Unspoken Threads
The tent is thick with the scent of old parchment and burning sage, the mingling aromas woven into the heavy canvas walls. A lantern, infused with soft arcane light, flickers on the wooden table, its glow stretching shadows that shift and shudder with every movement. The air hums—a pulse of unseen energy threading through Elara’s bones. Familiar. Unnerving. Soul Magic.
Enoux sits motionless at the table’s center, silver hair cascading over her shoulders, fingers hovering just above the surface. A faint, pearlescent glow spirals from her fingertips, tracing the delicate veins beneath her pale skin. Her expression remains composed—too composed. Elara knows better. Scrying demands more than concentration; it requires clarity, a stillness of mind few ever truly achieve.
And yet, something is wrong.
Tension coils in Elara’s gut, slow and insistent. Her nails press into her palms as she watches, waiting, listening to the silence stretch too thin. Near the entrance, Pocket paces, his small frame twitching with nervous energy. His boots scuff against the packed earth—rhythmic, restless. Garik stands like a statue by the cot, arms crossed, his face unreadable save for the tight line of his jaw.
Then, a flicker.
The glow at Enoux’s fingertips wavers. Dims. Vanishes. A slow, measured breath escapes her lips as her eyes flutter open—amethyst, distant, seeing beyond the tent, beyond this moment.
“He’s not here.”
The words drop like stones into still water.
Elara’s breath catches, unease and relief clashing in her chest. Not here. Not in the castle. Not in the dungeons. Then where?
Garik exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “Can you get a more precise location?” His voice is rough, edged with something dangerously close to impatience.
Enoux shakes her head, the troubled crease of her brow deepening. “No. Because he is Soul-Bound, his presence is... obscured.” Her fingers curl against the tabletop. “It’s like looking through smoke. I can sense him, but I can’t pinpoint where.”
Frustration burns beneath Elara’s skin. Her jaw tightens. So close. And yet, the puzzle remains unsolved, pieces slipping through her fingers like sand.
Pocket stops pacing, arms folding tight across his chest. “So we’re back to square one?”
“Not entirely,” Enoux murmurs, voice steady despite the exhaustion fraying at its edges. “We know he’s not under the castle’s influence. That alone narrows our search.”
Elara forces herself to breathe. To focus. Her gaze drops to the map sprawled across the table. The castle looms at its center, a dark blot against an endless stretch of wilderness. Uncharted. Unforgiving.
Her fingers trail the parchment’s edge. He could be anywhere.
Garik straightens, his features hardening with quiet resolve. “We need to expand our search. Cover more ground.”
Elara nods, though the weight pressing against her ribs remains.
They have to find him.
Before something else does.
Elara watches as Garik looms over the map, his broad shoulders rigid, his face shadowed beneath the lantern’s flickering glow. The light carves deep lines into his features, his frustration etched in the set of his jaw. His palm slams against the table, rattling ink pots and scattering loose parchment.
"We don’t have time for this," Garik snaps. His voice, usually a steady anchor, now carries an edge—tight, raw. His gaze sweeps the room, pausing a fraction too long on Pocket and Enoux. "We call off the expedition. Reroute every available force. A full-scale search is the only way to cover enough ground."
Perched on a crate near the entrance, Pocket exhales sharply. His boot taps against the wooden floor in an impatient rhythm. "That’s reckless, Garik." He shakes his head, the movement a little too precise. "We split our efforts. A dedicated search party while the rest continue the mission."
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Elara’s stomach knots. It sounds logical, measured. But something in the way Pocket says it—too firm, too rehearsed—doesn’t sit right.
Across the table, Enoux folds her hands, her expression unreadable. "A full recall is an overreaction," she says, voice smooth, practiced. "We need to be strategic, not desperate."
The words strike like flint against steel. The tent erupts. Garik’s deep baritone clashes with Pocket’s sharp retorts, while Enoux remains still, a deliberate counterweight to their rising voices.
Elara doesn’t join the argument. She observes.
Garik’s frustration is real—his stiff posture, the clipped way he gestures. But Pocket keeps glancing away, fingers tapping too quickly against his knee. And Enoux… she’s too composed. Unshaken.
A prickle of unease crawls down Elara’s spine.
She has spent years studying people, reading what isn’t spoken. The silent cues. The shifts in tone. Pocket’s fleeting glance—quick, almost apologetic—only strengthens her suspicion.
"We can’t afford to divert all our resources," Pocket insists, a tightness creeping into his voice. "We have a mission to complete."
"A mission that means nothing if we can’t stop this threat," Garik growls. His voice rises, urgency sharpening every word. "We all heard Elara. The visions will come to pass. We know what’s at stake."
Enoux moves then, smooth, controlled. She places a hand on Garik’s arm—not forceful, just enough to stall his next outburst. "Garik, please." Her tone is soft, nearly placating. "We understand your concerns. But we must be rational. We can’t afford rash decisions."
Elara tenses. The way Enoux emphasizes rational. The way Pocket’s shoulders draw just a little tighter.
They’ve had this conversation before.
A chill settles over her. If they’ve already discussed this, why hadn’t they mentioned it to her?
Garik yanks his arm free, throwing his hands up. "Rational? We’re dealing with a Soul-Bound human, undead infestations, and—by the Great Hammer—automatons! We barely understand any of it! How can we be rational?"
The argument loops back on itself, voices rising, circling the same points.
Elara isn’t listening anymore.
She watches Pocket shift in his seat. Watches how Enoux’s calm never wavers. Too controlled. Too careful.
Elara’s fingers graze the map’s frayed edges, the parchment brittle beneath her touch. The inked lines blur at the edges of her vision, her focus not on the worn cartography but on the conversation unraveling before her.
The air inside the tent is charged, thick with something more than tactical disagreement. Tension pulses beneath the words exchanged—layered, unspoken.
Pocket won’t meet her eyes. His glances are fleeting, measured, as if afraid of what she might see. His fingers tap against his knee, a restless rhythm betraying nerves he otherwise keeps in check. Apprehension, not fear.
Enoux, poised as ever, speaks with calculated precision. Too smooth. Too restrained. The calm of someone holding something back, not the confidence of someone in control.
And Garik… Garik is unraveling. His frustration is raw, unfiltered. Every movement, every clipped syllable is laced with conviction. He believes every word he’s saying.
So why don’t they?
A slow, cold realization coils in Elara’s chest.
They’re hiding something. And they don’t trust her enough to say what.
She exhales, forcing down the frustration clawing at her ribs. If she challenges them outright, they’ll shut her out completely. No—she needs to be careful. To listen. To pull the truth from them piece by piece.
She presses her palms flat against the table. The wood is cool beneath her skin, grounding her. When she speaks, her voice is even, controlled.
"Let’s strip this down to what we actually know."
A pause. The argument stutters to a halt.
Garik exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "We know the Soul-Bound Human is real. We know he’s dangerous."
Pocket shifts, arms folding. "And we know he’s not in the castle."
Elara nods. "And we know time is against us." Her gaze sharpens, settling on Enoux. "But what aren’t we accounting for?"
Enoux doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t frown. Doesn’t so much as blink.
"Nothing," she says. Smooth. Effortless.
Liar.
Elara schools her expression, forcing herself to lean back. Let them believe she’s accepted their answer. Let them think she isn’t watching.
"Alright," she says lightly. "Then let’s decide our next steps."
But her mind is already moving beyond the conversation.
They aren’t the only ones keeping secrets.
And whatever they’re hiding—
It changes everything.