Control was not a single lever. It was a rhythm.
Leo learned this in the eye of the storm. The splitting headache had dulled to a manageable thrum, a constant reminder of the three-way strain. He was no longer just reacting. He was conducting.
Through Kaelon's eyes, he saw a pocket of guards—young, terrified—about to be flanked by a pair of slavering Troll-furs. Kaelon didn't hesitate. He bellowed a raw, wordless challenge, drawing the beasts' rage onto himself. His greatsword met a club the size of a tree trunk. The impact jarred up Leo's own spine. But the guards, seeing the opening, rallied and drove their spears into the creatures' backs.
As the second Troll-fur fell, Leo saw it. Faint, silvery strands, like gossamer, peeled away from the resolved conflict—from the saved guards, from the slain beast—and vanished into the air, flowing toward a point only he could perceive. A soft chime echoed in his mental space.
Fate Threads: +15.
Through Silvan, perched high on a broken gargoyle, he saw a mother and two children trapped in a collapsed stable, a prowling wolf-beast circling. Silvan's arrow took the beast in the eye. Then, using a series of soft whistles—a hunter's signal—he guided the terrified family through a hidden breach in a fence toward a safer cellar.
More silvery strands. Another soft chime.
Fate Threads: +10.
Total: 25.
It was working. He wasn't just spending; he was earning. The Weave thrived on altered fates, on chaos resolved. Every life steadied, every threat eliminated, fed his power.
In the bunker, the decision was being made.
"The keep is our only option," Count Alistair stated, his voice leaving no room for debate. "This cellar is a tomb if they breach the manor doors. The inner keep has its own well, higher walls."
Roland, tracing a finger over a rough map drawn in the dust on the table, nodded. "The most direct route is across the main courtyard. It's exposed, but the distance is shortest. The longer we stay in the open, the greater the risk. Speed is our armor now."
Leo's blood ran cold. The courtyard was a killing field. From Silvan's high view, he could see pockets of fighting still raging there. To send his soft, bookish body into that…
"Elara cannot run fast," Leo heard himself say, his voice small. He was arguing as Leo, the weak brother, but the fear was real.
"Then you will carry her if you must," Alistair said, his gaze on Leo not unkind, but utterly pragmatic. "We go in two minutes. Brandt will lead the guard wedge. We are the core. Move."
This was it. His primary vessel was being marched into the grinder. He needed more than soldiers and snipers. He needed knowledge. Who did this? Why? The Beast-Caller was a tool. He needed to see the hand that held it.
His Thread count glowed: 65. Enough for one more. Not a fighter. A listener.
He plunged into the Weave. The third silhouette awaited. This one needed to be elsewhere. Far from this battlefield. In the place where whispers were currency.
Persona Crafting:
Race: Undead (Preserved). No decay, but the pallor of grave-marrow. A voice like dry parchment. Bandages covering most features, hinting at old wounds.
Class: Information Broker.
Background: Mortis, a purveyor of forgotten truths and future debts, operating from the catacomb markets beneath the Imperial Capital, Veridia. The Weave hummed, spending Threads to etch this history into the world's fabric.
Skill Weave:
- Information Network (Basic): 30 Threads
- Memory Extraction (Passive): 20 Threads
- Shadow Negotiation: 15 Threads
Fate Threads: 0.
"Persona defined. Finalize weave?"
The split, this time, was different. It didn't pull him toward another battlefield. It pushed him outward, over impossible distances.
For a dizzying second, he was in four places.
The cellar, smelling of damp and fear.
The rainy, blood-soaked battlefield.
The gore-splattered courtyard edge.
And a place of still, dry air and the faint scent of incense and stone dust.
Mortis.
He sat in a niche carved into ancient catacomb walls. A single glow-stone illuminated a small desk stacked with scrolls. The air here was cool, silent, a world away from the screams of Frosthold. The persona's mind was… quiet. A deep, still pool of calculation, devoid of the hot emotions of the other Avatars. It felt older. Detached.
The purpose was clear. Leo, through Mortis, pushed a question into the persona's specialized consciousness: Who benefits from a beast tide assault on House Kael's border?
Mortis's bandaged fingers unrolled a map of the Empire. His dry, whispery voice spoke in the catacomb's silence, not for anyone, but for the Weave to hear. "House Kael guards the eastern pass to the Demon Wastes. Their weakness opens the path. Rival houses with western holdings would not care. Neighboring houses would fear spillover." The finger, pale and dry, landed on a territory. "Count Vorlag. His lands are north. He has mineral disputes with House Kael. A beast tide ravages Kael lands, not his. He moves in after to 'secure' the disputed mines. A blunt, but effective strategy."
The analysis was cold, logical. It matched the brute-force of the attack.
Then, Mortis's passive skill—Memory Extraction—triggered. The persona's connection to the Weave replayed the psychic feedback flash Leo had received: the warm room, the fur rug, the goblet, the sharp mind.
Mortis's head tilted. "The Beast-Caller is a primitive tool. The mind behind it is not. It thinks in runes and rituals. This bears the signature of proscribed arts. The Blackscale Cult. They traffic in magical potential." A pause. The still pool of his mind rippled. "They seek sources. Young sources."
The meaning slammed into Leo, across the miles.
Elara.
In the cellar, the door was being unbarred. Captain Brandt stood ready, sword out. "My lord, now!"
Alistair drew his own blade. Roland picked up a fallen guard's dagger, his face pale but set. Elara clung to Leo.
"Stay behind me, Leo," Alistair commanded.
Leo nodded, his heart a frantic drum. He looked through Silvan's eyes. The courtyard was clear for a desperate, twenty-second sprint. He looked through Kaelon's eyes. The mercenary was already moving, cutting a path toward the courtyard's far side, ready to become the anvil for their escape.
And in the silent catacomb, Mortis the broker rolled up his map, the new intelligence stored. A single, final thought crossed the connection, serene and chilling.
The Beast-Caller's attack was a feint within a feint. The real target might not be territory at all.
The courtyard door opened. The roar of the dying town flooded in.
Count Alistair shouted, "Go!"
And Leo von Kael, the boy, ran into the fire, while the puppeteer in his mind braced his three Avatars to shield him. The game had just expanded from one battlefield to two, and the stakes were no longer just land, but blood.