Auren sat alone on the cold stone bench beneath the eastern wall of the manor. The sky was clear. The kind of clear that didn't feel honest—too crisp, too still. The moon hung like a quiet witness above it all.
He hadn't brought a cloak.
Didn't need one.
He could still feel the warmth in his hand from earlier—the pull, the thread, the way it sang in his veins like it didn't belong there.
The black-sealed decree sat beside him.
The fief. The exile. A gift without teeth, dressed like mercy.
He hadn't opened it. Couldn't bring himself to.
He didn't know what was worse—that he didn't care… or that part of him did.
"I thought I might find you here," came the Wazir's voice.
Auren didn't flinch. The man moved like fog—he didn't announce his presence so much as arrive.
The Wazir sat beside him without invitation, robes folding in layered silence.
Auren didn't look at him.
"You're really coming with me."
"Of course," the Wazir said, like it was obvious.
Auren's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
The Wazir made a soft sound, not quite a sigh. "You know, most people start with 'thank you.'"
"You're not most people," Auren muttered.
"No," the Wazir said cheerfully. "No, I'm not."
Auren turned slightly. "Why leave all this? You have rank. Power. Access to every room I've never been allowed into."
The Wazir tilted his head, studying the moon.
"Rooms bore me," he said. "They always assume they know what's inside them. You, on the other hand…"
He glanced at Auren. "You haven't even figured out what kind of door you are yet."
Auren exhaled slowly. "You knew. About what I did to Serai. About the thread. You said it like it wasn't new to you."
The Wazir didn't deny it.
Auren leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice dropped. "What is this power? Why does it work like this? How did I—"
"It's not your job to ask all the questions at once," the Wazir interrupted gently. "It's your job to survive long enough for the answers to start asking you back."
Auren stared at him, frustrated. "You talk like you're explaining something, but you're not. You're just talking in riddles and dancing around the truth."
"Not dancing," the Wazir corrected. "Just choosing the rhythm carefully."
Auren stood suddenly, walking a few paces to the edge of the overlook. The trees beyond the wall shifted with the wind, gold leaves drifting like falling embers.
"I don't even know what I am anymore."
"That's the first honest thing you've said all week."
Auren turned, eyes sharp. "Then tell me."
The Wazir stood, too. But he didn't approach. His voice stayed soft. Almost kind.
"You're a thread, Auren. One that was never supposed to pull anything else. One that wasn't meant to feel the weave, let alone disturb it."
He paused.
"And yet here you are. Tugging."
Silence stretched between them.
"What happens if I keep pulling?" Auren asked.
The Wazir smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just like a man who already knew.
"Eventually?" he said. "The tapestry remembers what it was before it was stitched."
He turned to leave. No flourish. No last words. Just footsteps into shadow.
But then he stopped halfway.
"One more thing," the Wazir added, not looking back. "If you're going to burn a world, it helps to know who wove it in the first place."
And with that, he was gone.
Auren stood alone in the cold.
No second son.
No crest.
No name worth remembering.
But something inside him was still humming.
A thread.
And this time… it was his.