Chapter 8

  Ren sat cross-legged on a patch of uneven grass, the faint hiss of wind in the pines making it hard to hear anything but his own breathing. The expedition’s camp sprawled behind him — a loose scatter of tents, gear piles, and small cooking fires, the kind of organized disorder that only came from weeks on the road.

  Beyond it, the cargo-beasts snorted softly, their hulking shapes half-hidden behind a hillock where they’d been tethered out of the wind. The storm had eased enough to find them again. Somewhere on the far edge of camp, someone laughed — brief, sharp, then swallowed by the low murmur of voices.

  No training grounds. No fences. No neatly chalked circles in the dirt. Just cold air, a patch of ground that wasn’t swampy, and a dozen or so pairs of eyes watching.

  Ren readied himself. The Threads within him stirred, curling lazily through his limbs like smoke searching for a draft. It wasn’t the same as mana—mana had a rhythm, a tempo you could lean into. Threads were still technically mana, but they carried the unpredictable chaos of Aether itselfLeo glanced over his shoulder at the others. Sinclair was leaning against a supply crate, arms folded, gaze sharp. A few others lingered at the edges, pretending they weren’t paying attention but not fooling anyone.

  “Alright,” Leo said. “Thread Surge. One breath in, one breath out, then let it run.”

  Ren inhaled, feeling the Threads within him stir awake—but this time, something was different. The golden power he’d first touched back in Redvine surged through him, deeper and more vivid than ever before, as if he were awakening in full for the first time.

  The effect was instant. The air seemed thinner, easier to move through. His vision sharpened — colors brightened, edges crisped. He could feel every pebble under his boots, every faint tremor of wind on his skin.

  “Good,” Leo said, already backing away. “Now move.”

  Ren sprang to his feet. He didn’t think—he just moved. The distance to the nearest marker stone vanished in a heartbeat, his boots biting into the dirt. Before the thought of stopping even formed, he had already pivoted, halfway back. The world around him slowed to a crawl, every motion of his allies and enemies thick and syrupy, as if time itself bent to the golden Threads roaring through him.

  They weren’t just stronger than his usual Threads—they were a blazing current, sharper, faster, and impossibly precise, carving his movements into perfection. By the time he reached Leo again, the edges of that impossible clarity were already fraying. The golden Threads hissed in protest, burning at the edges of his awareness, like power too great to be held for long.

  “Off,” Leo ordered.

  Ren cut the flow. The crash came hard — a weight settling into his muscles, his lungs suddenly two sizes too small. He bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees, breath coming in short, shallow pulls.

  Leo crouched beside him. “That was four seconds longer than last time. Good. But you’re bleeding stamina into speed when you don’t need to. We’ll fix that.”

  Ren nodded, forcing himself upright. His vision had dimmed back to normal, and the warmth of the Threads had already retreated deep into his core.

  Leo crouched beside him. “That was four seconds longer than last time. Good. But you’re bleeding stamina into speed when you don’t need to. We’ll fix that.”

  Ren nodded, forcing himself upright. His vision had dimmed back to normal, and the warmth of the Threads had already retreated deep into his core—but the grin tugging at his lips wouldn’t fade. He’d done it. He’d touched that golden power again, felt it blaze through him in a way he’d feared might never happen twice. Even with the ache in his limbs, the memory of that impossible speed made his chest feel light.

  From the sidelines, Sinclair called out, “Better than last time, but you still look like you’re about to puke.”

  Ren didn’t bother to respond. He just rolled his shoulders, set his feet, and said, “Again.”

  ________________________________

  Ren didn’t expect Leo to come at him the moment the clearing was set.

  The mage didn’t give a speech, didn’t warm up, didn’t even wait for Ren to adjust his stance—just a snap of his fingers, and a line of light ripped toward Ren like a thrown spear.

  Ren dove aside, instincts honed in the kitchen screaming that the “hot pan” was now a beam of condensed mana. His mechanical arm dug into the dirt as he rolled, coming up in a crouch.

  “Too slow!” Leo called out, the grin on his face irritatingly bright. “Thread control isn’t just about standing still and making pretty patterns—it’s about using it before you even think about using it.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Ren clicked his tongue, feeling the threads along his core hum with readiness. “You could’ve just said, ‘Hey, I’m going to try and murder you now.’”

  “Murder is such a heavy word,” Leo replied, already shifting his stance. His palm glowed, lines of geometric mana arrays spiraling up his forearm. “I prefer ‘educational assault.’”

  Ren didn’t have the luxury of sarcasm—Leo’s next strike was faster. A web of shimmering strands erupted from the mage’s hand, not unlike Ren’s own Threads but formed of pure mana almost like imitations of his. They lashed out like whips.

  Ren’s own Threads surged in response, flowing from his fingertips in golden arcs. He caught one strike mid-snap, the thread vibrating like a plucked string. His mechanical arm’s sensors fed him a shiver of tension feedback, letting him adjust the pull before the mana whip could slice through.

  But catching wasn’t enough. Another whip struck his ribs, the impact dulled but still enough to knock the breath out of him.

  “Come on!” Leo said, voice carrying that too-familiar tone of a teacher who knew you could do better but was also enjoying the struggle a little too much. “Don’t just defend. Take control of the tempo.”

  Ren’s regained golden threads coiled tighter, instincts kicking in. He remembered the days in his kitchen where four things burned at once—when you had to move, or you lost the whole dish. That same energy sparked now.

  Thread Surge.

  He didn’t even announce it—he just pulled, and the world snapped sharper. His muscles hummed with overclocked power, mechanical arm syncing perfectly to the rhythm.

  Leo’s brows lifted. “Ah, so you are willing to use it.”

  Ren didn’t answer. He lunged.

  His golden threads snapped outward, not in clean lines but looping around Leo’s conjured whips. Instead of brute forcing a clash, he redirected them—twisting a lash so it wrapped back toward its caster. Leo jerked back, cutting off the mana flow before it could tag his own shoulder.

  “Better,” Leo admitted, pivoting on his heel. A flick of his fingers and the air thickened—Ren slammed into it like invisible syrup.

  “He’s pulling out everything he’s got”, Ren thought. “Guess he’s serious about this.”

  Ren’s threads strained, their glow flickering under the weight. He had a choice—either brute-force through it, risking a drain, or get clever. He chose clever.

  Instead of pushing against the resistance, he let his threads slip, unraveling into finer filaments, slipping between the dense mana currents like oil through water. It wasn’t elegant, but it was enough to move again.

  He rushed in, mechanical arm up, threads ready. Leo’s grin widened—then the mage stomped, sending a shockwave of mana through the ground.

  Ren’s legs buckled, but the arm’s reinforced frame locked him steady. He countered by anchoring his threads into the ground itself, using them like guy lines to hold position.

  That earned a blink from Leo. “So you’ve finally decided to act like you want to master your Threads.”

  Ren smirked. “I’ve decided I’d rather not eat dirt again.”

  With the anchor holding, Ren shifted to offense. He sent a pulse of destructive Mana snapping toward Leo’s wrist, ankle, and shoulder. Not enough to harm—but enough to force a reaction. Leo blocked two with quick mana barriers, but the third brushed his ankle before dissolving.“Contact,” Ren said, unable to stop a little satisfaction from creeping into his voice.

  Leo’s eyes narrowed in mock offense. “You think that counts?”

  Before Ren could answer, Leo surged forward for the first time—closing the gap instead of holding distance. His movements were fast, precise, each step an unspoken pattern. A shimmering blade of mana formed in his hand.

  Ren barely brought his mechanical arm up in time, the mana blade ringing against the alloy surface with a hiss. Sparks of light flew.

  The pressure was different up close—Leo wasn’t just a ranged caster; his footwork was sharp, his strikes calculated. Every swing forced Ren to either parry or reposition.

  Ren adapted. Every block with his mechanical arm came with a counter-thread, a golden line snapping toward a joint, a sleeve, a grip. It was like trying to cook while the stove actively tried to stab him.

  They traded blows for what felt like minutes—Leo’s attacks relentless, Ren’s counters growing faster under the burn of Thread Surge. But Ren could feel it—the pull on his soul. The edge of that exhaustion that meant if he pushed too far, he’d crash.

  Leo noticed too.

  “Running low?” he asked, even as his blade carved an arc toward Ren’s side.

  Ren didn’t waste breath answering. He stepped into the swing instead of away, Threads snapping into a quick net that tangled the blade’s arc just long enough for him to shove forward.

  They locked for a heartbeat—Ren’s mechanical arm against Leo’s mana blade, golden threads flickering around them. Then Ren let go of the clash entirely, breaking away in a burst that left Leo’s blade cutting air.

  He panted, the afterburn of Thread Surge already setting into his limbs. “You done yet?”

  Leo chuckled, lowering his weapon. The blade dissolved into harmless sparks. “For now. You’re still too defensive, but… you’re starting to turn instinct into technique. That’s the point.”

  Ren straightened, threads retracting back into him. The ache was already setting deep, but he couldn’t deny the rush.

  “Tomorrow,” Leo added, almost casually, “we’ll see how you handle two opponents.”

  Ren groaned. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

  “Absolutely,” Leo said without shame. “Now go rest. And maybe eat something that isn’t tea and biscuits—you fight like a man running on caffeine fumes.”

  Ren smirked faintly. “I’ll cook dinner. Just so I can season your food with spite.”