The Threadbound series : Unraveling

Conversations with a Rebel

Frin

I tracked down Atticus Castor. He was a scholar who organized informal classes for humans and sometimes for veilweavers. My Ma used to teach classes here too. The classes were held in this grand house before me, a structure that had seen better days. It was a little smaller than a mansion but had a grand courtyard in front, complete with benches and desks. Most classes were held here in the evening, but now it sat abandoned, longing for repair.

The house, once stately, now bore the marks of time. Its paint was peeling, revealing the weathered wood underneath. Vines and ivy crawled up the sides, and the windows, once grand, were now smudged with dirt and neglect.

Ginger also joined me for company. She casually took a stroll through the overgrown bushes and playfully left a bug she had caught near my feet as if presenting me with a gift. I picked the cat up, and she protested with a loud shriek.

I knocked on the door and waited, hearing shuffling noises from inside. I didn't want Atticus to know about my powers; I wanted to gauge how much Ma had trusted him. The door slowly creaked open, revealing a man in his fifties. His dark brown hair was streaked with gray, and his sharp features were accentuated by brown eyes. But what was most striking was the three claw-like scratches running down from his left eye, a mark that had narrowly spared his sight.

Atticus Castor regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and caution as we met at the threshold of his aging abode. His perusal of me was followed by his recognition of the ginger cat in my hands.

"You are Rhia's son," he observed and opened his door to allow me inside.

"Yes, I am Thalfrin," I replied as I entered his house.

He poured me a cup of whisperleaf tea and began to speak of my mother's death. He expressed his deep grief and shock at herending her own life, reminiscing about how much the students had loved her and how dedicated she had been to her work. I let him talk, allowing his words to wash over me, masking my true intentions.

As our conversation continued, he inquired about my role as a healer, and I shared that I had both good and bad days in my profession. After a brief pause, he turned the conversation toward my visit and questioned if I had come to cope with my mother's death.

Then, I took him by surprise with a direct question, delivered in a cool, composed manner.

"Was she a rebel like you?" I asked, my gaze unwavering.

His reaction was immediate; I could feel his heart rate increase, a subtle hint of discomfort in the air.

He hesitated for a moment before replying, his response carefully worded.

"I am not a rebel. At least not one of those who attack innocent people and attempt to harm the threadhunters. A bit foolish, in my opinion," he said, forcing a laugh.

My curiosity wasn't satisfied with his vague response, and I pressed on.

"Then what are you?" I asked, determined.

Atticus Castor took another pause, his expression pensive.

"Rhia told me, the day before she took her own life, that if you ever came searching for answers, I should give you the full truth—but only if you cared to know it and if you asked for it,"

"I am asking you now," I declared.

"We have met once, you and I," Atticus Castor began, his voice tinged with nostalgia, "you were barely six months old, and your mother was running away."

I listened to his words with a stoic expression, my emotions tightly controlled.

"She was running away because she killed my father," I stated matter-of-factly, revealing a piece of information that seemed to catch Castor off guard. It was a well-kept secret of my mother's, one that I had discovered in her memories on that fateful day, a revelation that had fueled my anger and led to the hurtful words I had spoken to her, ultimately driving her to her tragic end.

Castor nodded in acknowledgment of my knowledge.

"Yes," he confirmed, "she needed help to escape the threadhunters. I was a hotheaded rebel back then, and I had connections. So, I helped her settle here in Shadowvale under a different name."

He then retrieved a journal and handed it to me. Flipping through its pages, I glanced at the familiar handwriting of my mother..

"If you are not a rebel, then what were you all doing? What was your purpose?" I inquired, my curiosity burning as I sought answers about the clandestine activities that had surrounded my mother's life.

"Do you know what the rebellion is?" Atticus Castor asked me.

I considered his question carefully before responding.

"A bunch of idealists trying to overthrow the Elders and the Nobles? Rogue veilweavers who think they should have the privilege to be governors and take part in elections? Humans who think they deserve better?"

My words flowed out, tinged with skepticism.

Castor regarded me with a thoughtful expression.

"Don't you think those are valid reasons to rebel?"

I shrugged in response.

"Yes, I do. We need change. That is the reason why I am here. Even though things weren't smooth between mother and me, I need to know. I think she left me a purpose." My words were laced with a certain truth, even if they were veiled in deception.

For a moment, Castor's gaze held a glimmer of pride, but it soon faded as he continued,

"But those aren't the only reasons the rebels are fighting. They are fighting against the lies the Elders feed us."

"What lies?" I asked, my doubt surfacing.

"Lies about Veilweave Gods and religion," he answered.

I furrowed my brow, puzzled. "I'm afraid I do not understand."

Then Castor began to tell me a story, revealing the real history of Milandor and sharing a tale of endless killings that continued even today, hidden from our sight but taking place right in front of our eyes.