The camp wasn’t silent, but it felt like it. Even when voices hummed across the clearing—scouts swapping shifts, ward-binders etching repairs into the defensive perimeter, the occasional barked order from Sinclair—the sound felt thin. Stretched. As if something in Redvine’s wake had bled the weight out of their words.

  Ren felt it most when eyes lingered on him—the tension that clung to the air whenever he crossed the camp to fill his waterskin. Conversations would dip. Eyes would follow him—not with open hostility, but with that wariness reserved for knives you weren’t sure were clean.

  He didn’t have time to care.

  Ren ducked into the small clearing near the training yard, a strip of muddy ground hemmed in by tarps and trees. No one else was using it, which suited him fine. He rolled his shoulders, loosening the stiffness that still clung to his muscles. The golden light might have increased his stamina recovery, but it hadn’t done him any favors with the soreness.

  He set his pack down and drew his dagger. The blade caught what little light filtered through the canopy—its edge sharp, but far from flawless. He’d managed to patch it up a bit after the fight with the abomination, but the damage still showed.

  Ren inhaled, then slowly exhaled.

  Threadwork first.

  He extended his left hand, fingers splayed. The faint shimmer of his Threads stirred to life, unspooling from his fingertips like spider-silk made of light. They had returned to their usual violet hue.

  He directed them toward a makeshift post—a rough stump driven into the mud. His goal was simple: weave a net, bind, constrict. He started slow, threads twisting like strands of rope, forming a loose web around the post.

  Too loose.

  He gritted his teeth, pulling tighter. His Threads wavered, their tension slipping like frayed cords. He re-anchored, sweat already prickling at his temples.

  “Still sloppy,” he muttered.

  He shifted to offense, drawing the Threads inward and channeling them through his core. Power surged through his limbs—raw and volatile—as it coursed through his body. He lunged, closing the distance in a breath, dagger flashing in a tight arc. One strike, then another, then a third—each blow landing with solid, practiced force against the post.

  The stump shuddered, bark flying, but Ren didn’t stop. He spun low, slashing across where knees might’ve been, then rose into a final upward cut that left a glowing streak in the air.

  Before his momentum faded, he leapt back, free hand already swinging behind him to pull an arrow from his quiver. He nocked, drew, fired—

  —but his heel slipped slightly in the wet ground. The shot wobbled, veering off-center and striking the edge of the post with a dull thunk.

  He let out a sharp breath, lowering the bow. Still off-balance. Still not enough.

  Two scouts were walking by, their steps deliberately slow. They weren’t even trying to hide their glances.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” one murmured.

  “Shouldn’t even be walking, let alone training,” the other muttered. “You’ve heard the things he’s been through—no one survives that.”

  Ren didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

  He wanted to. He wanted to shout that he’d done what he could. That he hadn’t chosen to be dragged into this nightmare of gods and corrupted monsters. But the words stuck in his throat.

  Instead, he nocked an arrow.

  Drew. Aimed. Fired.

  The shot struck the post dead-on this time, the thunk echoing across the clearing. Not a perfect hit, but solid. Controlled.

  Better.

  He repeated the motion. Again. Again. The world narrowed to the feel of the Threads humming under his control, the feedback of tension and resistance. His arms ached. His mana burned low. Still, he pushed until his breath came ragged and his knees trembled.

  When he finally stopped, the post was splintered halfway through—its surface gouged and fraying, barely holding together.

  Ren wiped sweat from his brow, glancing around. The scouts had moved on, though he could still feel their stares like splinters in his back.

  “Again,” he muttered, setting his stance.

  He trained until his mana guttered low. By the time he stopped, his limbs were shaking, and his throat felt raw from silent curses. He sat in the mud, breathing hard, the dagger resting across his knees.

  The golden energy stayed quiet.

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. A few times during training, he’d reached inward, trying to call on that impossible light he’d felt in Redvine. Nothing. No flicker. No warmth. Just silence, like something asleep behind a locked door.

  “Figures,” he muttered. “Show up once, save my life, then disappear.”

  A shadow fell across him.

  Ren looked up to find Leo standing a few feet away, his hair wild as usual, sleeves rolled past his elbows, and that faint look of mischief dulled by exhaustion.

  “You look like hell,” Leo said cheerfully, crouching beside him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Want some advice?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad,” Leo said. “You’re pushing too hard. Threads don’t just listen to strength—they listen to rhythm. And right now, you’re fighting them like a drunk with a broom handle.”

  Ren gave him a flat look.

  Leo grinned. “What? I’m right.”

  Ren sighed, looking down at his dagger. “I don’t have time to be gentle. If I’d been stronger in Redvine—”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “You’d be dead,” Leo cut in, his tone losing its humor. “You’re alive because you adapted, not because you brute-forced it. Whatever that… golden thing was, it wasn’t raw power. It was precision. It was intent.”

  Ren blinked, taken aback. “You felt it?”

  Leo shrugged. “I wasn’t there, but… the mana residue clinging to you is different. Cleaner. Like it burned everything else away. If you’re trying to call it by punching harder, you’re doing it wrong.”

  Ren hesitated, then gave a short nod. “So what? I’m just supposed to… wait around?”

  “Not wait,” Leo said. “Learn to listen.”

  He met Ren’s eyes, steady and calm. “You’re special, Ren. But you treat these things like common tools—like rope or thread. They’re not. They’re you. If you don’t trust them, they won’t trust you.”

  Ren didn’t fully understand, but the words stuck with him.

  That night, he trained again.

  Not with force. Not with anger.

  He sat cross-legged near the post, fingers extended, and just… listened. He tried to feel his Threads like extensions of himself, rather than weapons. He wove them in small, deliberate patterns—loops, spirals, tight braids. Each time they wavered, he adjusted, breathing through the tremors.

  No golden energy. No sudden surge of power.

  But for the first time, the Threads didn’t feel like frayed cords. They felt like something alive.

  When he finished, the camp was quiet. The suspicious glances had faded—mostly because everyone was too tired to care anymore.

  Still, Ren felt their weight in memory.

  He wasn’t here to be liked.

  He was here to survive.

  And if he had to sharpen every thread of himself to do it, then so be it.

  __________________________________________________________

  The camp always felt different at night.

  Not quieter—never truly quiet. The pines creaked in the wind, the watchfires hissed, and somewhere far off, night birds croaked their warnings. But the darkness stretched things thin, like sound traveled further and slower beneath the heavy canopy. Every footstep felt like a disturbance. Every whisper carried twice as far.

  Ren adjusted the strap on his arm brace, flexing the mechanical fingers to make sure they hadn’t stiffened in the cold.

  Sinclair had put him on watch duty tonight.

  “Better than sitting around,” Ren muttered, climbing up the rough platform built between two pine trunks. The wood smelled of resin and smoke; damp from the evening rain. A simple sentry’s post—but high enough to overlook the camp and the faint glow of the wards stitched into the ground.

  Below, the campfires burned low, each one carefully shielded so the light wouldn’t bleed into the forest. The night crew was sparse—two scouts pacing slow, practiced loops around the perimeter, and another checking ward seals along the southern boundary.

  Ren leaned against the railing, eyes sweeping the shadowed tree line.

  Nothing moved.

  Nothing, except his thoughts.

  The whispers from earlier still clawed at him.

  He’d felt them in the way people avoided meeting his eyes. In the brittle silence when he walked by. He’d caught fragments of conversation when they thought he couldn’t hear:

  No one survives that. Not like that.

  It’s not natural.

  Something about him feels… wrong.

  He didn’t have a way to argue with them. He felt wrong too, ever since Redvine.

  Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the moment the abominations swarmed him—claws tearing his arms, a jaw lunging for his throat—and then… the light. Gold. Blinding. Wild and infinite, roaring through him like a floodgate had been smashed open.

  Then silence.

  Ren flexed his fingers. For a heartbeat, he almost hoped the warmth would answer—that golden current sparking back to life.

  Nothing.

  Only the cold.

  The platform creaked.

  Ren turned, expecting one of the scouts, but found Raven climbing up instead—light-footed as ever. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid, shadows beneath her eyes betraying how long she’d gone without sleep.

  “Sinclair’s worried you’re going to brood yourself to death up here,” she said, settling beside him with a sigh.

  “I’m fine,” Ren replied automatically.

  “Mhm. That’s what everyone says before they do something incredibly stupid.”

  He glanced at her. “You’re not on rotation.”

  “Nope.” She popped the p. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured talking to our local mystery case might be more interesting than staring at canvas.”

  He let out a quiet breath—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Thanks. I guess.”

  They stood in silence for a while. The wind ran through the branches, making them sway like slow, warning gestures.

  Ren broke the quiet first.

  “The cube,” he said. “The one pulled from your scrap pile. Do you remember how it got there?”

  Raven raised a brow. “We’re discussing garbage now?”

  “Just—humor me.”

  She thought for a moment. “Honestly? No. I collect a lot of junk. Artifacts, failed constructs, scraps no one wants. I toss what’s dead metal. The cube looked dormant. No mana, no runic pulse. Just… inert.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “If it had any spark, I wouldn’t have thrown it away. I’m not careless.”

  Ren frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. Something like that doesn’t just appear.”

  “Maybe someone put it there without telling me,” Raven said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Or maybe it wanted to be found.”

  Ren shot her a look.

  “That’s not reassuring.”

  She grinned—though not fully. “Not my job to reassure you. I just handle weird things and hope they don’t kill us later.”

  Ren didn’t have a response to that. The unease twisted tighter in his gut.

  Time passed. Slow. Heavy.

  Below, two ward-binders murmured to each other as they checked a seal. Ren couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He’d been seeing it all day—side glances, quick whispers cut short when he approached.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “They think I’m cursed, don’t they?”

  Raven snorted. “Not cursed. Just… dangerous. You walked out of what should’ve killed you. That alone makes people invent stories.”

  “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “People don’t care what you asked for,” she said. “Fear fills in the gaps.”

  Ren’s hands tightened on the railing. “…And you?”

  Raven eyed him. “I think you’re a pain. But you’re our pain. As long as you keep fighting with us, I don’t care where your power came from.”

  It helped. A little.

  Near midnight, Sinclair climbed up. His presence was quiet but grounding.

  “You see anything?” he asked.

  “Just trees,” Ren said. “And whispers.”

  Sinclair’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t press. He looked out at the horizon, jaw set.

  “You’ll have to get used to it. Fear talks louder than truth.”

  Ren hesitated. “Back in Redvine… I found sigils. Old ones. I could feel them. Like they were watching me.”

  Sinclair stilled. “Describe them.”

  Ren did. The pressure. The dread humming in his bones. The sense of something ancient leaning too close.

  Sinclair’s expression hardened. “Don’t go near them again. Not alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the last thing we need is another old thing waking up.”

  When his watch ended, the camp slept.

  Raven slumped half-asleep against the railing. Sinclair had already left. And Ren was alone with the dark trees and the cold quiet.

  The golden energy inside him stayed silent.

  For now, that was fine.

  Because Ren had learned one thing:

  The quiet never lasted.