They told me nothing could live in the Ashen Wastes.
But as I stand on the edge of it now, I know that's a lie. I can feel it in my chest - in the tension of the air, in the way the ground trembles faintly beneath my boots, like the earth is holding its breath.
Something lives out there. It may not eat or sleep or speak, but it's waiting. Watching.
I step forward.
The wind is dry and tastes of rust. Ash clings to my cloak and lashes at my face, but I don't stop. The Wastes don't welcome. They test. I know that now. The people back home used to say the Wastes were cursed, but I think that's only half true. Curses punish blindly.
The Wastes choose.
I didn't come here to be chosen.
I came here because I have nowhere left to go.
My boots crunch over the ground that used to be something else - village wood, wagon wheels, bones. It all looks the same now. Scorched. Lifeless. But under the right angle of sun, I sometimes see the faint outlines of what once was: the burned ring of a cooking fire, melted rim of a well.
I grew up hearing the names of the Threadbearers like myths, like legends. Names passed around over smoke and supper. Veyne of the First Flame. Sael the Unraveled. The Mirrorwalker. I thought they were stories to scare children or inspire fools.
But now that I've felt it - really felt it - I know they were never just stories. They were warnings.
And maybe invitations.
I stop beside a blackened tree. It crumbles as I brush it with my fingers. I kneel and press my hand to the ground. My skin tingles against the stone - no warmth, but a presence. Like something just below the surface is listening.
Then I see it.
A single strand. Thin as a spider's silk, curling up through the dirt. Silver. Flickering. Alive.
It wraps around my wrist before I can move.
And then I'm no longer kneeling in the Wastes.
I'm everywhere.
I see a woman standing atop a broken wall, light pouring from her palms. A boy in chains whispering to the ground until the stone obey. A soldier collapsing beneath a rain of arrows, Threads tightening around him like armor.
I feel what they feel. The rage. The hope. The burden.
I see myself in their place.
Then it ends. I'm back. The thread is gone, but I can still feel the memory of it - like a burn beneath the skin.
It didn't hurt. It didn't ask. It simply chose.
I stagger back to my feet.
A sound drifts on the wind. A hum, maybe. Or a name.
Cael.
Not someone calling to me. Not out loud.
The Wastes said my name.
My chest tightens. I thought I was alone out here. I was alone. But now, I'm not sure. I look around. Nothing moves, but the silence feels aware.
I draw my dagger on instinct. The blade is old, but the weight comforts me.
And that's when I hear the other voice.
Not the wind. Not the Wastes.
From within me.
"Forge"
The word ignites something.
The ground beneath my feet ripples - ash spiraling up like smoke. I stagger backward. In the space where I'd knelt, a stump of twisted wood erupts from the earth. Silver Threads spiral along its bark. Leaves sprout. Bright. Unreal.
And then it crumbles back to dust.
I stare at the spot, my heart pounding.
What did I do?
I don't feel like I cast a spell. It didn't come from willpower or knowledge. it came from something older. Something that lives in the bones of the world.
I look at my hand. The silver glow has faded, but the skin feels... different. Warmer. Like I'm holding a flame just under the surface.
I've heard of Thread-touch. Of the initiated. But this isn't supposed to happen like this. You're supposed to train. To be tested. You don't just stumble into it. You don't become one in the ruins of nowhere.
Unless the Wastes chose me.
Unless I'm not the first.
My thoughts race. My breathing slows.
This is the part in every story where the hero sets out. The part where they leave behind everything they knew and find purpose.
But I'm not a hero.
I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even know what I am anymore.
A voice inside me whispers again - not a word this time. A feeling. A direction.
Northwest.
Toward the edge of the Wastes. Toward something... pulling.
I pocket the dagger and adjust my pack. There's no road. No map. Just the Thread. Just instinct.
But that's enough.
I take one last look at the place where the silver stump grew, where the Wastes whispered to me, where something ancient reached out and touched me.
And I start walking.