Fate is sacred. But what if it's wrong?
The grand hall of Astren's high court reeked of incense and judgment. Rows of nobles in violet robes stood behind silver-tipped staves, their faces carved with disdain and fear. Above them, on a balcony lined with fateweaver runes, the High Inquisitor sat in silence, watching.
And at the center, Kael Varion knelt in chains, eyes fixed on the floor. The scent of scorched silk still lingered on his hands.
The trial had already ended. This was just the ritual before the branding.
"Let it be recorded," said the chamberlain, his voice dry, "that Kael Varion, third son of the royal line, is found guilty of severing the Fate Thread of Lord Halren Theris, who fell dead with no wound and no explanation. A noble of Astren, bearer of divine weave inheritance, and favored of the Church."
A murmur swept through the court. The word severing made everyone flinch. Like spitting into the wind. Like tearing scripture with bare hands.
Kael didn't speak.
"Your crime," the chamberlain continued, "is not merely murder. It is desecration. You did not strike a man—you unraveled his future. His bloodline. His ordained legacy."
Kael's jaw clenched.
He could still see it—the memory burned behind his eyes.
Lord Halren's thread: braided and black, quivering with malice. Poison glinting in his goblet.
The golden thread of the princess tethered too tightly to it. Too close.
He had reached for the one thing he could control.
One cut.
And Halren had collapsed like a marionette with its strings sliced.
The palace had screamed.
[Fate Severed: Halren Theris – Thread of Treason]
Fragment Acquired: Ruthless Preemption
Effect: +2 Resolve, -2 Empathy
Corruption Load: 4%
Fragment Ledger Updated.
The echo of that fragment still stirred in Kael's chest—an instinct to act before others did. To eliminate threats before they could become threats.
It made sense.
Too much sense.
"That fate," the Inquisitor said at last, voice solemn, "was not yours to change."
Kael looked up.
The nobles didn't understand what he'd seen. They didn't see the thread. They didn't hear the cut.
But they saw the body. Cold. Crumpled.Like the Loom itself had rejected him.
"Let it be known," the Inquisitor continued, "that by the authority of the Eternal Loom and the will of the Throne, Kael Varion is stripped of name, title, and blood."
Priests in silver approached.
"Your soul shall be branded Threadless."
The branding iron hissed.
Kael bit down a scream as the sigil seared into his shoulder—a broken thread spiraling downward. His connection to the royal fate web severed.
He fell forward, chest heaving.
Then… he looked up.
Eyes now fully awakened.
Threads. Everywhere.
Flickering. Tangled. Alive.
Some golden. Some rotted.
One connected to the Inquisitor himself, pulsing violet with suppressed wrath. Not divine. Not pure. Just old.
They all looked like strings now.
And Kael had a blade.
"Kael Varion is exiled beyond the weavebound lands. Any who speak his name beyond today… shall share his curse."
The hall turned. One by one. As if the trial had already left their memories.
But Kael remembered.
He stood on trembling legs.
He looked at the chamberlain, whose hands trembled slightly—fate thread fraying. Weak heart. Three winters left.
He looked at the priest who branded him—thread clean, untouched, already winding toward a peaceful death.
He looked at the door.
And walked through it alone.
Outside, the wind whispered like thread unraveling.