Kael woke with a jolt.

  The sheet clung to his skin, soaked with sweat and tears.

  He had cried again.

  For a moment, he stayed lying there, staring into the darkness, waiting for his breath to settle.

  But there was nothing this time.

  No memory.

  No image.

  Just emptiness.

  He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, irritated.

  In the silence, he thought he could hear the slow thump of his heart against the wooden boards.

  Everything felt heavier than usual:

  the air, the blanket, even the pale light seeping through the cracks in the ceiling.

  His room was nothing more than a single cramped space wedged under the rafters of an old building.

  The roof slanted so low he had to bend to reach the window, a lone pane of glass framed in dull metal.

  Moisture traced dark veins along the walls, and dust clung to the wood like a second skin.

  His “bed” wasn’t one, just a straw mat laid on uneven planks, barely sturdy enough to carry his weight, squeaking at the slightest shift.

  Beside it, an old cabinet served as everything:

  table, shelf, stand for the water basin he washed in when he bothered to.

  The floor, dotted with straw and snapped threads, told the story of the room’s misery on its own.

  A faint rustle caught his attention.

  Near the wall, beneath a loose board, a small hole was growing larger.

  His nocturnal roommate had chewed the floor again.

  Kael sighed.

  “ You’re gonna eat the whole place at this rate.”

  No answer—except the soft scratch of claws he was almost beginning to find comforting.

  He stood, walked to the cabinet, and stopped before a cracked mirror hung crooked on the wall.

  He rarely paid attention to it, but this morning, his reflection struck him.

  He was seventeen, yet his face could have passed for twenty.

  Tall, lean, wiry—his body carried the mark of manual labor: slim but defined muscles, sharp tendons, measured movements.

  His hair, a light chestnut wavering between blond and copper, fell in unruly strands to his shoulders.

  A poorly cut fringe often hid his eyes, and he always wore his Needle-Case band, a simple white band he slid up like a headband to clear his vision.

  His eyes, deep and black, seemed to swallow the light.

  The dark circles beneath them, ever-present, gave him a tired, feverish look—yet it was also what made him stand out.

  That involuntary, fragile beauty the Broken Crown never forgave.

  His face, fine and almost too symmetrical, bordered on the feminine; something some hated him for, others envied.

  His clothes told only of wear: an oversized black shirt, frayed pants, seams visible at every fold.

  He owned almost nothing, but he always kept that white band—an improbable shard of purity in the filth of the district.

  White was rare here, color of cleanliness, of truth, of ideals no commoner could wear without staining.

  Kael studied the contrast a moment: the pale cloth, the darkness of his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his skin.

  He let out a short laugh.

  “ Looks like a ghost pretending to be alive.”

  He leaned down, splashed water from the basin onto his face.

  The mirror trembled at the gesture, sending a broken gleam across the room like a crack.

  Kael stepped back, frowning.

  “ Great. Now even the mirror’s mocking me.”

  He tried to smile, but nothing came.

  The reflection still stared at him, motionless, as if unsure it wanted to look like him.

  He turned away and grabbed his shirt.

  “ It’s nothing,” he muttered. “ Just fatigue.”

  He pushed himself upright, hands braced on the table, listening to the boards creak under his feet.

  The room felt different, as if waiting for something from him.

  A draft slipped between the planks, lifting a forgotten thread.

  Kael looked away.

  He paused, his gaze drifting north.

  Up there, beyond the glare of the sun, stood Lucenine.

  One never really saw the citadel from the Broken Crown—the backlight swallowed it whole.

  By day it blended with the sky; by night, its shadow erased the stars.

  For those below, it was nothing but a light too bright to look at—

  a mirage reminding everyone of their place.

  Kael lingered, jaw tight.

  He thought of Althéa de Soléandre, the heir said to be blessed by the heavens.

  He let out a dry laugh.

  “ At least she probably sleeps without freezing.”

  But the thought soured quickly.

  He wondered if they ever felt this bone-deep exhaustion, this slow, simmering anger that forced you out of bed each morning just to survive.

  Probably not.

  Probably they didn’t even know people breathed down here, in the sweat and grime.

  Kael lowered his eyes.

  A stray glint slid across his Needle-Case band, and for a second, he felt ashamed to see on himself the same white the nobles wore.

  He straightened, tightening his coat.

  “ Princes and princesses… they can keep their sky.”

  Then he headed for the workshop.

  Kael stopped before a stall he had never really noticed.

  The merchant, an old man with silver hair, handled weapons with the delicate touch of a jeweler.

  Displayed on the frayed cloth were blades of every shape: curved knives, maces, steel rods, pointed spikes.

  Some gleamed faintly, others seemed to groan from too many battles.

  “ Got the eye of a curious one,” the vendor said without looking up. “ Or of someone searching without knowing what for.”

  Kael shrugged.

  “ Just looking. That’s all.”

  “ That’s usually how it starts.”

  His gaze caught on something set aside, almost forgotten.

  Not a sword, not a dagger—a slender rod, long and thin, with no guard, no ornament.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Its milky-white blade seemed to absorb light instead of reflecting it, vanishing depending on the angle.

  It ended in a sharp point, and even the handle extended into a hollowed needle-head, as though made to thread something through.

  He froze.

  It wasn’t a weapon.

  It was a tool.

  And yet he found it beautiful.

  Simple. Instinctive.

  As if it had been shaped for his fingers.

  “ That one?” the merchant grunted, following his gaze.

  He cackled.

  “ No one wants it. Too thin to cut, too stiff to stab. Just a curiosity.”

  Kael smirked.

  “ Or maybe you’re the one lacking an eye.”

  “ Telling you, kid, it doesn’t cut. Barely pricks.”

  Kael straightened, arms crossed, an amused spark in his eyes.

  “ Then let’s make a bet.

  If I cut three lanterns with it, it’s mine.

  If I fail, I buy your three most expensive items.”

  The merchant blinked, then burst out laughing.

  “ You’ve got a sharper tongue than any blade I own!”

  Kael tilted his head.

  “ Maybe. Let’s see which cuts better.”

  The old man eventually shrugged.

  “ Fine. But if you come back empty-handed, I’ll skin you down to the shirt.”

  Kael picked up the needle by the handle.

  The metal—if it even was metal—was cold, strangely light, almost alive.

  As he lifted it, he heard a faint hiss, like thread pulled too fast.

  He shot the merchant a last glance, a faint smile tugging at his lips,

  then vanished into the crowd.

  The vendor, fearing he’d be duped, insisted on gathering witnesses.

  “ No way you trick me! We’re doing this by the book.”

  In minutes, he had half the dock gathered around.

  Passersby approached, amused.

  Children climbed on crates to see better.

  A few weavers recognized Kael and came over, laughing.

  “ Seriously, Kael? With that toothpick?” one teased.

  “ Let him try,” said another. “ First time we see him playing hero.”

  Laughter rippled—light, teasing, affectionate.

  The merchant stacked three paper lanterns on the ground, delicate cylinders painted with symbols.

  He aligned them at chest height.

  “ There’s your challenge. Three at once. No cheating.”

  Kael didn’t answer.

  He had already unsheathed the needle.

  The white rod, milky and unreal, looked as though it were drinking in the morning light.

  One weaver whispered:

  “ Looks like a thread of moonlight…”

  Another snorted:

  “ More like thread to mend his socks.”

  Kael smiled faintly.

  He twirled the weapon in his fingers.

  It had no guard, no leather band, no grip.

  Nothing. Just a smooth, cold surface.

  “ Strange,” he murmured.

  “ Its weight… its balance… I can’t explain it, but it’s perfect.”

  “ What do you know about weapon balance?” someone shouted.

  “ Absolutely nothing,” Kael replied without looking up.

  A child tugged his sleeve.

  “ Mister, are you really gonna cut all three?”

  Kael chuckled softly.

  “ That’s what I’m trying to make them believe.”

  He stood before the lanterns.

  The merchant crossed his arms, confident.

  The murmurs faded.

  Kael inhaled.

  A breeze swept across the docks, lifting ribbons and scattered leaves.

  The needle quivered faintly between his fingers.

  “ Ready?” the vendor asked.

  “ No,” Kael said.

  Then, after a breath:

  “ But it’ll do.”

  He raised the weapon to shoulder height.

  For an instant, the river’s light glinted off its surface—then vanished, swallowed whole.

  Kael stepped forward.

  A single motion, fluid, effortless, tracing a line through the air.

  A whisper.

  A breath.

  The faintest tear of silk.

  For a moment, nothing moved.

  Then the first lantern split cleanly in two.

  Then the second.

  Then the third.

  Their halves slid apart, drifting down like soft paper snow.

  Silence.

  Not a cry.

  Not applause.

  Just the soft rustle of falling fragments and the morning light glinting on torn silk.

  Kael lowered the needle.

  “ Cuts well enough, doesn’t it?” he murmured.

  “ …Maybe a bit more than that,” the merchant breathed, stunned.

  The child clapped suddenly, shattering the quiet.

  The crowd followed—half amazed, half laughing.

  Kael simply slid the needle into his belt.

  He thanked the merchant with a nod, his eyes lingering on the faint white line gleaming across the fallen lanterns.

  He had felt, just for a moment, a resistance—

  not paper.

  Something else.

  As if the light itself had given way.

  When the crowd dispersed, he remained still.

  The laughter, the excitement—they dissolved quickly into the market’s hum.

  The needle felt lighter now, almost warm, as if it had drunk the light it had just sliced.

  He walked on.

  The Lantern Market stretched beneath its walkways, the water reflecting the drifting lamps.

  Scents of copper, lilac, and soot wove together around him.

  A shiver ran up his arm.

  No pain—not exactly.

  Just the sensation of a thread pulled tight beneath his skin.

  He clenched his fists.

  “ It’s nothing. Just good balance.”

  Without realizing, he quickened his pace.

  The workshop was close.

  And suddenly, the thought of returning felt… necessary.

  As he descended the walkway, Kael’s legs stiffened.

  A dull ache rose from his neck, spreading into his jaw.

  He gritted his teeth.

  He headed into a damp alley between moss-eaten walls.

  There, he leaned back against the stone, head tipping backward.

  The cold bit into his nape but eased nothing.

  His stomach twisted violently.

  He barely managed to bend before he vomited everything—yesterday’s meal, this morning’s breakfast, sour and burning.

  His fingers trembled.

  Bile scorched his throat.

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and rasped:

  “ If it’s not that damn rat, it’s my stomach betraying me…”

  A nervous laugh escaped him—cut off by another wave of nausea.

  His breath shortened.

  Filaments of light shimmered at the edges of his vision, like invisible threads tightening around him.

  A faint buzzing echoed in his temples—distant at first, then sharper, rhythmic, mechanical.

  He shut his eyes.

  The world folded.

  Collapsed into a single point—

  a thought.

  A thread pulled too tight, ready to snap.

  Kael pressed a hand to his chest.

  He stayed slumped there, breath ragged.

  Gradually, the nausea receded, leaving a metallic taste and a sense he’d lost something vital.

  He wiped his mouth, straightened his collar, and stepped out of the alley.

  The market’s fresh air slapped his face.

  Morning light filtered through walkways and ropes of drying laundry like fractured reflections.

  Kael walked slowly, still pale, temples pounding.

  People stepped aside, but not before whispering:

  “ You see his face?”

  “ Drunk on vinegar, maybe.”

  Kael’s fists tightened.

  Each step felt wrong—

  as if reality needed a heartbeat too long to fall back into place.

  For a moment, a lantern wavered, doubled in his vision—

  then steadied again.

  He exhaled.

  “ Nothing… just lack of sleep.”

  But deep down, he knew something had shifted in him.

  Nothing visible.

  Nothing tangible.

  A seam pulled, a thread unraveled.

  And the closer he got to the workshop,

  the more that thread tightened—

  patient, waiting.

  When Kael pushed the workshop door, heat and noise crashed over him like a wave.

  Looms clacked in rhythm.

  Bellows hissed.

  Threads vibrated under calloused hands.

  Usually, the chaos soothed him—

  a kind of order he could lose himself in.

  But today, everything was wrong.

  Smells assaulted him: hot silk, linseed oil, sweat, steaming dyes.

  Sounds weren’t background anymore—

  they rang inside his skull.

  He staggered, nodding absently at the weavers.

  “ You look awful, Kael.”

  “ Look at his eyes—boy hasn’t slept in days.”

  “ Sit down, lad.”

  He tried to reply, but no words came.

  His throat burned.

  Tears welled up—sudden, violent, uncontrollable.

  He wasn’t crying from sadness.

  It was physical—

  as if the light itself scraped his eyes raw.

  He managed to whisper:

  “ I need to see Connie…”

  An older woman frowned.

  “ You need a doctor, boy. You’re white as wax.”

  Kael shook his head slowly.

  “ No… it’ll pass.”

  He wiped his eyes, leaving damp streaks on his flushed cheeks, and walked toward the stairs.

  Each step hammered inside his skull.

  Lights, sounds, smells—everything clawed at him, trying to hold him back.

  He knocked twice, then entered.

  Connie was bent over a roll of fabric, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained with dye.

  She looked up instantly.

  “ Kael… have you seen yourself?”

  He sighed.

  “ Third time I hear that today.”

  He tried to smile, but his lips quivered.

  Heat rushed into his face.

  Sweat slid down his temple, crawling along his neck.

  His hands trembled against the chair’s back.

  “ I’m fine,” he forced out. “ Just… tired.”

  Connie stepped closer, worried.

  “ Tired? Kael, your skin is gray. And your eyes—look at them, they’re about to burst.”

  He looked away, rubbing his forehead.

  His breath came short, chest tight, heart pounding against his throat.

  Connie blurred.

  Her silhouette doubled.

  “ Listen,” he said, trying to regain control, “ I accept the contract.”

  Connie frowned.

  “ Sit down. We’ll talk when you’re—”

  He shook his head.

  “ No… I need to start. Now.”

  His voice cracked.

  Pain exploded in his chest—sharp, tearing.

  His breath vanished.

  Heat surged over him in a suffocating wave.

  His shirt, his collar, even his hair were drenched with sweat.

  His hands turned slick, burning.

  Connie rushed to him.

  “ Kael? Hey—look at me. You’re pale as a sheet.”

  She saw his face:

  the bloodless lips, red swollen eyes, veins taut in his neck, skin blotched with sweat.

  He looked like he might split open.

  Every muscle shook beneath his skin.

  He tried to laugh—a harsh, broken sound.

  “ I guess… I’m not making a good impression.”

  Then his body seized.

  He collapsed, hitting the desk with a dull thud.

  His arms locked, fingers clawing at the air.

  His legs jerked, his eyes rolled back.

  “ Help! Someone—help me!” Connie screamed.

  Weavers rushed in.

  They knelt beside him—but Kael no longer saw anything.

  The world had vanished into a burst of light.

  And everything disappeared.