Chapter 8: First Blood
The courtyard was a monument to entropy. Crumbling statues of forgotten heroes stood sentinel over cracked flagstones, their faces worn smooth by centuries of neglect. Weeds clawed through the cobblestones like arthritic fingers, and the air hung thick with the cloying stench of long-dead roses. Kael crouched behind a decapitated marble general, its remaining hand still clutching a rusted sword. The Thread Compass trembled in his grip like a faulty gas pump nozzle.
Just like the abandoned Kmart parking lot, he thought. Where he'd learned three important truths at sixteen: (1) weed doesn't actually mellow everyone out, (2) cops patrol there every Thursday at 10 PM sharp, and (3) hopelessness has a particular taste - equal parts copper and burnt coffee.
The Compass pulsed against his palm, its needle - a shard of black glass - twitching toward a dry fountain choked with ivy skeletons. Golden threads coiled around the stone basin in a pattern that made his fillings ache. Something about their rhythm felt off, like a song played half a beat too slow.
He stepped into the open, boots crunching on pottery shards that might've been ancient bowls or the bones of idiots who came before him. Three breaths. Five steps. Then the ambush struck with the cold professionalism of a corporate layoff.
They melted from the shadows - three mercenaries in armor blacker than the QuickStop safe at midnight. No banter. No monologues about destiny. Just the shink of blades being drawn and leather gloves tightening on sword hilts.
Kael's body moved before his mind caught up - muscle memory forged from years of dodging shoplifters and drunk uncles at family reunions. He ducked under the first sword swing, the blade slicing air where his neck had been. The Compass clattered to the cobblestones, needle spinning like a busted roulette wheel.
"Alive!" barked a voice that could've sold used cars. "The Weaver wants the meat fresh!"
Panic tasted like the time he'd chewed a nicotine patch during a double shift - bitter and electric. The threads here felt different - thicker, stickier, like the spiderwebs in the stockroom corners where they stored broken mops and dead dreams.
When the second mercenary lunged, Kael grabbed blindly at a strand.
Fire.
Not the good kind from stolen whiskey behind the dumpster, but the bad kind from the time he'd microwaved a fork just to see what would happen. Foreign muscle memory flooded his nervous system:
-A drill sergeant's spit hitting his face during pre-dawn exercises
-Calluses forming over blisters from ten thousand sword drills
-The wet crunch of a training dummy's neck snapping under his blade
His stolen skills moved him like a marionette. The sword felt alien yet familiar, like using the broken price scanner on Register 3 - awkward at first, then terrifyingly intuitive. He parried a strike aimed at his kidneys, the impact vibrating up his arm like the time he'd grabbed a live wire changing the neon sign.
"Cheating fuck!" the mercenary spat, breath reeking of gas station taquitos and despair.
The high was better than nicotine, worse than withdrawal. Every movement tore at his soul's stitching. When the third attacker fell, Kael collapsed to his knees, vomit burning his throat. The borrowed threads snapped, leaving him emptier than the store safe after Black Friday.
The leader fled, boots echoing like his mother's footsteps during those midnight "discussions" with bill collectors. Kael crawled to the bodies, hands slipping in blood that wasn't his. The mercenary's pouch yielded:
A list scrawled on human parchment:
Observer Targets for Cleansing
Kael Shadowwhisper - HIGH PRIORITY - ALIVE
A communication stone whispering static: "...south quadrant clear... specimen shows increased thread resonance..."
A locket containing a portrait of a woman who looked suspiciously like Jess from QuickStop
His vision doubled. The cobblestones felt suddenly soft, suddenly warm. When he looked down, the dark stain spreading across his shirt didn't compute. Since when?
The Compass glinted nearby, needle pointing northeast. Its pulse matched his fading heartbeat. The last thing he heard before darkness took him was the guttural howl of something that sounded like the QuickStop deep fryer achieving sentience.