Auren hadn't planned to go to the training hall.
He had no reason to. No one expected him there. But when the servants passed outside his room—speaking in hushed tones about Valtan's public drill and the nobles in attendance—he found his feet moving before the thought was finished.
He told himself he was curious.
That was a lie.
He needed to know if it had been real.
Serai's collapse… the surge in his chest… the thread.
The Wazir had said he'd sent her in a moment she had lived. That he'd reached into her past and pulled something forward.
But Auren didn't understand how he had done it. Or why it had worked.
And worst of all—he couldn't stop wondering what it would feel like if he did it again.
He arrived in silence, slipping into the upper balcony. No one noticed. No one looked up. He stood behind one of the stone pillars, high above the training floor, where Valtan moved like he'd already won whatever contest this was meant to be.
Polished boots. Polished smile. Everything about him gleamed.
Auren leaned into the pillar's shadow, arms folded across his chest.
There was nothing new here.
Just Valtan, performing confidence in front of half the House's nobles, reciting command phrases and twirling a sword like it was part of his body.
Auren watched.
Not with resentment. Not even envy.
Just the growing sense that he needed to see something real.
That's what he had felt from Serai in that moment. Realness. Rawness. A life not staged.
So he watched Valtan and wondered what was beneath the surface.
And then the thought came—clean, cold, final.
If there's a thread in him… I'll feel it.
His hand lifted—not high, not openly. Just a quiet flick of his fingers, like brushing dust off his sleeve.
And something responded.
A pull in his chest. Not light. Not sharp.
Heavy.
Like rope dragged through old blood.
He felt it coil inside him—a thread. Not clean like Serai's. Not sudden.
This one was twisted. Tethered in years. Complicated.
But it held.
Auren closed his hand. Just slightly.
And pulled.
Valtan flinched.
It was instant. His mouth paused mid-command. His grip slackened on his sword.
Then his whole body locked.
Auren felt it—the surge. A memory not his own, blazing bright and warm through the thread. Arms. A scent. A song hummed into hair. The memory of being held—by someone long gone.
It filled Auren's lungs as if he'd lived it. As if the moment were his.
Valtan gasped once.
And dropped.
First the sword. Then his knees. Then—his composure.
A low sound escaped him. A hitch of breath.
Then he started crying.
Real tears. Sudden, helpless. His shoulders shook as the hall froze. Nobles stopped murmuring. One young lord choked on a laugh—and then realized no one else was smiling.
Valtan knelt on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
No wound. No visible magic. Just a man broken by something no one could name.
Auren felt the Echo retreating through the thread—draining back into silence.
He pulled his hand back. The threads inside him unraveled with a faint ache. His fingertips burned cold for a moment before going numb.
He didn't look away.
Down below, Valtan's breath began to steady—but his eyes rose slowly.
And locked on Auren.
Only for a second.
But that was enough.
His face—raw, humiliated, wet with tears—twisted.
He knew.
No one else did. But Valtan knew.
Auren stepped back into the shadows.
He felt the thread tremble once more, then go still.