The wind was still that morning. No birds calling. No rustle of leaves. Just the quiet breath of the valley—too quiet.
Shoko stood in the clearing again, threads circling his fingertips as he prepared to attempt Boundary Threads for the first time. Ariandel watched from a few paces away, arms folded, expression both worried and encouraging.
"You're ready," she said.
Shoko nodded. He wasn't sure he agreed, but he trusted her more than he trusted his own doubts.
He raised his hand. Mana gathered like a tightening coil inside his chest. A thin glimmer formed at his fingertips—one thread. Then two. Then six, weaving out like strands of nearly invisible silk.
He inhaled slowly. "Boundary Threads… shape, don't force. Guide, don't grab."
Ariandel smiled faintly. "Exactly."
He pushed the mana outward.
The threads extended until they each reached a ten-foot distance, forming a loose shimmering perimeter—a boundary, just as the name promised. They hummed subtly in the air. He felt the vibration up his arms, into his ribs, deep into his spine.
He steadied himself.
"Good," Ariandel whispered. "Now constrict the circle."
Shoko began the contraction.
The perimeter tightened.
Then tightened more.
A strain shot through his hands like a hot needle.
He clenched his teeth. "It's slipping—"
"Stay focused," Ariandel said, stepping forward. "Hold the circle."
But the pressure grew worse. The threads vibrated violently, like plucked wires, threatening to snap in all directions. Sweat rolled down his forehead. His breath hitched.
Ariandel reached toward him. "Shoko, release it—"
He didn't hear her completely.
All he heard was: "Shoko—"
The threads ruptured.
A shockwave burst outward, blasting through the clearing like a sudden storm. The grass flattened. Loose leaves launched into the air. Tilli yowled and leaped onto a tree branch in one terrified motion.
Shoko staggered back as the remnants of the threads snapped like broken harp strings. Pain shot through his hands. His vision blurred. He fell to one knee.
Ariandel rushed to him and grabbed his shoulders. "Shoko! Look at me."
He blinked, breath trembling. "I—I didn't mean to—"
"You're alright," she said firmly, checking his shaking hands. "Nothing snapped internally. Just backlash. Breathe, sweetheart."
He tried, but his pulse was racing too fast.
The failure stung worse than the pain.
Ariandel lifted his chin. "Listen to me. Boundary Threads are one of the hardest arts in the Woven. You're attempting them three years sooner than most mages even dream of. You haven't failed. You've taken the first step."
Shoko looked at her, the frustration in his chest swelling. "But I lost control."
She brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. "Then let's teach you how not to."
Her warmth calmed the shaking in his fingers.
"But not yet," she added softly.
He frowned. "Why not?"
"Because something else just happened."
A chill swept through the clearing. He hadn't even noticed it at first, but now it crawled up his arms and down his neck—the air felt… aware. Like something far away had turned its head toward them.
Ariandel stood slowly. Her golden eyes hardened. "The surge you released… someone felt it."
Shoko's throat tightened. "The hunter?"
Her silence was enough of an answer.
Tilli hissed from her branch, fur bristled. Even she felt the danger.
Ariandel exhaled, rubbing her temple. "We've been lucky these past years. The traces he found were faint, the signals weak. But this… you just unleashed a pulse strong enough to echo across half the region."
Shoko swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
She knelt in front of him and cupped his cheek. "I'm not angry. I'm scared. Losing you is the one thing I can't bear."
His chest tightened. Words suddenly felt too heavy.
Before he could speak, the mark on his hand flared.
He gasped as bright silver light pulsed beneath his skin. The sigil—the crescent and line—warped. The crescent split into three arcs, then twisted into a more intricate shape. A ring formed around the entire symbol, glowing brighter than the morning sun.
Ariandel stepped back, stunned. "Shoko…"
He looked at his hand, heart hammering. "This is—"
"The Third Weave," she breathed. "You've crossed into it."
He stared at the glowing mark. The pain, the backlash, the shockwave—it hadn't just been a mistake.
It had been a breakthrough.
Shoko wasn't sure whether to feel proud or terrified.
Ariandel approached him again, slower, reverent. "Shoko, do you understand what this means? Third Weave is—"
"Ten times the second," he finished automatically. "A leap in both output and precision."
"Exactly." She touched her forehead, thinking rapidly. "And the hunter will feel that leap even more clearly."
He looked up. "Then what do we do?"
Ariandel took a deep breath, steadying herself.
"We leave."
Shoko's stomach dropped. "Leave the valley?"
"Yes." Her voice wavered. "We can't hide here anymore. I thought we had more time… I prayed we did. But that surge will call him, and I won't risk losing you."
He stood slowly. "Ariandel…"
She placed a hand on his cheek again, gentler this time. "This place was never meant to be permanent. It was sanctuary. A home while you healed. But you're not that broken boy anymore. You're ready for the world."
He looked around the clearing—the training stones, the old stump where Tilli liked to sit, the battered posts he practiced on, the small cabin they built together. Memories flooded him. Laughter. Fear. Growth. Family.
And now they were leaving it behind.
He didn't want to, but he also didn't want her to worry. He didn't want to put her in danger. And he definitely didn't want the hunter to ever find her.
So he nodded. "Okay. Where will we go?"
Ariandel hesitated again.
"To a place far from here. A place where I once lived. Where people will help us… or try to kill us."
Shoko blinked. "Why kill us?"
Ariandel sighed. "My past is complicated. People don't forget what I did. Or what I became."
He narrowed his eyes. "And what was that?"
She smiled sadly. "A mage who should've died a long time ago."
Shoko stared at her. He had known there were secrets, but hearing her say it so plainly stirred something protective in him.
"You're not dying," he said sharply. "Not now. Not ever."
She touched his cheek again, smiling in that painful, loving way that made him feel warm and terrified. "You sound like me, you know. Three years ago."
He looked away, flustered.
"I'll pack our things," she said gently. "We leave by noon."
Tilli hopped down, trotting toward him with her tail upright like a furry flag. She pawed his ankle.
"I know," Shoko muttered. "I don't like it either."
Ariandel watched them both, a soft expression crossing her face. Then she turned and walked toward the cabin, robes fluttering behind her like ripples of starlight.
Shoko followed slowly.
Inside the cabin, sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the shelves lined with herbs, spellbooks, and little trinkets they'd collected. Shoko paused at the table where he once struggled to write his own name, back when his hands shook with unfamiliar freedom.
He traced a fingertip along a carved line in the wood—a curve he had accidentally scorched into it during his first successful thread manipulation.
Memories flickered through his mind like old film.
He whispered, "Thank you."
The room didn't answer, but it didn't need to.
He grabbed his satchel, filled it with essentials, wrapped his threads around his wrists slowly, carefully—habit now.
Ariandel reappeared carrying a sealed bundle of scrolls and potions. She also carried a long black staff—elegant, carved with spiraling runes.
Shoko blinked. "You haven't used your staff in years."
"Which means things are serious now," she said quietly.
He nodded.
Tilli jumped into Ariandel's hood, tail curling around her neck like a scarf.
They stepped outside together.
Shoko took one last look at the valley.
The tree he climbed. The river he fell into. The field where he trained. The cliff where he once sat alone until Ariandel found him and told him the stars weren't judging him—they were listening.
Three years of life. Three years of growing. Three years of becoming someone.
He exhaled.
Ariandel placed a hand on his shoulder. "Are you ready?"
Shoko tightened his grip on his satchel.
"Only if you stay close," he whispered.
Ariandel smiled. "Always."
Together, they stepped beyond the treeline.
The world waited.
The hunter stirred.
And the threads of fate tightened.