The summons came the moment I set foot in Blackthorn Keep.
Two guards stood stiff in the courtyard, their armor still stained with oil and rust, faces pale when they looked at me—as though they saw something that shouldn't exist. One muttered under his breath. I caught the word: deserter.
I didn't rise to it. Instead, I walked between them as though they were stone pillars, silent, measured. Let them think me broken. Let them think I crawled back from the battlefield half-dead.
The truth would be mine alone.
The Hall of Elders was colder than memory. Heavy braziers burned on the pillars, their smoke curling like black vines. Five elders sat upon the dais, robes heavy with sigils, eyes sharp as drawn blades.
At their center: Elder Rowan Veyra—hawk-faced, his gaze carrying the weight of centuries.
To Rowan's right stood my cousin Alden, lips curled in mock sorrow. He looked well-fed, well-polished, smug.
"Damien," he said, his voice ringing across the hall. "We thought the battlefield claimed you. How convenient you return only when the fighting is finished."
The murmurs among the elders swelled. "Deserter." "Cripple." "Coward."
I bowed low, masking the smirk that threatened to break across my face.
"Convenient? Perhaps. But if the battlefield wished to claim me, cousin, I would not be standing here. And had you remained, perhaps fewer graves would litter our banners."
The air turned brittle. Rowan's gaze cut to Alden. The other elders shifted uncomfortably.
And in that moment—
[Abyssal Insight: Threads Revealed.]
The world tilted. Behind every elder's form, faint filaments of light stretched into a storm of woven destiny. Some threads were taut and golden; others frayed, darkened with mildew and rot.
Rowan's thread was thick, golden—but a hairline crack ran across it, humming like a dying bell. A secret regret. A moment of fear.
Elder Marius's thread frayed at the edges, strands of greed wrapping his chest like ivy.
And Alden—oh, Alden's fate pulsed red, strands coiling with resentment and jealousy, splitting apart even as he spoke. His path was unstable.
[Optional Action: Pluck Fray. Risk: Pain.]
The prompt was flat, mechanical. The temptation was sharp.
I resisted—barely. Not here. Not yet.
Rowan raised his hand, and the mutters died. His eyes, unreadable, fixed on me.
"Damien Veyra. Your record is… absent. Survivors speak of chaos. What say you of your conduct?"
I let silence linger, the kind that makes men lean forward. Then I spoke, voice steady, raw with false exhaustion.
"I was wounded. I fought until I could not lift my blade. When I awoke, the field was corpses and ash. I crawled back here—nothing more, nothing less."
I turned my head, let my eyes brush Alden's.
"Though… I recall seeing certain kin retreat before the tide even turned. Perhaps their memories differ."
The words fell like daggers. Elders shifted again, suspicion redirecting. Alden's lips thinned, his golden thread shuddering.
The session ended with no verdict. They released me under "watch," which was as good as a leash.
But as I left the hall, a chill trickled down my spine.
Above, far above, the weave of fate trembled. A golden thread detached from the heavens and coiled downward—thin, deliberate—drifting toward Blackthorn Keep.
A warning. Or a hunter.
I clenched my fist. Whatever Heaven sent, I would be ready.
Even if I had to devour it.