“Well… Mum used to say my bow was already there. That she didn’t have to do much because my Threads were always loud. Screaming, sometimes. It wasn’t about waking them up, it was about keeping them asleep. And that’s always been the problem.”
“Interesting,” he says. “Did she teach you anything else before she… passed?”
“Umm… yeah.” I shift slightly. “That active Threads are like vibrating strings of magic? There are four types: Earth, Fire, Air, and Water. They can stretch outward, allowing us to manipulate certain things around us.” I glance up, just for a second. He’s still watching, listening. “And I know they’re tied to emotions, but I’m still not sure how that works.”
“Yes. And that’s the problem, you’ve learnedjustenough to be dangerous.” He doesn’t soften the words. “You can hear your Threads. Use them, but you haven’t learned how to control them. Right now, it’s like you’re dragging blades behind you on rusted chains—lethal, sure, but loud. Clumsy.” His eyes flicks to my pack. “And you’re leaning on that duck like it’s a shield. It’s not. It’s a delay tactic. And it’s screwing you over.”
“How is it screwing me over?” I snap, brows pinched. “It’s helping.”
Talen leans back slightly, gaze tracking mine across the table. “Okay, imagine two chests.” He taps two fingers lightly against the wood between us. “One is you. Loaded with magic—bright, chaotic. Threads vibrating so loud, they start overflowing. You try to seal it, but pressure builds until it blows. Violent. Messy. It empties you out. Well, at least mostly, otherwise, you’d be dead many times over by now. But you’re left vulnerable until it refills.”
“So basically, I’m a walking bomb?” I mutter.
His mouth twitches. “Pretty much...” He taps again, softer this time. “The second chest—same Threads. But calm, controlled, wound tight like a coil. You can pack ten, twenty, or fifty times as much in there without risking a detonation. And when you need them, there are so many you’ve always got reserves left to burn. Never left empty. Never left exposed.”
“How much can you store?” I ask.
“Let’s just say… more than enough,” he replies, keeping his expression blank. “Look. Our Threads are vibrating reservoirs of magic, constantly splitting and replicating into more. The more you store, and the stronger they vibrate, the more power you can release. But if you also can’t control that power, or direct it properly, you’ve still got a problem.” He pauses, gaze steady. “They move with emotion. That’s good, we want that, but if your feelings are driving them wild, you’re not in control. Right now,you let your Threads build and build until something triggers you—and boom. One big emotional outburst.” He leans forward slightly, voice lower now. “That’s not power. That’s a leak. You’re not building strength, you’re bleeding it and leaving yourself empty, vulnerable, when you could be so, so much more.”
Maybe it’s the information. Or maybe it’s just his voice, deep, precise, impossible to tune out. But before I know it, I’m leaning in towards him too, like his words are pulling me forward.
“So what do I do instead?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me as his chest lifts slow.Heat pricks at my neck before I can stop it and for a second, something unreadable flickers behind his eyes, but then it's gone as he leans back.
Idiot. You’re here to learn control, not melt every time he opens his damn mouth. I force myself back upright, spine stiff.
“You need to learn to knot your Threads,” he replies, calm. “It’s something all Innerlanders are taught young, so early most people don’t even think about it anymore—it just becomes instinct.”
“So if I learn to knot... I can store more magic. Use it better. And I won’t go around blowing things up?”
“Yes. A well-knotted Thread is like a blade held tight in its sheath, controlled and ready. Every knot you tie is a weapon, and when you want it—when you choose—you unknot it.Youdecide when it strikes.”
He pushes back his chair. For a second, I think he’s leaving, but instead he crosses the space and bends down in front of me. Too close. My lungs forget how to work.
“Tomorrow, come to training before you use that bloody duck and we’ll start with knotting. But today… Today we deal with your emotions.”
Warm breath hits first—leather, smoke, all of it wrapping around me—then his hands move, steady and careful, cuppingeither side of my face. My stomach flips, sudden and unwanted, because now I know what those hands feel like when they’re not being careful. I know what he tastes like, sounds like, pressed against me in the dark with his mouth on my throat, groaning against my skin.
His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, but that's all it takes. Everything seizes tight in my chest, jaw clenches and a jolt of magic flares sharp through my Threads.
Suddenly the air between us snaps. He drops his hands fast, already moving—pushing back and bracing against the table behind him.
“That was a bad idea.” He says. Voice rough, strained, like he’s trying to shove the moment back down his throat.
“Yeah. The worst,” I mutter, forcing the words out as I sit up straighter, trying to pull my body and my breathing back under control.
Shit, that was close. God—even my Threads seem to want him. I need control. Don’t let him be the thing that makes you fall apart. You came here to learn, not to relapse.
“Better if I do it from here.” He adds, still leaning against the table, hands curled tight around the edges like it’s the only thing holding him in place. Then: “Okay, when you’re ready, close your eyes.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The first proper snowfall came early this year, not the light dustings that vanish by morning. This one stuck, coating the courtyard in silence, and carrying that crisp, biting smell only snow brings—clean, cold, almost too pure. It made it impossible to ignore the chill crawling into my bones, or the slower truth settling under my skin: if I didn’t start making progress soon, I wasn’t going to survive Call Week—let alone get any answers about Ashvale. I’d be dead before I even got close.
The past month of training has been slow. Painfully slow. Every lunch, I sit beside Talen in an empty lecture theatre, tying knots into a plain rope he gave me. It’s not magical, it’s a focus tool. Symbolic.
The idea’s simple enough: the rope mimics my Threads. If I can learn to feel their shape—how they pull, twist, resist—then maybe I can learn to hold them steady. Anchor them. So I tie. One knot after another, over and over, until my fingers cramp.
