Cael’s home wasn’t much.

  A slanted roof of moss-covered shingles sagged under the weight of the forest. The wood walls had warped in the wet seasons and splintered in the dry. Vines coiled like veins around the corners, slowly reclaiming the edges. Inside, the air smelled of smoke, soil, and old paper. Dust caught the sun through a warped windowpane, swirling in silence like forgotten memories.

  It sat on the southern edge of Duskwater Hollow, tucked just far enough from the village proper that no one came unless they had to. That suited Cael just fine. The others whispered about his family. The cottage. The bloodline.

  He was the only one left now.

  The Hollow wasn’t named for its geography. Not really. It was nestled in a long basin between the forested spine of the Verdance Ridges and the shallow marshlands to the east, where the Mistlight River pooled and meandered through silvergrass fields. But its name came from something deeper. A quiet emptiness. A sense that the world had moved on and left this place behind.

  The people here were hardy, practical, and narrow-eyed. Tradition held more power than truth. And power—real power—was all that mattered in the end.

  Veins determined your worth.

  ---

  Cael scraped a stone across the hearth, coaxing sparks into dried moss. He leaned back, rubbing warmth into his hands as the flames took hold.

  He remembered being small. Sitting beside this same fire while his mother whispered stories and his father’s hammer rang in the forge out back. They hadn’t had much, but they’d had enough. Love, safety, laughter.

  Until the fever came.

  It took his mother first. Slowly, over weeks, until her voice dwindled into breathless murmurs and then nothing at all. His father lasted another year. By then, Cael was twelve and old enough to hold a shovel and dig alone.

  No one helped him bury them.

  Even then, the village had already turned away. Not out of hatred—just that quiet, passive indifference that masked all cruelty. His father hadn’t been part of a Guild. His mother hadn’t trained in a Temple. They were unranked—the kind of people who mattered only when they were useful.

  And Cael had been born without a Vein.

  ---

  The world didn’t give you power for free. Everyone was tested at birth, the Rod drawn across their skin like a divining wand. If you lit, you were marked—a Threaded soul. Your Vein dictated everything: what Guild would train you, what Art you could learn, what future you could have.

  Some had Flame Veins, others Stone. Some threaded with the Arcane, the Whisper, the Gale, the Root. There were dozens. Each with distinct affinities and castes.

  Cael’s Rod glowed cold. Unmarked.

  At first, the elders said it might simply be late-blooming. That sometimes a child’s Vein emerged with stress or age. But the years passed. Nothing changed.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  And when the Rod was drawn across his skin again at thirteen—for the Second Testing—it didn’t even shimmer.

  ---

  Cael picked up his father’s old journal, bound in darkroot leather and scuffed with soot. He flipped to the first page. The ink was clean, practiced. His father had been many things, but careless wasn’t one of them.

  “The Guilds chase the glow of the Rod and forget that not all light is seen.”

  He turned the page.

  “Veins are the rivers. But some of us were born in the stone.”

  Cael didn’t know what it meant then. Not really. He still wasn’t sure. But he read the lines every night.

  ---

  Outside, the morning mist rolled down from the ridgeline. Cael pulled on his patched tunic and stepped out into the cool air. The path to the village curved through low trees and old fences, most of which were broken or sagging. Duskwater wasn’t a poor village—just stubborn. They believed in the old ways, even if those ways left people hungry and alone.

  He passed the central square where the Threadstone stood—an ancient obelisk laced with runes. The Guildmasters claimed it once pulsed with living power, back when the Hollow was still part of the Eastern Accord. Now it stood cracked and hollow, a monument to faded promise.

  Children ran past him carrying spar blades, laughing as they play-fought in the fog. All of them had glowbands on their wrists—symbols of awakened Veins, colored by element and rank. One boy wore a flame-gold band, already tiered to First Coil. Cael turned his face away before the boy saw him.

  ---

  Field duty was all he was allowed.

  Warden Gerra didn’t speak often, but she was fair. She gave Cael twice the work and half the praise, but never mocked him like the others.

  “North fence is rotting,” she said as he arrived. “Replace it before dusk. Wood’s behind the coop.”

  He nodded.

  By noon his arms ached. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and the nails he used were rusted thin. Aelric passed by with a patrol—boys and girls of his age, dressed in armor-light and guild colors. They trained under Instructor Fendrel, the local enforcer. Aelric’s Vein was Wind-based. Swift. Sharp. Arrogant.

  He stopped when he saw Cael.

  “Still playing at being useful?” he said, loud enough for the others to hear.

  Cael kept hammering.

  Aelric stepped closer. “You’re not fooling anyone. You think if you work hard enough, the gods will notice? That some hidden Thread will spark in your worthless blood?”

  “I don’t care what you think,” Cael muttered.

  “Then maybe you should care what you are,” Aelric snapped. “You’re Hollow. Like your parents. Weak. You’ll die with dirt on your hands and no mark to show for it.”

  Warden Gerra approached, her cane thudding against the stones.

  “That’s enough, Aelric.”

  The boy smiled but obeyed, walking off with the others.

  ---

  That evening, Cael sat beneath the old ash tree behind his cottage. He stared up at the sky, stars just beginning to burn through the dusk.

  > Ping.

  It echoed again—soft, strange, not like sound but thought. He stiffened.

  > [SYSTEM THREAD: UNREGISTERED USER]

  [NO VEINSIGNATURE DETECTED]

  [ALTERNATE THREAD FOUND: “ROOTLESS / ANCIENT”]

  [Begin Integration? Y/N]

  His breath caught. The circle of faint light hovered just beyond sight, glowing gently. He looked at his hands—rough, calloused, trembling.

  This wasn’t how it happened in the stories. There was no mentor. No sudden victory. Just silence and the weight of being less.

  And yet…

  A memory came—his mother, soft-spoken, holding his hand. Her voice barely a whisper:

  "Some Threads are older than the Guilds. The kind they fear. The kind they buried."

  He whispered into the dark.

  “…Y.”

  > [Integration begun...]

  [Anchor Point: Bone | Affinity: NULL | Thread Type: INCOMPATIBLE]

  [Warning: Nonstandard Reaction]

  [Pain Response: SEVERE]

  Proceeding...

  Agony.

  Like something cold and endless cracked open inside him. Not just pain—but wrongness. His bones felt like they were unraveling. His heartbeat scattered into pieces. His breath vanished.

  He fell to the ground, convulsing.

  ---

  The stars wheeled above him, uncaring.

  When it ended, he couldn’t move. But he felt… different.

  Not stronger.

  Just awake.

  The ash tree beside him rustled. A breeze blew. And for the briefest moment, he saw veins of light running through its bark—like roots lit from within.

  He blinked. It was gone.

  ---

  In his hand lay a single black thread.

  It shimmered.