The al'Thor farmstead sat at the end of a rutted track, two miles from the village proper.
Spencer had woken before dawn with his maps still spread across Aldan's workbench and a knot of dread sitting low in his stomach. Today was Bel Tine. Today was Winternight. And somewhere between the dancing and the feasting and the bonfires, the Shadow would come calling.
He'd spent an hour rehearsing his approach. Carpentry estimate. That's the cover. Tam mentioned needing work done on his barn last year — Aldan's muscle memory confirmed it. I show up, make conversation, work Fain into the discussion naturally.
Don't push too hard. Don't seem desperate. Just plant the seed and let it grow.
The morning was cold, frost crunching under his boots as he walked. The village was already stirring — Bel Tine preparations continuing from yesterday, the smell of cooking meat drifting from a dozen chimneys. Spencer kept his head down and his pace steady. Just a carpenter making a house call. Nothing unusual about that.
The farm came into view around a bend in the track. Modest but well-maintained: a stone house with a thatched roof, a barn that needed the repairs Spencer had come to offer, a fenced paddock where a few sheep milled about. Smoke rose from the chimney. Someone was home.
Spencer knocked on the door.
---
Tam al'Thor answered with flour on his hands.
"Aldan." A nod of recognition. "Feeling better, I see."
"Much, thank you. The Wisdom's herbs worked wonders." Spencer kept his voice casual, friendly, appropriately grateful. "I wanted to talk to you about your barn, actually. Heard you were looking for someone to reinforce the western wall."
"Was." Tam wiped his hands on a cloth. "Come in, then. No sense standing in the cold."
The inside of the farmstead was warm, the hearth fire burning steadily. A young man with red hair sat at the table, halfway through a bowl of porridge — Rand, Spencer realized with a jolt. The Dragon Reborn, eating breakfast like any other farm boy.
Act normal. He's just a neighbor's son. You've known him your whole life.
"Morning," Rand said, looking up.
"Morning." Spencer managed a nod. The golden thread was there, visible even without fully engaging Thread Sight — a faint shimmer around Rand's silhouette, like heat haze off summer stone.
Don't stare. Don't stare.
"Barn wall," Tam said, leading Spencer toward a chair. "I was thinking about it last fall, but winter came early. What would you charge?"
They talked carpentry for ten minutes. Spencer let Aldan's knowledge guide him — board feet and joinery techniques and the particular challenges of reinforcing old stone foundations. Tam asked smart questions. Rand finished his porridge and started cleaning his bow. It was all very normal, very domestic, and Spencer had to keep reminding himself that a Myrddraal was probably watching this house from the tree line right now.
"I can start after Bel Tine," Spencer said finally. "Three days' work, maybe four depending on what I find behind the boards."
"Fair enough." Tam nodded. "I'll have the materials ready."
Now. Do it now.
"Speaking of Bel Tine." Spencer let his voice drop slightly, as if sharing a confidence. "Did you notice anything odd about Fain this year? The peddler?"
Tam's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes sharpened. "Odd how?"
"I don't know exactly. I saw him yesterday in the square, and... there was something wrong about him. Under the smile. Like he was wearing a mask that didn't quite fit."
Silence. Rand had stopped cleaning his bow, watching the conversation with the curiosity of someone who didn't understand why two adults were being so careful with their words.
"You mentioned something similar at the inn," Tam said slowly. "About his eyes."
"I did. And I've been thinking about it since." Spencer spread his hands, the gesture of a man who didn't want to seem paranoid. "I know it sounds foolish. The fever probably addled my head. But I trust my instincts, Master al'Thor, and my instincts say that man is dangerous."
Another long pause. Tam was thinking — Spencer could see the calculation happening, the old soldier weighing evidence and probability and the cost of being wrong.
"I'll watch him," Tam said finally. "But Padan Fain has been coming to the Two Rivers for years. If he meant us harm, he's had plenty of opportunities."
That's because he wasn't corrupted before. That's because the Shadow only recently got its hooks into him.
Spencer couldn't say any of that. He just nodded. "You're probably right. Thank you for listening."
"Thank you for the warning, such as it is." Tam's voice was kind but firm — the voice of a man who appreciated concern but wasn't going to panic over a carpenter's fever-dreams.
Spencer made his excuses and left.
---
The walk back to the village was long.
Spencer replayed the conversation in his head, analyzing it the way he'd analyzed project failures at his old job. What went wrong? Where did I lose him?
The answer was obvious: he didn't have evidence. Just feelings. Just "something wrong about his eyes." Tam was a rational man, a former soldier, someone who made decisions based on facts rather than intuition. And Spencer had given him nothing but intuition.
I need proof. Something concrete. Something that makes Fain look suspicious to anyone, not just someone who can see Shadow corruption wrapped around his soul.
The sun was setting by the time he reached the village outskirts. The Bel Tine bonfire was being lit on the green, orange flames climbing toward a darkening sky. Music drifted from the inn — fiddles and drums, the sound of a community celebrating.
Spencer stopped at the edge of the tree line to watch.
Tonight, he thought. A few hours from now, all of this burns.
Movement. At the corner of his vision. Something in the trees.
Spencer turned his head — slowly, carefully, the way you turn when you don't want whatever you're looking at to know you've seen it — and Thread Sight erupted.
Not a flicker. Not a brief flash that faded after a few seconds. This was a detonation, a supernova behind his eyes, and the world split into two layers: reality and Pattern, flesh and fate, matter and meaning.
And at the edge of the forest, where the shadows pooled deepest, stood a hole in the shape of a man.
---
The Myrddraal had no thread.
That was what Spencer's reeling mind grasped first. Every person in Emond's Field — every animal, every building, every blade of grass — existed as a luminous filament in the Pattern's weave. But the Fade was an absence. A void. A place where threads should be and weren't, radiating cold so intense Spencer could feel it from fifty feet away.
Shadow construct detected.
The impression slammed into his awareness like a fist. Not words — not exactly — but meaning, pure and sharp and impossible to ignore.
Codex System Online. Level 1. Thread Analysis active. Codex Inventory active. Whisper Prompts active.
Warning: Shadow construct within detection range. Classification: Myrddraal. Threat level: Extreme.
Spencer's legs moved before his brain caught up. Not running — a running man drew attention, and that thing in the trees would notice running — but walking. Steady. Controlled. Back toward the village, away from the eyeless gaze that seemed to track him even without eyes to see.
The Codex kept feeding him information. Thread Sight wasn't flickering anymore; it was ON, persistent, overwhelming. Every villager he passed blazed with white threads. The bonfire was a knot of heat and light and connection, dozens of fate-lines converging around the celebration. The inn's threads were so dense they looked almost solid.
Too much. Too much information. I can't—
Spencer found a corner behind the inn. Dark. Quiet. Away from the crowd. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the frozen ground with his head between his knees.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The Thread Sight didn't fade. But slowly, painfully, he learned to narrow his focus. To stop seeing everything at once and look at one thing at a time. The wall behind him — stone threads, old and stable, barely luminous. The ground beneath him — earth threads, diffuse and countless. His own hands—
His own thread.
Spencer looked at himself through the Codex's new lens and saw something strange. A white thread like anyone else's, but with flickers of gold at the edges. Not ta'veren gold — nothing like the blazing brilliance of Rand and Mat and Perrin — but something. A shimmer. An anomaly.
What am I?
The Codex didn't answer. It just sat in the back of his mind, humming with potential, waiting to be used.
---
He stayed behind the inn until the shaking stopped.
The celebration continued on the green. Music, laughter, the smell of roasting meat. No one knew that a Fade was watching from the trees. No one knew that in a few hours, Trollocs would come pouring out of the darkness with murder in their hearts.
Spencer knew. And Spencer couldn't tell anyone.
What do I do? What CAN I do?
The Codex offered options. Thread Sight let him see the attack coming. Codex Inventory gave him... something, though he wasn't sure what yet. Whisper Prompts would warn him of danger.
But he couldn't fight Trollocs. He couldn't channel the One Power. He couldn't stop a Myrddraal with a carpenter's chisel and good intentions.
Information, he thought. That's what I have. That's what I can use.
I know where the attack will come from. I know which houses are closest to the tree line. I know the evacuation routes.
I can't stop the attack. But I can make sure more people survive it.
Spencer stood up. His legs were steadier now, his vision clearer. The Thread Sight was still there, still aching, but manageable. Like a muscle he'd never known he had, slowly learning to flex.
He walked to the edge of the village and found a spot where he could watch the tree line. The bonfire at his back, the darkness ahead, and somewhere in that darkness, a Myrddraal waiting for moonrise.
Come on, then, Spencer thought. I know you're coming. And I'll be ready.
The Codex hummed agreement. The threads of Emond's Field glowed warm and bright and terrifyingly fragile.
And in the distance, red threads began to move through the forest.
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