The Threadbound series : Unraveling

Follow The Trails

Frin

Whenever a Veil Weaver wove or unweaved a thread, they felt the counterbalancing force within the Veilweave itself. It was as if they were engaged in a cosmic tug-of-war, a dance of equilibrium. In essence, it meant that for every tug,there was —a chain of consequences that rippled through the threads of reality. This is the Law of Balance, a fundamental principle that dictated our world.

As I stood in my ma's abandoned chambers, surrounded by the remnants of her life's work, I couldn't help but ponder the weight of those consequences. My ma, a devoted scholar who had dedicated her life to unraveling the enigmatic secrets of Veil Weave and threads, had herself become entangled in the very web she sought to understand. Her relentless pursuit of knowledge had led to actions with far-reaching repercussions, and now those consequences loomed over me, a haunting reminder of the intricate interplay of weaving and unweaving that defined our world.

"There will be consequences," I murmured to myself as I gazed at the room's contents.

Dust had settled on the bed near the windows, but it remained neatly made. Her desk, situated at the far end of the room, bore the weight of countless parchments, scrolls, and weighty tomes. Some of these tomes were carefully arranged in a bookcase at the back of the room, a testament to her scholarly pursuits and the mysteries she had sought to uncover.

After hours of meticulously following every trail, I found myself frustratingly empty-handed. There seemed to be no tangible connection between my ma and the rebels. Desperation gnawed at me as I yearned for some clue, any thread to unravel that would reveal her involvement.

Turning to Lady Burns's memories, I carefully sifted through the images and words that had been preserved within her mind. I replayed the moments when Marcus had uttered the words: "If something happened to me, seek help from Scholar Freeman. She is a supporter of our cause."

Next, I delved into my ma's journals. Her faithful ginger cat regarded me with inquisitive eyes, questioning my intrusion into her personal space.

"I am her child, even though you may have been her favorite."

The cat responded with a meow, as if granting me her silent approval.

"I don't need your permission,Ginger," I spat at her.

As I perused the journal entries, they ranged from meticulous notes on her classes and studies of Veilwave dynamics to more personal reflections on her daily life and even a few precious details about me as her child.

But amid the mundane entries, one particular passage stood out, demanding my attention. I read it aloud for Ginger to hear,-

"Some days, it's easy to forget that history is nothing more than words on paper, words written by the victors. In their triumph, they sweep the stories of the defeated under the rug, allowing them to fade away like whispers carried off by the wind. But in that wind, the truth often gets lost too.

When you take a closer look at every story that became the foundation of our reality, you begin to notice the cracks—those subtle fractures where the truth was meant to reside. Instead of blindly accepting what the victors want us to fill those gaps with, I've chosen a different path. I seek the truth, determined to uncover what's been hidden beneath layers of deceit.

The Veilweavers may have emerged as victors in their time, but that doesn't make them invincible. The threads of their control can be frayed, and the web they've woven can be unraveled. And in capital letters it was written - THE VEILWEAVERS CAN BE BOUND"

"Ma really did have a way with words, didn't she, Ginger?" I said with a smile, glancing at the cat.

The cat responded with a bemused look, as if questioning my sanity.

Though the words in that journal entry appeared to be mere philosophical musings, I knew my mother better than anyone. She was never one to openly express hatred for the Veilweavers, but a deep fear and disdain lingered within her, rooted in some untold reason.

I couldn't forget that look of terror I once caught in her eyes, directed toward me. Pushing those unsettling memories aside, I realized that this entry suggested her involvement with something against the Veilweavers.

"Come on, Ginger, now we have another trail to follow, the one left by Marcus Burns," I said, and this time, the cat followed me out, as if acknowledging me as her guardian.