*LORD OF DESTINY: Chapter 9: Twelve Against One*
Kael didn’t answer with words.
He answered with the scar.
It flared. The black thread around the baby’s wrist leapt to Kael’s hand.
“Lyra, get them inside,” he said.
“Don’t die, idiot,” she said, already scooping up the second child from the next house. The threads on both babies pulsed, and the crying stopped. Like they were listening.
Coren sighed. “I was hoping we could skip this part.”
He flicked the red thread.
It split. One strand shot for Kael. One for Lyra. One for the house.
Kael pulled.
His black thread met the red one mid-air and the world tilted.
Not futures this time. Memories.
Coren, age 10, teaching Kael to write.
Coren, age 20, with white eyes, standing over a body.
Coren, last night, staring at the map of twelve lights and whispering “I’m sorry.”
The red thread snapped.
The mercenaries charged.
Lyra moved first. She didn’t have a thread. She had a sword and three years of running a Council in chaos. She cut the first two down before they reached the door.
Kael couldn’t fight like that. So he did what Lords do.
He pulled.
He grabbed the threads of the men in front of him. Not to kill. To change.
He saw a farmer who took this job to pay for medicine. He saw a deserter who was scared. He saw a kid who lied about his age.
Kael yanked all three threads sideways.
The farmer dropped his sword and ran. The deserter threw his down. The kid just stood there, shaking.
Consequence hit Kael like a hammer. The scar burned. The black mark crawled another inch up his neck.
_Three lives changed. Three prices paid._
“Stop!” Coren shouted. “You’ll burn yourself out!”
“I’m not burning out,” Kael said through gritted teeth. “I’m choosing who pays.”
He pulled again. This time at the ground. The dirt under the mercenaries’ feet turned to mud, thick and black. They sank to their knees.
Coren stared at him. Really looked at him. “You’re not me,” he said quietly. “You’re not her either.”
“No,” Kael said. “I’m something new.”
The baby in the house started laughing. The thread on her wrist floated up and joined Kael’s. Then the second baby’s thread did too.
Two small black threads braided into his.
Power surged. Not the Weaver’s power. Something else. Something borrowed.
Kael raised his hand and the mud hardened to stone, trapping the mercenaries up to their waists.
Silence.
Coren lowered his red thread. Blood was running from his nose. “You’re teaching them,” he said. “Gods, Kael. You’re actually teaching them to pull.”
From the houses, more threads lifted. Tiny ones. Barely visible. From Orrin. From Greywell. From the Ash Plains.
Twelve threads, all reaching toward Kael.
“They’re choosing you,” Coren whispered. “Not the Weaver. Not me. You.”
He stepped back. “The King in Karthos won’t stop. Neither will the others. If you want to keep them safe, you have to move. Now.”
He turned and walked into the dark. The torches went out.
Lyra came out, both children in her arms. “What was that?”
Kael looked at his hand. Two tiny threads were now wrapped around his fingers. They felt warm.
“I think,” he said, “we just got an army.”