The room above The Ashen Mare was cramped, its single window shuttered and sealed with wax-thread runes to prevent scrying. The innkeeper had been paid handsomely to forget they were even here.
The scroll lay between them on the small wooden table, its texture brittle with age, ink faded but unmistakably arcane.
Cedric leaned closer. "Threadkeeper," he said aloud. "What does it mean?"
Lynne's fingers brushed the page, careful, reverent. "A myth, according to most records. A caste of mages who didn't use magic—they maintained it. Repaired the fabric of mana itself when it frayed."
Cedric's brows furrowed. "But magic is... cast. Controlled. Quantified."
She shook her head. "Only since the Church formalized it. Before that—before chants and formations and focus glyphs—there were people who interacted directly with magic's source. They didn't ask for fire. They wove flame from truth and intention."
She tapped the bottom corner of the scroll. "This script? It's not in any known magical dialect. But I've cross-referenced a few glyphs with pre-Cataclysm ruins. It's old—System-old."
Cedric's eyes narrowed.
"You think the Threadkeepers had something to do with the Demon Lord System?"
"I know it," Lynne replied. "This scroll came from a vault buried beneath the ruins of Arthen Hollow, once a frontier mage-college. Officially, it was destroyed by a rogue demon outbreak."
"And unofficially?"
She smiled grimly. "The Church purged them. Their last headmaster was executed for claiming the System was not divine in origin—but designed."
> SYSTEM ALERT
Keyword Recognized: THREADKEEPER
Subroutine Reactivation 3%...
Access Locked. Requirement Not Met: [Legacy Thread Fragment - 0/1]
Cedric stiffened.
Lynne noticed. "What just happened?"
He waved the screen away. "It reacted. There's more buried in the system. It's… waking up. Slowly."
"I was right," she whispered. "You're not like the others."
Cedric glanced at her, eyes sharp. "The Church thinks I'm dead. They're waiting for the next demon lord to resurrect like the last one—mindless, monstrous, easy to control."
Lynne tilted her head. "Control?"
He nodded. "The system's designed to wipe memory during resurrection. Fill the body with rage and instinct, not will. It makes the 'demon lord' a manageable target—a spectacle. An excuse."
"An excuse for what?"
"To crown heroes. To burn cities. To hold power through fear." Cedric's voice was ice. "But they miscalculated."
"And now?" Lynne asked.
Cedric's gaze burned. "Now, I'll learn how deep this goes. And then I'll burn them from the inside out."
---
Later that night, as Lynne drifted into exhausted sleep, Cedric stood by the window, staring into the black sky. The moon above cast pale light on his pale hand.
A thread shimmered faintly in the corner of his vision—barely visible, like gossamer wind.
He reached toward it, his fingertips brushing its edge.
It didn't bloom like the vine had. But it responded. A pulse. A whisper of permission.
Threadkeeper…
He closed his hand around it, but it vanished—like it wasn't ready yet.
He would need that fragment.
And he would find it.
No matter what stood in his way.