Fractured Fate

The forest stretched endlessly around them, silverwood trees looming tall overhead, their faintly glowing bark pulsing in the shadows. Somewhere beyond the trees, the ruins still stood, waiting. Most of the students had gone that way, eager to claim an artifact, eager to prove themselves.

Ren had chosen the opposite path.

And now, he wasn't alone.

Kara walked beside him, quiet but deliberate, her sharp gaze flicking toward him every so often.

She had followed him from the moment he left the others behind.

And she wasn't even trying to hide it.

"You always like being alone?" Kara asked suddenly.

Ren didn't stop walking. "No."

"Then why do you keep trying to get rid of me?"

He glanced at her. "I don't need a bodyguard."

Kara smirked. "Never said I was here to protect you."

She said it easily, like she was making a joke, but there was something deeper in her tone. A quiet curiosity.

Ren didn't answer.

Because he could already tell what she was doing.

She was testing him.

She had been since the trial began.

He wasn't sure if she did it consciously or if it was just who she was—but she pushed, probed, nudged at the things people didn't want to say out loud.

And she had been watching him closely.

Too closely.

"You move like you're waiting for something to go wrong," she said after a pause.

Ren exhaled through his nose. "It's called being realistic."

"No," Kara said, voice sharp but not unkind. "It's something else."

Ren didn't reply.

Because she was right.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the Loom to shift. Waiting for someone to strike. Waiting for the moment everything inevitably fell apart.

Kara sighed. "You noticed me following you."

"You weren't exactly subtle."

"I was plenty subtle." She shot him a flat look. "You're just… weird."

Ren arched an eyebrow. "Weird?"

She nodded. "You always move like you already know what's about to happen. Like you're reacting before something even happens."

Ren frowned. "That's just instinct."

"That's not just instinct."

He didn't answer.

Because she was right.

It wasn't just instinct.

It was something else.

Something he couldn't explain.

Something that had set him apart from the very beginning.

Kara studied his silence, then sighed. "I won't pry."

Ren glanced at her, surprised. "You won't?"

She shook her head. "Not now, anyway." Then, with a wry smile, "I figure you'll tell me when you want to."

That, more than anything, caught him off guard.

She wasn't pressuring him. She wasn't forcing him to answer.

She was just… there.

It was strange.

But it wasn't unpleasant.

Ren stopped walking.

Kara noticed immediately. She slowed beside him, gaze flicking toward the trees. "What is it?"

Ren didn't answer right away.

Instead, his vision adjusted.

At first, it was nothing—just the shifting shadows of the forest, the rustling of leaves overhead.

But then, at the edges of his sight, the golden threads flickered.

Not normal ones. Not the woven fate that made up the world.

These were moving.

He stiffened slightly, his body reacting before his mind fully caught up.

Someone was here.

More than one.

Kara was still watching him, waiting for an answer.

"They're close," Ren murmured.

Kara blinked. "You can tell?"

Ren exhaled through his nose. He didn't have time to explain.

Because the threads were shifting again.

They were coming.

A voice cut through the air, smooth and composed.

"You should've stuck with your little friend back at the ruins, Hale."

Ren turned slowly, already knowing what he would see.

Six figures emerged from the trees, their uniforms stitched with a familiar insignia—Varian's faction.

Not him.

But his influence.

Kara sighed, rolling her shoulders. "This is inconvenient."

The leader of the group—tall, confident, his fingers already weaving golden strands between them—smirked. "Six against two," he said casually. "You should've chosen better company."

Kara glanced at Ren. "You're popular."

Ren exhaled. "Not by choice."

Kara shook her head. "Unfortunate."

Then, without hesitation, she moved.

And the fight began.

A golden fate-thread lashed through the air, snapping toward Ren's ribs with the force of a thrown spear.

He moved.

Threaded Steps flared beneath his feet, the Weaving technique pulling him forward in an unnatural glide. Not teleportation, not speed—just a shift, a movement dictated by the Loom before it even happened.

The spear missed by inches.

Kara was already weaving a counter-formation, golden light bursting around her as she deflected the attack midair before it could reform.

Ren barely had time to register the motion before the next attacker lunged forward.

He caught the flash of movement—a fist wrapped in shimmering golden strands. Reinforced strikes. Fatebound Blows.

He raised his hands instinctively—Spellwoven Gauntlets surging into existence around his forearms, golden constructs forming in less than a second.

The impact crashed against his guard, sending tremors through his arms.

Too much force.

Ren exhaled sharply, adjusting his stance, redirecting the attack—not blocking, but shifting fate just slightly. Echo Slip.

The threads bent. The attack veered off-course.

The attacker stumbled—just for a moment.

Ren struck.

His gauntlet-clad fist lashed forward, catching his opponent square in the chest. The force sent them skidding back, threads unraveling as their Weaving faltered.

One down.

Five to go.

It wasn't enough.

The Loom shifted again—a thread snapping into place, fate twisting sharply behind him.

Ren turned—but not fast enough.

A lance of pure force—woven fate, compressed and sharpened—struck him square in the ribs.

Pain exploded across his side.

His vision blurred.

His body slammed into the ground, rolling against the damp earth before he could stop himself.

Too slow.

He tried to push himself up, but the moment he moved, another thread snapped around his ankle, pulling tight.

The leader stepped forward, golden threads glowing faintly around his fingertips.

"You're good," he said, almost conversational. "Better than I expected."

Ren clenched his jaw.

"But you're still a Spellbinder," the leader continued, tilting his head slightly. "Which means you're still weak."

No.

Ren forced himself to breathe through the pain, forced his mind to focus—to push past the fading edges of his own strength.

Then—

A single golden thread pulsed faintly ahead of him, stretching toward the ruins.

His thread.

But it hadn't been there before.

Something deeper in the Trial Grounds was calling to him.

Not through words. Not through instinct.

Through the Loom itself.

And if he didn't reach it—

This fight was already over.