon the mosaic floor, revealing a broken star at its center—the fate-star.
Marshal Calder stood at a stepped dais, his expression impassive. To one side of him, Lysanne observed from the darkness, cloak folded but eyes alight. For an instant, Kai caught her eye—and saw duty seasoned by curiosity.
He advanced. Every step echoed. Walking, he observed the spectators: a lord whose fingers quivered, a lady whose lips curled into a derisive half-smile, a scholar speaking softly into another's ear. Fear, thrill, disdain—they wore their verdicts like baubles.
Calder's voice was carried, flat and accurate. "Kai Morel, child of House Veyron, rise and reply."
Kai came to a stop. He set chin, voice steady. "I am here."
Accusations unfurled—high treason, betrayal of the crown, collusion with outlaw cabals. Words he did not remember committing. Yet the evidence was presented: intercepted letters, testimonies from dubious witnesses, a faded seal bearing the Ashmark.
As the prosecution laid out its case, Kai's pulse remained slow. When a witness—a trembling guard—claimed Kai had summoned a spirit from the Veil, Kai waited until his name passed his lips before he acted.
He observed the guard's vest shine in the light of torches, saw a rune stamped on his shoulder strap. Subtle: the mark of a Fateweaver. The guard—an unwitting pawn—had been branded by him.
When it was Kai's turn, he moved to the center. "Honored court," he started, voice ringing out. "I disagree with these accusations. The letters, the witness statements—fictions, deceptions of the Fate, maybe. But I do give thanks to the guard who testified." He turned, his eyes glinting at the witness. "Your rune gained my attention. An interesting mark for a simple soldier."
Whispers spread through the hall. The guard went white.
Kai went on, "I see strings others do not. This string," he raised a hand as if to pull it out of the air, "is tinged with fear and compulsion. The real traitors go dressed."
A shiver of uncertainty ran through the jurors. Lysanne's mouth opened a little.
Calder's eyes narrowed. "You charge a servant with compromising evidence?"
"Kai Morel!" shouted a voice. "Beware your words!
Kai turned, gaze sharp. "And yet the tongue reveals the soul's weaving. If this man's thread can be pulled by another's hand, why should I doubt the rest?"
Silence followed. He had not confessed, but he had sown a seed.
Calder stood, and a recess was called. Guards escorted Kai out. He let them take him, but in his head, he sized up the damage: one public challenge had unsettled the court. It would give him time.
In a sidebar room, Lysanne waited.
Her green eyes regarded him. "You infuriate powerful men."
Kai bowed his head respectfully. "I infuriate truths."
She puckered her lips. "The Marshal is angry. Your execution can go forward as planned."
Kai smiled weakly. "Then I will provide him with cause to hold back."
She took a deep breath, folding her arms. "You are deadly."
"As are deceptions," he said. "And destiny is constructed upon them."
They stood staring at each other, a silent understanding forming—a covert partnership born in the center of power. Past the courtroom lies a world of conspiracies, and now they both knew that merely having strength was not enough to survive.
It required control over the threads themselves.