The forest breathed around them. In the hush of night, beneath silver-threaded leaves that hummed gently in the moonlight, Ari sat cross-legged by a dying campfire. The embers gave off a faint, dull red glow—like a heartbeat struggling not to fade.
Kael was curled up beside the flame, cloak pulled tight, one hand gripping his thread-book even in sleep. The boy murmured now and then, dreaming perhaps of syntax glyphs and glowing relics.
Ari didn't sleep.
He watched the fire crackle, the smoke rise toward the stars—and he listened. Not to sounds, but to the silence inside himself.
The forest whispered.
And in that stillness, a quiet realization settled deep within him.
He was empty.
He remembered Gem, bartering in her father's marketplace, shouting like a haggling merchant and wielding her threads like jeweled whips. Even when she cussed like a sailor and stomped like a tempest—she was her legacy. The daughter of trade. Of wealth and gemcraft. The blue-threaded merchant girl who shone like treasure in the rough.
He remembered Vinny, her soft eyes glowing as she polished each summon artifact, whispering thanks to the spirit housed within. She didn't just summon armor—she loved them. Each relic was a memory, a bond, a promise. Her summons chose her because she chose them first.
Theian, Threadless, but somehow more noble than any of them—carrying the soul-link of dragons older than empires. Her presence alone could command reverence. Her bloodline was a legacy. Even in silence, her dragons roared.
Hooven, beast-blooded warrior, born with six spirits clawing inside him. His battle was constant—an echo of war in every muscle. He was power barely contained, will forged from chaos. His existence alone was unforgettable.
Even Keem, drunk and passed out—he carried genius like a storm waiting to break. His brain moved faster than most spells. In a world of magic, he was a prodigy of prediction, and his pride in calculation was his crest.
And Xerxes… the war-born relic wielder. His artifact was his brother. His magic and soul were molded by grief, by war, by a bond stronger than death. He carried legacy. Lived it.
Ari looked at his own hands.
Unmarked. Untethered. No dragons. No beasts. No summoned relics. No family name to call his own. His power wasn't inherited—it was unearthed. Deciphered. Taken from the dust of time. Stolen, almost, from a forgotten tongue.
He had no crest.No symbol.No signature.
The Compiler. That's what they called him. But who was he, really, without Originis?
Just a vessel.
Empty.
A gust of wind stirred the dying fire.
And then something deep in Ari's chest… pulsed.
It was not a Thread.Not a dragon.Not an inheritance.
It was a memory.
Of silence. Of falling through the gate between worlds. Of choosing to rise with nothing.
"I have no crest…" he whispered.
And somehow, the forest responded, in silence.
"Then create one."
He looked to Kael. The boy's hand glowed faintly now—light from the embedded threadbook reacting to his dreams.
He was already shaping something new.
Maybe that was Ari's legacy.
Not gems.Not beasts.Not dragons or weapons.
But threads of a different kind.Invisible ones.Woven through people.Through change.
He stood, pulling his cloak tighter.
The fire had died, but he didn't relight it.
He let the night settle over him. Let the silence speak.
If he was empty—he would become the vessel for something new.
Not a relic of the past.
But a harbinger of what could be.