The Threadbound series : Unraveling

Castles Crumbling

Frin

I have them right where I want them. The illusion of peace they've carefully crafted through religion, grand ceremonies, and "open senate elections" is on the brink of being shattered. Honestly, we've been in a state of war for years, even if we didn't realize it; the Threadwars haven't truly ended, and these certainly aren't the years of peace.

I must concede, though, that the Elders were masters of their illusion. They made calculated decisions, allowing humans to toil yet thrive, creating a false sense of justice. The economy prospered, and no one was openly exploited. Of course, the Veilweavers held a revered status while humans occupied the lowest rungs of society, but they weren't blatantly oppressed. Veilweavers who dared to attack humans faced execution or exile to Bone Island. Rebels or rogues who bombed villages and launched attacks on the Senate were painted as disruptors of peace, those who rebelled against the gods.

But it's high time to change the narrative. It's time to reveal whose side the true God is on. The illusion has lasted long enough, and the time for a reckoning draws near, I thought as I walked towards the Senate Hall.

The Senate hall was a grand and imposing structure, a testament to the wealth and power of the Elders who governed Milandor. Its walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the Veil Gods in all their divine glory, and the ceiling soared high above, adorned with celestial motifs that seemed to come alive in the ambient light. Rows of polished stone pillars lined the spacious hall, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering torchlight.

At the heart of the hall, atop a raised dais, sat the Elders. Dressed in regal violet robes, they exude an air of authority and superiority. Their expressions were stern. They were flanked by guards and threadhunters, a clear display of their dominance.

The noble families filed in, each accompanied by their entourage, taking their designated places within the hall. Their colorful attire and elaborate hairstyles showcased their status and wealth. It was a stark contrast to the common folk who were not allowed to enter this hallowed space, left to linger outside, yearning for a voice in the election.

Just below the dais stood two figures who held the fate of Milandor in their hands—Alexander Raaha and Sashelle Dantes. The tension in the room was palpable, as if the very air crackled with anticipation.

I positioned myself near the entrance, my threadhunter disguise allowing me to move discreetly through the gathering. The atmosphere in the hall was heavy with an impending sense of violence, as if the fragile peace that had held for so long was about to shatter.

Extra security measures were evident today, a direct response to the events of the previous day. News had spread like wildfire about how the Gods had spoken through the Head Priests, condemning the Elders. The rebellion, although quelled for now, had sown seeds of doubt and dissent among the people. Some nobles openly questioned the legitimacy of the Elders, especially since they had blindly followed the divine words and stood for the binding. The castle of illusion the Elders had built was now crumbling around them.

However, starting a rebellion, even when the potential for one is simmering beneath the surface, is far from simple. The current state of false peace and security is like wet wood. To set it ablaze, the moisture must first be pulled out. Just as dry wood ignites quickly, the conditions for rebellion require a gradual shift from complacency to discontent, a process that takes time and careful planning. The flames of change may burn brightly, but the groundwork to ensure they catch fire must be laid with patience and strategy. Just like the elaborate strategy of the elections, we need a candidate - a symbol.

As the voting process commenced, a sense of ceremony and gravity filled the Senate hall. Each noble family, one by one, approached the dais where the Elders sat, their expressions solemn and their steps deliberate. Before them lay the ballot papers, symbols of their power and privilege. With measured movements, they took the papers and, one by one, placed their votes into the ballot box.

Amid this display of noble participation, I couldn't help but notice something peculiar. Each time a noble stood before the Elders, their heartbeats appeared to calm, as if influenced by an external force. Initially, I dismissed it as a mere coincidence, but as more and more nobles cast their votes, the pattern became undeniable.

My curiosity was piqued. Who could be behind this manipulation of the noble's emotions during the voting process? I knew it couldn't be a fluke; there was a deliberate effort to influence their decisions. While my mental powers were still recovering from the strain of the previous day's events, I decided to employ an alternative method.

Turning to my life threads, I reached out with my unique abilities. Slowly, I began to sense the threads of energy in the room, seeking out those individuals whose concentration and heartbeat seemed unusually erratic, like someone engaged in intense mental work.

To my surprise, I pinpointed two such individuals amidst the gathering. Stephanos Lark, one of the Elders presiding over the election, exhibited signs of concentrated effort. However, it was the man in the threadhunter healer's robe standing beside him whose energy was most telling. It appeared that both of them were deeply involved in manipulating the proceedings.

The revelation that there were other individuals in the room with mind-manipulating abilities left me momentarily surprised. The thought of another healer possessing such powers was unexpected, and it made me wonder about the extent and diversity of our abilities.

My focus shifted back to Elder Lark, the man whom the ominous note had implicated in my mother's death. It now made sense why my mother had such a profound fear of my mind-controlling power. It had undoubtedly reminded her of Lark. But the question remained: what was the connection between my mother and Elder Lark?

Furthermore, Atticus had informed me that Lark was also responsible for Elder Bhama's death, a revelation that shed light on the unsettling events surrounding her demise. Elder Bhama had been a rebel sympathizer, and her actions had ultimately led to her tragic end. I recalled, Marcus Burns had been captured while attempting to steal incriminating evidence from Lark's mansion in Shadowvale.

As the Master Scholar tallied the votes, I continued to ponder the intricate web of secrets and manipulations within the Elders' world. The room was filled with anticipation and tension.

The moment had arrived, and the master Scholar announced the outcome of the vote. The tension in the room finally broke as he declared, "Bow to your new Elder, Alexander Vincentius Raaha." I couldn't help but acknowledge that this was the very puppet Elder Lark had sought to install on the Senate.

As the crowd, myself included, bowed to the newly appointed Elder, I sensed the euphoria radiating from Alexander Raaha. His elation was palpable through the emotions I could feel via my threads . It was clear that he was relishing this victory. Then, as Alexander stood to address the crowd, his gaze shifted to his right and landed on Sashelle Dantes. She stood with an impeccable composure despite her loss. Through the thread of emotions I felt Alexander's heart skip a beat, and feelings of regret washed over him.I couldn't help but think that there was more to their dynamic than meets the eye. Interesting.