Chapter 42

  Ren didn’t sleep that night, not really. He closed his eyes for a few hours, but it was all he could do to stay in bed.

  By dawn, he was already at the prep bench, sleeves rolled, mechanical hand flexing slow and sure. He started with porridge—simple, familiar. Then cured root slices in honeyvine. The rhythm helped. Chop, stir, taste. Heat control, mana infusion, thread guiding a subtle aroma from one pan to another.

  It wouldn’t heal fast.

  But it was progress.

  Leo arrived around mid-morning, hair askew, robes wrinkled, blinking sleep from his eyes. He stood in the doorway, watching Ren with an expression that didn’t quite fit his usual brand of irreverence.

  “You’re going hard,” he said finally.

  Ren didn’t look up. “I should’ve gone harder.”

  Leo stepped closer, reached for a bowl, and silently began slicing. “Then go harder now. But pace yourself. You’re not helping anyone if you fall over from burnout.”

  Ren exhaled through his nose. “I’m not here to burn out.”

  “No,” Leo murmured. “You’re here to burn bright.”

  The rest of the day passed like that—half-cooking, half-training. Ren used the downtime to practice, trying to get the hang of archery with his new arm.

  This time, he focused on guiding the mana itself using his threads. Subtle, careful adjustments that mirrored the motions he used while cooking. It was slower than usual, less instinct and more trial and error, but the precision it offered was promising. A Thread to stabilise the components, another to trace heat evenly through the pan.

  He fell twice during sparring drills with a Writ-Bound instructor. Got up three times.

  No complaints. No comments.

  Just the grind.

  By the third day, people started noticing.

  An acolyte whispered to another, “That’s him—the one Ethan brought in.”

  Someone else murmured, “Wasn’t he the one who found that cav—”

  Ren let their voices fade into the background.

  None of it mattered. Not the whispers, not the stares.

  Only his art, his training—and himself.

  ________

  Ren had just finished a particularly large order when he saw a tall hooded man approach.

  A breath, then a throat cleared.

  “Ren Saito?”

  Ren didn’t look up. “Depends who’s asking.”

  “I’ve been sent to fetch you. Lieutenant Sinclair’s orders.”

  Now he looked up. The voice belonged to a runner—older than most, high-collared jacket, no visible insignia but the threads on her gloves were dyed black. Messenger class. Not someone who got sent for trivial errands.

  Ren wiped his hand on his apron and stepped away from the range. “Let me finish plating—”

  “He said now.”

  Ren sighed. “Of course he did.”

  ______________

  They walked in silence. The halls of the upper wing were quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that wasn’t just from distance or hour—but intention. People stepped aside when they saw the runner. When they saw him.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The last turn brought them to one of the deep-study wings—an old part of the compound that still bore elven architecture, long lines and spiral beams. Sinclair was waiting inside.

  Alone.

  He stood by a window overlooking the inner courtyard, arms folded. The sunlight was grey through the glass. Not cloudy—just… subdued. Like the whole world was catching its breath.

  Ren stepped in, letting the runner shut the door behind him.

  “You sent for me?”

  Sinclair didn’t turn right away.

  “What do you know?”

  Ren blinked. “Huh?”

  “The cave. The wolf. The artifact. The Threads. You survived where Ethan couldn't and then came out wielding those ‘threads’.”

  Sinclair turned now. His face was pale but set. Lines under his eyes deeper than usual.

  “And I need to know how.”

  “Sinclai-”

  He was interrupted as Sinclair walked past him and locked the door with a flick of his hand—manual, not magic. Then he gestured to the long stone table in the middle of the room.

  There was a scroll already unrolled across it.

  Ren approached slowly.

  What he saw made him blink.

  A circular seal, carved in thin relief and inked in layered script. Seven rings. Thread lines. A central flame.

  Ren had seen this before. Or something like it.

  “This was drawn from memory,” Sinclair said. “Mine. Mallin’s. Vasha’s. We found it buried beneath the ruins outside the old capital. The Divine wasn’t just a title—it was a being. Real. Ancient. Sealed.”

  He tapped the scroll, eyes on Ren.

  “And the person who sealed her wasn’t a saint. Wasn’t a god. He was an outsider.”

  Ren stared. His throat was dry.

  “I… I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”

  Sinclair’s voice was quiet. “Because that’s the point.”

  He stepped closer, laying a hand on the edge of the table.

  “You’re part of this, Ren. We don’t know how. Not yet. But all this? It can't be a coincidence. I know about those weird ingredients you found, they resonated with you.”

  Sinclair looked him in the eye.

  “You were drawn to that place. And the wolf didn’t kill you. Whatever was buried in that mountain recognized something in you.”

  Ren opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  He felt small. Like the air had thinned and left his thoughts scattered, trying to catch up with something his bones already knew.

  “You think I’m connected to that outsider.”

  “Atreus didn’t fight with mana. He fought with cooking. With Threads. With what you call your art. That’s not a coincidence.”

  Ren felt something twist in his gut.

  Sinclair pressed on. “That’s why I’m telling you now. Because if we wait too long, someone else will connect to the dots to your involvement. And if there’s even a slight chance you could be dangerous, the others won't even hesitate to do what they think needs to be done.”

  He stepped back and folded the scroll shut.

  “You can’t tell anyone else. Not yet. Especially not the Council.”

  Ren looked at him. “You’re serious?”

  “If they hear even half of this, they’ll panic. They’ll collapse the site. Burn records. And you—” Sinclair exhaled, gesturing to Ren’s arm, to his body, “—you’ll be seen as a threat. Or worse, a tool.”

  Ren looked away. The steam kitchen felt like a dream now. The fire, the laughter. The sense that for a moment, he was almost whole again.

  “And what do you want me to do?” he asked quietly.

  Sinclair shrugged.

  “Train. Cook. Stay alive. Get stronger. We’ll prepare. Quietly. We’ll dig. Soraya is helping already—she believes you’re important.”

  Ren’s brow furrowed. “You mean the Grand Scribe?”

  Sinclair nodded. “She’s seen fragments of this before. Long ago. And unlike the others, she’s not interested in erasing uncomfortable truths.”

  Ren sat down, slowly, in the chair nearest the scroll case.

  His breath came out shaky. Not fear. Not quite.

  Just the sheer weight of possibility.

  Ren was quiet for a long time.

  Then he looked up, jaw tight.

  “Fine. I’ll train harder. I’ll learn whatever I need to. But if this is real—if I’m really tied to that outsider…”

  His voice dropped. “Then I want to know why.”

  Sinclair didn’t smile.

  But there was approval in his gaze.

  “That,” he said, “is the right question.”

  He moved toward the door, then paused.

  “You’ll be summoned again, soon. This time by Soraya herself. She’ll want to see if the Threads match

  what’s in the records. Don’t panic. And don’t lie to her.”

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “Good.” Sinclair opened the door. “Get some rest, you’ll need it.”

  Ren didn’t answer.

  He sat there long after Sinclair left, alone with the hum of memory, the burn of unanswered questions, and the feeling that somehow, somehow—this was only the beginning.