Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Chapter 20

They walk in silence, the echo of their footsteps stretching down the stone corridor toward the library. The party is over, the music gone, but Emily can still feel it clinging to her skin—the weight of the moment, like it hasn’t finished happening yet.

Her mind keeps circling.

Veinwitch.

She keeps seeing the letters, glowing under Tess’s skin. Swirling, bold, too large for a child’s arm. And Caelan’s face when he saw it—stone-still, but not blank. Confused. Alarmed.

The crowd had surged the moment it appeared. People leaning in, whispering. A few even smiled, like they expected something beautiful. But no one seemed to know what they were looking at.

Caelan had stepped forward fast, covering Tess’s arm with her robe. His voice was calm, steady. Practiced.

“Tess isn’t feeling well,” he’d told them. “She needs rest. The party is over. Please head home.”

And just like that, they had.

While he spoke, Varis had knelt and lifted Tess gently into her arms. The girl hadn’t stirred much—just curled against her like she always did when she was too tired to fight it. They’d walked out together, quiet and tight, with Caelan keeping pace at Emily’s side.

Now, with Tess tucked into bed, they move through the keep, headed for the library.

Emily finally speaks.

“What is it?”

Neither of them answer.

She glances between them. “Veinwitch. Have you ever heard of it?”

“No,” Caelan says. “Not once.”

Varis shakes her head beside him.

Emily swallows. “So it’s new?”

“Or very old,” Varis says softly.

They turn a corner, the lanternlight catching on the carved stone of the hallway.

Emily’s voice is quieter now. “Do you think it has anything to do with what those cultists said? At the farmhouse?”

Caelan hesitates for the first time. Just a beat.

“It’s possible.”

Emily looks at him. “The one you kept alive—what did he say? After you questioned him?”

Caelan’s jaw tightens. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“He won’t speak. He just sits there. Head down.”

The library is quiet when they enter—taller and colder than Emily remembers. Rows of floating glass globes hang in place of chandeliers, casting a soft, pale light that barely touches the floor. The Threadkeep waits on its pedestal in the center of the room, massive and humming faintly.

Caelan walks straight to it and places a hand on the tablet. It glows faintly, then the screen pops up and pages start flipping fast—too fast to track—until it lands on an empty slot.

Varis leans in beside him. Emily stays a step back, watching.

He runs a finger over the floating screen. Nothing appears.

“No mention,” he mutters. “Not of Veinwitches. Not even a root word.”

Emily crosses her arms. “So no one’s ever written about it?”

“If they did,” Caelan says, “it didn’t survive.”

He lets the book close. The lights overhead shift slightly, casting soft shadows across the floor.

“I’ll double the pressure on the prisoner,” he says, mostly to himself. “But in the meantime, if there’s anything left about this—any book, scroll, record—it’ll be in the Deepbind vault.”

Varis straightens at that. Emily blinks. “The vault? You mean the one your father controls?”

Caelan nods. “This will take more planning. We were already preparing for one book. Now we’re looking for two things.”

He turns and starts walking, slow but focused, already in his head.

Emily doesn’t hesitate—she follows. “I’m definitely coming.”

He glances sideways at her, jaw tightening. “Emily—”

“No,” she says. “Don’t ‘Emily’ me. I can help you. You know I can.”

He stops walking.

Turns to her.

The look on his face isn’t cruel—it’s tired. Guarded. Like she’s asking something he doesn’t want to admit matters.

“You’re not going,” he says flatly. “And that’s it.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but you are bound to me. And this isn’t negotiable.”

He turns away again, his robe swishing with the movement.

“I’m not talking about this right now,” he mutters. “There’s too much to do. You should go to bed.”

Emily blinks. Her pulse spikes, not with fear—but anger.

“You’re kidding, right?” she snaps. “You’re not doing this again, Caelan.”

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

“Later, Emily,” he calls over his shoulder—and then he’s gone, disappearing into the next hallway like she’s just another voice he’s learned to ignore.

She stands there, alone in the library’s blue-white glow, fists clenched at her sides.

The next morning

When Emily woke, Caelan wasn’t there.

She wasn’t surprised.

The blankets on his side of the bed were still rumpled, but already cold. He must’ve left early—probably hadn’t even slept. She stared at the space for a moment, then sat up and ran a hand through her hair.

She got dressed in silence and pulled her robe tighter before stepping into the hall. The keep was quieter than usual—soft-footed staff, the occasional distant clang of steel from the training yard, but no voices. The sky outside the high windows was pale, streaked with gold.

Emily made her way toward the library, footsteps echoing softly on the stone floors.

As she walked, her mind drifted.

Varis and Tess.

Tess must be awake by now. She’d probably started asking questions the moment her eyes opened.

Emily winced.

Maybe I should check on them. Just make sure things weren’t... too heavy.

But then again—maybe not. She didn’t want to insert herself into something that wasn’t hers. Varis knew how to talk to her. Emily wasn’t even sure what she’d say.

Still, her stomach tugged at the thought.

She kept walking.

When she reached the library, it was empty—just the soft glow of the lights hovering overhead and the quiet hum of the Threadkeep in its usual spot at the center of the room.

Emily approached slowly, fingertips trailing along the edge of a nearby table as she passed.

She’d been thinking about something ever since last night. A question that kept poking at the back of her mind.

Why did the threads fuse like that?

She’d never seen anyone react like Varis had. Even Caelan had looked surprised—and that was rare.

When she reached the library, it was empty—just the soft glow of the overhead lights and the quiet, steady pulse of the Threadkeep waiting on its pedestal.

Emily stepped up to it and placed her hand on the smooth surface. The stone warmed beneath her touch, then lit up—text and symbols blooming across the display like unfolding thread.

She hesitated, then whispered, “History of thread ties.”

The glow shifted.

Words began to scroll upward in soft, silvery light.

Ceremonial Thread Ties: Blessing, Binding, and Deviations.

Emily leaned in, eyes scanning the first lines as her heartbeat picked up.

Deviations. That had to mean something.

Emily taps the glowing title on the Threadkeep’s surface—Ceremonial Thread Ties: Blessing, Binding, and Deviations—and a soft chime sounds from somewhere behind the library walls.

Then she hears the faint shuffle of footsteps. A moment later, the back door creaks open.

Krockry steps out, his usual dark blue robes trailing behind him, a small stack of books in his arms.

Emily smiles without meaning to.

She liked Krockry.

Over the last few weeks, she’d gotten to know him better—mostly through proximity. Ever since Caelan started planning the heist, she’d been in the library almost every day. At first, it was to help him search. Then it became her own quiet routine. A way to feel useful. A way to feel less helpless.

Krockry wasn’t warm exactly, but he was consistent. Precise. The kind of person who never said anything he didn’t mean, which Emily had grown to appreciate. He also never asked her why she was always here, and that—more than anything—had made her feel welcome.

“Well, hello again, Emily,” he says, voice dry but friendly. “How are you today? How was the party?”

Emily smiles. “I’m doing good. The party was... fun.”

She pauses. “A little overwhelming at the end, but yeah. It was nice.”

Krockry hums, adjusting the stack in his hands. He glances down at the top book and reads aloud, “Ceremonial Thread Ties.”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes flicking up to hers with faint curiosity.

Emily shrugs, casual. “I was just curious. They had them at the party and I wanted to know more.”

“Mm.” He hands the book to her with both hands, gentle. “Well, this one’s a bit older, but thorough. Mostly symbolic theory and history.”

Emily takes the book. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He nods, already half-turned back toward the door. “If you want cross-references, let me know.”

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She nods, watching him disappear behind the shelves again.

Then she takes the book to the nearest reading table and sits.

The cover is a little worn. The corners softened from time.

Deviations, she thinks again, flipping it open. Let’s see what that actually means.

She opens the book and starts scanning.

The first few pages are what she expects—dry, formal descriptions of the tradition’s origin. Apparently, thread ties began during something called the First Bloom Era, as a symbolic extension of soul magic. Threads were meant to carry intention—each color representing a specific hope or blessing.

Emily pauses, eyes flicking across the list printed in neat columns:

* Blue – Peace

* Green – Protection

* Red – Strength

* Yellow – Clarity

* White – Purity

* Purple – Wisdom

* Orange – Joy, second life, rebirth

* Black – Power, will, defiance

She sits back a little in the chair, blinking.

Joy and rebirth. That’s what she tied around Tess’s wrist. She glances down at her own robe—still bright orange. Fitting, she guesses.

Then her gaze shifts, and a chill moves down her spine.

Black. The thread Caelan chose.

Power. Will. Defiance.

She swallows.

Of course he did.

But the way they merged—orange and black, joy and power, rebirth and defiance—something about that pairing sits strange in her chest. Not bad, exactly. Just... big.

Too big for a five-year-old’s wrist.

She flips ahead, eyes moving faster now, drawn toward the section she knows has to be in here. The one that explains what happened last night.

Then she sees it:

Uncommon Manifestations of Thread Bonds

Emily leans in, her fingers tightening around the edge of the page.

“In rare instances, thread ties have displayed anomalous behavior. Most commonly, threads glow briefly when placed by close blood kin or magically bonded individuals. Fewer than one in two hundred bonds exhibit this. In documented cases, the threads glow independently.”

Emily’s eyes skim faster now.

“Only three records exist of threads visibly merging—twisting or braiding together on their own. Each time, it occurred between participants whose souls were bound in powerful or unstable configurations. These phenomena are not well understood and were not replicable in controlled conditions.”

She blinks.

Not well understood.

Sounds familiar.

She turns the page. There’s a hand-sketched diagram of one of the old cases. Two colors—red and silver—twisting around each other at a child’s wrist.

A note scribbled beside it in faded ink reads:

No knot located. Seamless ring. After many attempts, the thread could not be removed. Child reported no discomfort.

Emily frowns and keeps reading, flipping past an annotated diagram and into a longer paragraph near the bottom of the page. Her eyes catch on a section titled:

Long-Term Outcomes of Fused Blessings

She reads faster.

“In the three known cases of spontaneous thread fusion, each child went on to develop significant magical capabilities beyond their recorded class. One became a master criminal whose influence still echoes through the underworld archives. Another rose to power and declared himself King of the Floating Isles of Veythra.”

Emily’s breath catches.

“The third founded the sect now known as the Blood Cultists.”

She stares at the page, the words refusing to make sense for a full second.

Then she leans back in the chair, heart pounding.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, out loud.

She reads it again. And again. But it doesn’t change.

One of those fused-thread kids was Caelan’s ancestor.

And the other was the founder of the cult that nearly killed Tess.

A quiet holy shit is still echoing in her mind when she hears a sudden, high-pitched squeal behind her.

She jolts and instinctively closes the book, fingers flattening over the cover as she turns.

Tess is practically flying across the library floor, bouncing on the balls of her feet like the ground isn’t enough to hold her joy.

Emily’s breath catches. The kid looks... fine. Better than fine. Brown robe swishing, curls wild, eyes bright like nothing in the world could touch her.

And right behind her is Varis.

She looks exhausted. There’s a heaviness in her shoulders that wasn’t there before, her steps just a little slower than usual. It’s not hard to guess why.

Emily straightens, quickly smoothing her face as they approach. Tess hops up onto the chair beside Emily and starts swinging her legs, grinning like she might burst.

“Guess what!” she says, eyes wide and bright.

Emily smiles, “What?”

Tess leans in close like she’s sharing a secret. “I have a special class,” she whispers. “I’m special.”

She sits back again, beaming, like that was the most thrilling sentence in the world.

Emily’s smile softens. “Yeah, you are,” she says, glancing up at Varis. “You’re very special.”

Varis stands just behind Tess, her hands folded in front of her. She looks more tired than usual—something hollow around the eyes—but when Emily meets her gaze, she holds it.

“I didn’t know exactly what to say,” Varis murmurs. “So I told her it means she’s special. That she’ll do great things.”

Emily swallows hard. Her hand tightens slightly over the book.

“Um... Varis?” she says quietly. “I need to show you something.”

Varis’s brow pulls slightly. Confused, but cautious. She glances down at Tess, then kneels beside her.

“Why don’t you go find Krockry?” she says gently. “Maybe he needs help shelving.”

Tess beams. “Okay!” she hops off the chair and darts toward the back room, curls bouncing with every step.

As soon as she’s gone, Varis straightens, arms crossing tightly over her chest. Her tone shifts.

“What’s going on?”

Emily exhales and slowly lifts her hand from the book’s cover.

Varis steps forward and reads the title.

She sits down, never breaking eye contact.

“You found something about the fused threads.”

Emily nods once. “Yeah.” She opens the book back to the page, fingers settling beside the paragraph. “Here.”

Varis leans in and reads.

Emily watches her.

She’s good at keeping still, keeping quiet—but not perfect. Her jaw clenches. Then unclenches. Twice. Her fingers tighten just slightly on the edge of the table.

Then she looks away.

Not at Emily—past her. Toward the other side of the room. Like she’s holding something back that could shatter everything.

And suddenly, Emily feels sick.

“Look, it doesn’t mean anything for sure,” she says quickly. “It just says those kids ended up powerful. That’s all. I don’t think the thread did something to them. I think maybe it just... amplified what was already there.”

Varis doesn’t respond.

Emily reaches out and places a hand gently on her shoulder. “Hey. She’s going to be okay. She’s just going to be really powerful. That doesn’t mean she’s going to be bad.”

For a moment, Varis doesn’t move. Then she turns and looks at Emily.

There’s a flash of something sharp in her expression—anger, fear, grief, all tangled up in her eyes.

But it passes.

Her shoulders drop. Her jaw relaxes.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “I know that. I do. It’s just...”

She lets out a shaky breath. “She’s been through so much already. I just wanted her to have a normal life.”

A pause.

“And now it’s just... not going to happen.”

The silence stretches between them after Varis’s last words. Emily doesn’t know what to say—what can you say to that?

She lets her hand fall from Varis’s shoulder and leans back in the chair, thumb brushing the edge of the closed book. Her mind’s still spinning.

A new thought creeps in.

Slow. Quiet. Obvious.

She looks up. “Do you really think he’s not saying anything? The cultist I mean.”

Varis’s expression tightens again. “That’s what Caelan said.”

“Right, but... Caelan has a way of deciding what qualifies as ‘saying something.’” Emily pauses. “What if we tried talking to him ourselves?”

Varis blinks. “What?”

Emily leans forward, voice low. “I mean it. You said it yourself—Tess is all you have. Don’t you want answers?”

Varis stares at her.

Then: “We’re not allowed down there.”

Emily tilts her head. “So?”

Varis’s eyes go wide. “Emily.”

“Come on. You really want to sit around and wait while Caelan tries to scare it out of him?”

Varis hesitates. Her lips press into a thin line. She glances toward the hallway like she’s expecting someone to overhear them right then and there.

“We could just talk to him,” Emily says. “Not hurt him. Just... talk. Maybe he’ll say something different to us. Something Caelan wouldn’t think to ask.”

Still no answer.

“Don’t you want to know what Veinwitch means?” Emily says, a little softer. “We might be the only ones who can get it out of him.”

Varis swallows, jaw tight.

“I don’t like this,” she murmurs. “But I do want answers.”

Emily nods. “Then let’s go.”

As they start to stand, the back door to the library creaks open and Krockry steps out with Tess in tow.

Tess is holding a scroll upside down and telling him something about “magic paper,” while Krockry looks... mildly alarmed and entirely unamused.

Varis pauses. “Hang on a moment.”

She crosses the room quickly and leans in toward Krockry. “Can you watch Tess for a few? I have to go do something for the king.”

Krockry presses his lips together in a tight line. “He always has you doing something, huh.”

Varis gives a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah. It’s always something.”

Krockry sighs, resigned. “Fine. But if she blows something up, I’m blaming you.”

She brushes a hand gently over Tess’s curls. “Thank you.”

Varis turns back toward Emily.

They head for the exit together.

As soon as they’re in the hall, Emily glances sideways and grins. “Nice job. I actually believed you for a second.”

Varis gives a half-smirk. “Thank you. I hate lying.”

She rubs her arms as they walk. “What if we get caught? His Majesty would be so angry.”

Emily shrugs. “If he finds out, I’ll tell him it was all my fault and I practically dragged you there.”

Varis gives her a sidelong look. “You practically did.”

Emily grins wider. “Exactly.”

They turn a corner, and the air shifts cooler as the hallway angles downward.

“Okay,” Emily says. “Where do we go?”

Varis exhales. “This way. It’s in the basement.”

Emily squints at her. “Is it... that room Caelan told me was off-limits?”

Varis nods slowly. “Yeah.”

There’s a faint tremble in her voice when she says it.

Emily tries not to smile too hard. “Perfect.”

The hallway narrows as they descend, stone walls darkening with each step. The soft, glowing lights embedded in the sconces grow farther apart, making the shadows stretch longer. Emily keeps pace beside Varis, her footsteps quieter now, instinctively cautious.

The air gets colder.

Not in a natural way—not like bad insulation or underground damp. This is different. Still. Too still.

Emily shivers. “Feels like we’re walking into a tomb.”

Varis doesn’t laugh. “Some of the cells haven’t been used in decades.”

They reach the end of a long corridor—a tall plain looking wooden door stands at the end.

Varis hesitates, hand hovering near the door handle. “Okay. There should be two guards in here. What are we telling them?”

Emily shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe just... same thing you told Krockry? Except add that Caelan wants you to check on the prisoner’s condition before someone else comes down to—y’know—‘talk’ to him.”

Varis blinks. “That’s actually... a really good one.”

“Thanks,” Emily mutters.

They step inside.

The room is circular—large and hollow-feeling, with cold stone floors and seven identical metal doors evenly spaced around the perimeter. Each one bears its own set of runes, low and dull like sleeping eyes.

In the center, two guards sit at a curved stone desk.

One has his feet propped up, leaned back so far in his chair it’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen over. His mouth hangs open slightly. Definitely asleep.

The other is hunched over a scrap of paper, holding a charcoal stick in his hand.

As they walk closer, Emily glances at the page.

It’s a drawing—a woman’s face, eyes half-lidded, smile soft. The detail is shockingly good.

Emily slows, eyes still on the paper. “Wow. You’re really good.”

The guard startles a little, then glances down at the sketch. He smiles. “Oh. Thank you.”

He sits up straighter, clearly pleased.

“What can I do for you two?” he asks, sliding the drawing to the side like it wasn’t meant to be seen.

Varis clears her throat and steps forward, hands folded in front of her like she’s trying not to fidget.

“The king asked me to check on the prisoner,” she says smoothly. “He’s still not talking, and there’s concern he might be deteriorating physically. I’m just here to assess him before they send someone else down.”

The guard raises an eyebrow, glancing between them.

“Didn’t know he cared about the guy’s health,” he mutters. “Thought the plan was to starve the answers out of him.”

Varis gives a polite, practiced smile. “He can’t give answers if he’s dead.”

Emily steps in beside her. “We’ll just be a few minutes.”

The guard studies her for a beat longer, then shrugs and starts flipping through a leather-bound logbook on the desk.

“Alright,” he says, dragging a charcoal-marked finger down the page. “He’s in door three.”

He gestures toward the third door on the left, then glances at Varis again. “He hasn’t moved in two days, far as I can tell. Doesn’t sleep. Just sits there.”

That sends a little chill down Emily’s spine.

The sleeping guard snorts and shifts in his chair, but doesn’t wake.

The one at the desk waves them on. “Go ahead. You’ll need the wardstone to get in.”

He reaches into a small box behind the desk and pulls out a flat, dark-gray stone, carved with a miniature circular sigil. The design is complex, layered—angular lines intersecting with spirals, with four small diamonds arranged like points on a compass. He hands it to Varis.

“Don’t break it,” he adds. “If that thing seals again and we can’t open it, I’m not going in after you.”

“Understood,” Varis says, voice clipped.

She takes the stone and turns toward the third door.

Emily squints at it. “What is that?”

“Lock ward,” Varis says softly. “The door’s soul-bound to the prisoner. Only someone holding the wardstone can open it. If the prisoner tries, it delivers a magical shock strong enough to render them unconscious.”

Emily follows, her pulse beginning to tick faster as they cross the chamber. The heavy door looms ahead—thick metal, covered in silent, slumbering runes.

“Still think this is a good idea?” Varis mutters under her breath.

“Nope,” Emily says. “But I’m not turning around now.”

Varis raises the wardstone and presses it to the sigil.

The runes flare, white and cold.

The door clicks and opens slowly, letting out a low groan that echoes down the dark corridor ahead.

Another hallway.

Long, narrow, colder than the last—lit by dull rune-lamps embedded in the walls. At the far end waits a second door. This one is solid metal, darker than the others, with the same sigil carved deep across its center.

Emily steps in first. The air feels heavier here—dense with silence. The kind that settles in your ribs.

They make it halfway down the corridor before the door behind them slams shut with a jarring clang.

They both flinch, instinctive.

They push forward. The silence stretching on for what feels like hours.

They stop in front of the second door. That same sigil glows faintly under the light.

Emily turns to her. “You ready?”

Varis exhales slowly. “Let’s find out.”