Chapter 5: Threads of Reality

Kael had always hated crowds. Back home, they meant long lines at QuickStop Mart, customers snapping about expired coupons or lukewarm coffee. Here, in Azureport, crowds meant something worse—eyes everywhere, hands brushing against hidden knives, and the sour tang of desperation clinging to the air like cheap cologne.

The city was a far cry from the glittering jewel described in The Weaver of Fate. The novel's "alabaster towers" were stained with soot, their once-grand arches sagging under the weight of neglect. A drunkard lurched past, muttering about sea serpents, while two children darted through the market, their pockets bulging with stolen figs. Same old hustle, Kael thought. Just replace energy drinks with saffron.

He kept to the shadows, shoulders hunched beneath a borrowed cloak. The threads hummed around him, restless. They clung to the crowd like spider silk—golden strands connecting merchants, beggars, and the pair of guards lounging by a spice stall. One gnawed on a chicken leg, grease dripping onto his polished breastplate. Kael's stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since yesterday's muffin, a chalky relic he'd found wedged under his bed. Priorities: Don't die. Then, maybe, find a decent meal.

A commotion erupted near the docks. A trader in a moth-eaten velvet coat waved a jar under an old woman's nose. "Fifteen silver," he drawled. "Take it or leave it."

The woman's knuckles whitened around her coin purse. "That's… too steep."

Kael froze. The tremor in her voice was identical to his mom's when the landlord raised their rent—a mix of shame and helplessness. Don't get involved, he warned himself. Survive. Remember? But then he saw the threads—thin, corrupted strands winding around the trader's wrists. The Weaver's handiwork.

His fingers twitched. Before he could stop himself, he brushed one.

The thread snapped like a rubber band. The woman jerked backward, clarity sharpening her gaze. "Fifteen silver?" she spat. "I sold saffron for five at the Night Bazaar. You think I'm some backwater fool?"

The trader blinked. "I don't know what you're—"

"Save your lies." She shoved the jar into his chest, sending him stumbling into a pyramid of dried apricots.

Kael almost smiled. Then he saw the guards.

Two men in blue-and-silver tunics stalked toward him, hands on their sword hilts. Shit. He ducked behind a cart piled with clay pots, heart slamming against his ribs. The last time he'd run from authority figures, it was because he'd forgotten to scan a six-pack of beer. This was worse.

He bolted down an alley, boots slipping on fish guts. The guards' shouts echoed behind him. Left. Right. Dead end. He pressed himself against a damp wall, breath ragged. Silence stretched. When he finally crept back to the market, the woman was gone. The trader scowled at his ruined goods.

Stupid. Reckless. But for a moment, he hadn't felt like a ghost.

The Drunken Kraken tavern was exactly how the novel described it: low ceilings, sticky floors, and a bartender who looked like he'd been carved from granite. Kael slid onto a stool, channeling his best Jess impression. Confidence. Even if you're faking it.

"Work?" he said, tossing two coppers onto the bar.

The bartender eyed him. "What's your trade?"

"Problem-solving."

"We've got enough problems."

"I'm cheap."

A snort. "Warehouse by the docks. Ask for Harkin. Tell him Rurik sent you."

Kael nodded, but as he stood, a hand clamped his shoulder.

"Saw you in the market," a woman whispered. Her hood hid her face, but her voice was honeyed steel. "You're one of them, aren't you? The ones who see."

Kael's pulse spiked. "I don't know what you're—"

"The Weaver's hunting you." She pressed a slip of parchment into his palm. Midnight. Clocktower. "Come alone."

Then she vanished into the crowd.

Kael stared at the note. The threads around it writhed like snakes. Trap? Probably. Curiosity? Fatal. But he'd take fatal over another shift at QuickStop.

The warehouse reeked of salt and rot. Harkin, a wiry man with a lazy eye, tossed him a rusted blade. "Rats," he said. "Big ones. In the cellar."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "You're joking."

"Five silvers a pelt."

The cellar was a tomb of shadows. Something scuttled in the dark. Kael's grip tightened on the knife. This is how I die. Eaten by fantasy sewer rats.

The first rat lunged, the size of a terrier. Kael stumbled back, slashing blindly. The blade bit into flesh. The rat screeched, collapsing in a twitching heap.

By sundown, he'd bagged twelve. Harkin paid him without a word.

Back in his rented room—a closet above a tannery—Kael stared at the coins. Sixty silvers. Enough for a week's food. Maybe a better knife.

He pulled out the hooded woman's note. Midnight. Clocktower. The threads around it pulsed, a siren song.

Sleep didn't come.