*Lord of Destiny — Chapter 3: Threads That Cut*
The Spire didn’t echo. It absorbed sound.
So when the man’s smile cracked open, the only noise was the threads humming louder, like they were bracing.
“Little brother,” he said again. His coat shifted. Hundreds of tiny threads stitched together, each one a different color, each one twitching like it was alive. Black marks crawled up his throat and disappeared into his jaw. “You don’t remember me yet. But you will. When the mark reaches your eyes.”
Lyra moved before Kael could breathe. She slammed her palm down and a wall of gold threads shot up between them.
“Run, Kael,” she said. “Don’t look at his eyes.”
Too late. The man’s white eyes met Kael’s.
Pain hit like cold water. Suddenly Kael saw it. Not Karthos. Not the Spire.
A boy, maybe 8, with Kael’s same dark hair, sitting at a desk while another boy with the same face taught him how to hold a pen.
Then fire. Then the second boy’s throat, cut open by a thread.
Kael staggered. “You’re—”
“Your brother,” the man finished. “Or I was. Before the Weaver picked me. Before I had to kill to keep the world from ending.”
He raised a hand and the threads of his coat unraveled. They flew toward Kael like spears.
Lyra yanked Kael sideways. The threads slammed into the floor and sank in, hissing. Where they touched, the stone turned gray and cracked.
“Rule one,” Lyra said through gritted teeth. “Pull, don’t cut. Cutting makes it worse.”
Kael’s wrist burned. The black mark pulsed and a thin black thread shot out from it on its own. It wrapped around one of the attacking threads and yanked.
The whole Spire shuddered.
For a second Kael saw it: the man’s thread. It was frayed, split into hundreds of ends, all of them bleeding light. Behind it, he saw cities falling. He saw Karthos with that same black sky. He saw himself, older, with white eyes, wearing the same coat.
The vision broke when the man laughed.
“Cute trick,” he said. “But you’re not ready to pull yet, baby brother.”
He flicked his fingers. The red threads on the far wall snapped taut. The air went heavy.
“The Weaver is scared,” the man said. “That’s why it picked someone weak. Someone with nothing to lose.” He took a step forward. “Help me unravel it. Or I’ll unravel you first. Starting with her.”
He pointed at Lyra.
The threads around her tightened.
Kael felt the mark crawl up his arm, hot. One choice. Pull, or cut. Save Lyra, or save the Spire.
The bells outside rang a second time. Still noon. Still black sky.
“What’s it gonna be, Lord Veyr?”