Ren lay hidden beneath the tangled roots of an old tree, watching the world move without him. His breath came slow, deliberate, as he pressed himself deeper into the earth, willing himself to become nothing. The sun had risen, casting golden light through the leaves, but he felt none of its warmth.

The night before still burned behind his eyelids—the shouts, the fire, the look on his mother’s face before she forced him to run. The Strandbearer standing in the village square, his voice calm and patient as he offered the people of Eldrin Hollow a simple choice: surrender Ren or be wiped from the Pattern entirely.

They had hesitated.

And that hesitation had saved his life.

But he could not go back.

His fingers curled into the dirt. His body ached, stiff from sleeping on the forest floor, but exhaustion was nothing compared to the emptiness gnawing at him. He had no food. No water. No home.

His mother had said to find the Academy.

He had no idea where to even begin.

Ren forced himself to move, his limbs stiff as he crawled from his hiding place. He had followed the road leading away from Eldrin Hollow for hours before dawn, always staying within the trees, never stepping onto the path itself. He knew better than that now.

They were looking for him.

He wasn’t sure how far the Strandbearer would search, but his mother had told him the Weaving Order did not lose things easily. They had eyes in the cities, in the villages, in the very threads of fate itself.

Ren had already seen what they could do. The man who came with the bandits had barely been powerful, yet with a single touch of his fingers, he had traced something unseen in the air, searching for disturbances in the Pattern.

Ren shuddered.

If that had only been a Strandbearer, the lowest of them, what could the others do?

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A rustling in the distance made him stiffen. Voices. He crept forward, keeping low, until he reached the edge of a clearing.

A traveling caravan had stopped along the road.

Traders.

Ren’s stomach twisted. He had no money, no way to ask for food. But he had to get closer. If they were coming from the next town, maybe they would have news. Maybe they had seen soldiers. Maybe they had heard whispers of Eldrin Hollow’s fate.

He crouched in the brush, watching. The traders moved between their carts, securing goods, checking their wares. Their voices were lighthearted, easy.

They had not seen fire in the night.

Ren exhaled slowly.

It wasn’t just merchants among them. A woman, tall and broad-shouldered, sat on the back of one cart, her hands glowing faintly as she passed them over a man’s arm. When she pulled away, the deep gash that had been there was now only a thin pink scar.

A healer.

He had seen his mother mend wounds with salves and careful stitching, but this was something else. Threads of silver still flickered around the injury, settling into place like invisible stitches.

Ren’s breath caught.

Magic.

He had always known Weaving was used beyond battle. His mother had spoken of healers, of farmers who wove their harvests to be plentiful, of scholars who wove memories into pages so knowledge would never be lost.

But watching it happen was different.

This was what he had been denied.

A hand suddenly gripped his shoulder.

Ren twisted violently, his heart leaping into his throat.

A man stood over him. He was older, with a beard streaked with gray, his clothes simple but well-worn. A farmer, maybe.

Ren’s mind raced for an excuse. He wasn’t sure if he should run or lie.

The man didn’t tighten his grip.

“You’re watching the magic, aren’t you?”

Ren’s pulse pounded. He didn’t answer.

The man released him and stepped back. “I saw you moving through the trees. You’re smart to keep off the roads. Soldiers passed through here at dawn. Seemed like they were looking for someone.”

Ren stiffened. “Did they say who?”

The man hesitated. “No name. Just a boy.”

The air in Ren’s lungs turned to stone.

The man sighed. “I don’t know what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, but if the Weaving Order is looking for you, it won’t end well.”

Ren swallowed. “You know about them?”

The man gave a short, bitter laugh. “Everyone does.” He nodded toward the caravan. “You think those traders make their fortunes on skill alone? Every merchant with half a brain pays a Weaver to keep their fate in balance. And if they don’t, well…” He gestured toward the road.

Ren followed his gaze and felt it before he saw it.

A man in a dark robe stood at the far end of the caravan, his fingers tracing unseen lines in the air.

The Strandbearer.

Ren’s chest tightened.

The man beside him muttered, “No one trades in these lands without the Order knowing. The Pattern must be kept. That’s their way.”

Ren could barely breathe. The Strandbearer was searching. He wasn’t looking at the traders, wasn’t questioning them. He was feeling the threads.

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