Kael's Shack on the outskirts of the Silt-Burrows Enclave, present day.
The acid rain, known locally as the 'God's Tears,' hissed as it ate into the pitted tin roof of Kael's shack. The sound was a constant, caustic soundtrack to the broken reality of the Shattered Continent.
Kael, now eighteen, sat on an overturned, splintered barrel, scraping the blackened, dried blood off a rusted silver spoon. The spoon was a piece of junk, all he had to show for his near-miss with the Edict patrol—men encased in sun-bleached white iron, bearing the massive, geometrically perfect Solus symbol etched onto their breastplates. They were living reminders of the unforgiving order that replaced the broken gods.
Keep your hands busy. Don't think about the threads. Don't think about the Code.
It had been three years since he fled the Riven Hamlet, three years since he'd accidentally branded Elara with that terrible, indigo-eyed gift, and three years since he swore the bitterest oath of his life: to never Weave again. He was hiding from the Edicts, but mostly, he was hiding from his own potential.
A shadow fell across the damp, dirt floor, blocking the weak light. It was Sera, a woman with eyes that tracked movement like a desert hawk, wearing thick, oiled leather and layers of scavenged, mismatched steel plating. She was Kael's infrequent contact to the Silt-Burrows, the closest Weaver Enclave.
"The Edicts are coming," Sera said, her voice rough. She squinted at the horizon, her eyes narrowed against the 'God's Tears.' "They're not just patrolling, Kael. They've brought the Hounds. Big, expensive magic. They're sniffing for a 'Soul-Scars' fugitive, the kind who leaves a messy, identifiable wake. Which, funnily enough, is what amateur kindness often leaves behind."
Kael's grip tightened on the spoon until his knuckles turned white. Soul-Scars was the epithet given to Weavers suffering identity drift—the name his sister's Glitch-modified Code sometimes seemed to whisper in his dreams.
"I haven't Weaved," Kael muttered, his denial mechanical, automatic.
"Doesn't matter," Sera pressed, sliding a dirty, folded map—a rough schematic of the nearby Theocracy outpost—across the barrel. "The word is they've captured someone related to the Soul-Scars. Someone with unusual abilities. They're using them as bait to draw out the bigger prize—the Code-Fixer responsible."
Kael felt the floor tilt beneath him. He knew, with the cold certainty of a man facing the gallows, who that "someone" was. He looked at the map, then at his hands, which began to tremble, not from fear, but from a terrifying, remembered surge of Will. The oath was broken the moment Elara was taken.
"Show me the entrance to the Burrows," Kael said, the words heavy with resignation, the taste of metal sharp on his tongue. "Tell your leaders I need access to their information network. And tell them I'm done hiding."
Sera raised a cynical eyebrow. "The Burrows don't offer services for free, fugitive. What coin do you bring?"
Kael pushed the silver spoon aside. He didn't need to answer with words. He reached out with his mind, and for the first time in three years, he found the ambient Code threads floating in the air—the detritus of the shattered god—and pulled them. The air around his hand shimmered, briefly glowing with that familiar, forbidden light.
"My payment won't be coin," Kael stated, the resolve hardening his voice. "It will be my work. But I want knowledge in return: the knowledge of how to un-weave a Glitch. That's a debt they must pay."