The sun hung high in the pale sky, a dim golden disk veiled by thin, wandering clouds. Yet even under its light, the chill of Dreknhal lingered, clinging to the air like an unseen frost. Winter had only just begun to lay its claim, but its breath already whispered through every street and alley, sharp enough to redden cheeks and stiffen fingers.
Dreknhal was one of the three great nations of the Varrach continent, its lands stretched wide between the eastern borders of Selvarra and the western reach of Orriveth. Unlike its neighbors, Dreknhal's strength was shaped by the seas—it boasted two proud ports, one on the storm-lashed northern coast and another along the more temperate southern waters, both gateways of trade, travel, and conflict. Ships with blackened hulls and white sails carried the lifeblood of the country, their routes threading across oceans toward distant lands.
Even the onset of winter could not drive its people indoors. The avenues bustled with life, though cloaks were drawn tight and breaths misted in the air. Merchants cried their wares from beneath canvas awnings stiff with frost, their voices competing with the rattling of iron-rimmed wheels over cobblestones. Shopkeepers, wrapped in woolen coats, stood at their doorways, coaxing customers with promises of warmth and bargains.
Horse-drawn carriages clattered past, wheels splashing through patches of melted snow where the sun lingered long enough to soften the ice. Steam carts hissed as they rolled, exhaling white plumes that mingled with the winter air. The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted from a street corner, mingling with the salt of the sea breeze that traveled inland, a reminder of Dreknhal's unbroken bond with the waters that cradled it.
Despite the cold, the city did not slumber—it endured, thrived, and pressed forward, as though the very character of Dreknhal lay in its defiance of hardship.
Sylas walked the bustling streets with quiet observation, his gaze slipping over the movement of vendors, shopkeepers, and travelers. Though most of his years had been spent in the solitude of training, he was not entirely unacquainted with the world outside—Austin had taken him on journeys now and then, short excursions that revealed glimpses of life beyond the cavern walls. Because of that, the chaos of the city did not overwhelm him; it merely felt… different, alive in a way the silence of stone could never be.
Pushing open the heavy door of a restaurant, he stepped into the warmth within. The air carried the mingled scents of roasted meat, herbs, and freshly baked bread. Laughter and chatter spilled between wooden tables where patrons in wool coats shared meals, their voices softened by the glow of lanterns.
Austin had not sent him unprepared—before Sylas left, he was entrusted with a generous sum of money. In Dreknhal, trade moved on Peco, the banknotes of the realm. The crisp sheets bore elegant designs stamped with ink, their values marked in neat denominations: 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 100, and 500. Whispers of change had reached even Sylas's ears: the government was set to release a new 1000 peco note, stirring talk among merchants and bankers alike.
At present, Sylas carried nearly 10,000 peco on him, tucked securely away. Enough to live comfortably for some time, though he bore it with the quiet caution of one who knew money was only a tool, never a shield.
As he crossed the polished floor, an attendant approached swiftly. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and pressed black trousers, the young man bowed slightly, his tone practiced yet courteous.
The attendant led Sylas toward a small corner table tucked beneath a carved wooden beam, where vines had been etched into its surface in curling patterns. The faint glow of lanterns reflected on the polished floorboards, giving the place a gentle warmth. Sylas settled into the chair, and the young man handed him a menu bound in worn leather.
Scanning it briefly, Sylas pointed to a dish.
"This one," he said.
The attendant leaned slightly forward, pen scratching over a small notepad. "That will be 400 peco, sir. Please allow us a little time to prepare it."
Sylas gave a short nod, and the man stepped away, his shoes clicking softly against the floor.
Left alone, Sylas let his gaze wander. The restaurant carried a nature-inspired theme: wooden beams shaped like tree trunks rose to meet the ceiling, green draperies hung near the windows like hanging ivy, and painted panels along the walls depicted quiet forests, rivers, and birds in flight. The air was tinged with the scent of herbs and simmering broth drifting from the kitchen.
Resting his chin on his hand, he sank into thought.
My training period is over. What I should do now is search for clues about those bastards. Grandpa told me only that they wielded purple threads and belonged to some organization. But stumbling around blindly won't help…
His eyes narrowed slightly. My first task should be to find out which organizations harbor purple threaders. But where would I even begin? Threaders exist in the shadows, hidden from the public eye. For all I know, the people sitting around me could be threaders themselves — yet there's no way to tell.
A flicker of doubt crossed his expression. Should I ask Grandpa for help? No… I can't always rely on him.
The creak of the door pulled him from his thoughts. Sylas looked up as a lady entered the restaurant.
She seemed to draw the light with her as she passed through the crowd — not with brilliance, but with quiet composure. Her skin was pale, porcelain-like, her features fine and deliberate, as though shaped by a sculptor's careful hand. Dark hair fell just to her shoulders, parted so one strand brushed against her cheek, softening the gentle but watchful gaze of her eyes.
Her clothes carried both elegance and subtle defiance. A loose black sweater, trimmed in violet at the cuffs, bore faint floral patterns that unfurled like midnight blossoms across her shoulder. At her chest, a small red apple pin gleamed — a simple ornament, yet somehow deliberate, a mark meant not to be missed. Slim black trousers followed, woven with delicate golden lines curling like vines in moonlight, while her pointed violet-embroidered heels clicked softly with each measured step.
She seemed both present and apart from the world around her, as if her movements followed a rhythm no one else could hear.
An attendant hurried to greet her, bowing slightly, but hesitation showed on his face. The restaurant was full. Only one seat remained — at Sylas's table.
The attendant approached cautiously.
"Sir," he said politely, "if you don't mind, may this lady share your table? We are currently full."
Sylas, caught mid-thought, lifted his head. His gaze flicked from the attendant to the woman. He gave a slight nod. "I don't mind."
Relief softened the attendant's features as he gestured toward the seat. The lady inclined her head and crossed the room with quiet grace. Lowering herself into the chair opposite Sylas, she glanced at him once, her lips curving faintly.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice carried a serene cadence — gentle, melodic, like the hushed song of a siren that lingered long after it was spoken.
Sylas nodded faintly as the lady placed her order. Afterward, she turned her gaze toward him, her expression calm yet carrying a hint of curiosity.
"My name is Lina," she said softly. "I wonder, what should I address sir as?"
Sylas, still studying the menu card, answered without inflection.
"Sylas."
For a reason he could not name, something about the woman across from him unsettled him — a quiet ripple beneath the surface, like a presence brushing against his thoughts. He couldn't quite place it.
Lina's lips curved into a gentle smile.
"Threaders are quite hard to find in Dreknhal," she remarked casually. "It's quite the coincidence that we've met."
Sylas's head snapped up. His eyes narrowed.
Threader? Did she just say threader? That meant she was one too. But which color?
Before he could dwell further, a sudden buzz tore through his mind. An intense, primal urge surged within him — the overwhelming need to destroy. His pupils darkened, a crimson hue bleeding at their edges as his body tensed, threatening to lose control.
"Placate."
The word left Lina's lips like a calm tide, her voice flowing through him with an unnatural serenity. Her gaze rested on him, unwavering, her smile composed yet unyielding.
In an instant, the destructive frenzy dissolved, vanishing like smoke in the wind. Sylas exhaled sharply, his hands trembling before he steadied them. His attention was drawn to the faint glow on the back of Lina's hand — a sigil had appeared, shimmering like a living pattern of energy.
The Blue Sigil unfurled in intricate brilliance: at its heart, a flower-shaped core of interlocking arcs pulsed with steady rhythm. From it stretched twelve branching arms, curling like waves of lightning, weaving into endless, recursive folds. Perfect symmetry held the design together, as if it expanded and contracted in perpetual motion. Along its edges flickered flame-like wisps, rising and fading in a rhythm that seemed almost alive.
Blue. The Mind domain. No wonder the urge to kill had been erased so effortlessly.
Sylas's gaze hardened as he whispered, "So you're a Blue Threader."
"Yes," Lina replied with the same gentle smile. "And one unique trait of my thread is that it allows me to see whether a person is ordinary… or one of us."
Sylas leaned back slightly, studying her with renewed caution.
"I wonder what business ma'am has with me?"
Lina's smile deepened, faint amusement flickering in her eyes.
"There's no need to hurry," she said lightly. "You'll know soon enough."
Sylas eyed her with suspicion, his gaze sharp as a blade.
What does this woman want from me? She appeared just moments after I left Grandpa's house… too much of a coincidence. I can't lower my guard.
Lina caught the look in his eyes and chuckled softly, the sound carrying a strange ease.
"You don't have to glare at me like that. I told you, I mean no harm."
Her tone shifted from composed to casual, as though trying to peel away the walls he'd raised.
Sylas said nothing, even as their meals arrived. Steam curled upward from the plates, filling the air with the scent of herbs and roasted meat. The clatter of cutlery and soft murmur of other diners hummed in the background. Lina leaned forward, savoring each bite with calm enjoyment, but Sylas chewed without taste, his thoughts locked on the woman across from him. His vigilance never wavered.
By the time their plates were cleared and desserts arrived, a fragile silence had settled between them. The waiter set down two glass bowls of ice cream, the sweet chill misting faintly in the warm air.
Lina spooned a bite with unhurried grace, her lips curving into a faint smile.
"You're staring at me too much," she said lightly. "If you keep that up, I'll get shy."
Sylas's face remained unmoved. He offered no reply.
Her eyes lingered on him as she took another slow bite. "Why so tense? Didn't I say I mean no harm?"
Sylas gave her only silence in return.
When the last spoonful was gone, Lina set her bowl aside and rose to her feet, smoothing her sweater with an elegant gesture. She looked down at him, her voice soft but deliberate.
"Don't worry. I truly don't intend to hurt you."
Finally, Sylas's voice broke through, low and heavy.
"What do you want from me?"
Her lips curved into a knowing smile, "Cooperation."