Fiction Bled Into Flesh

Chapter 8

Thread Under Watch

The doors of the Council chamber shut behind Aki with a slow, deliberate press of stone against stone. No clang, no echo — just the sound of something final.

The restraints were gone, but not their shadow. Faint tracking sigils now traced along his wrists and collarbone, glowing in pale gold lines that looked almost delicate. They hummed softly when he moved, a reminder that he wasn't bound but he wasn't free either.

The hallway outside wasn't empty. A few Council aides lingered near the doors, murmuring in voices that weren't meant for him but carried anyway.

"Containment protocols should remain active."

"He's a survivor, but survivors are often the worst risk."

"Anomaly. They always become anomalies."

The words clung to him as he stepped forward, flanked by Aurelia, Lyenne, and Kaelen.

Aurelia led the way, her armor marked with the silver insignias of a team leader — worn, not ceremonial. Lyenne stayed close, her black hair brushing her pauldron, storm-grey eyes fixed on him with a calm that didn't feel calm at all. Kaelen trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook tucked under one arm, fingers twitching now and then like he might start drawing the hallway itself just to ease the silence.

They didn't explain where they were taking him. They didn't have to. The faint hum of the sigils on his wrists told him this wasn't a stroll.

They moved deeper into the fortress, and the walls turned into history.

Murals stretched across the stone — Pulsebearers frozen mid-strike, Glyphbound with their hands pressed to shattered gates, Verseweavers with mouths open mid-song as bridges rebuilt beneath their words. Names were carved beneath the murals; some sharp, some worn to fading scratches.

Aki's eyes caught on one name that had been half-erased by time: …ren Dalaine. The rest of the letters were gone, but the ghost of the name remained.

The smell of oil and smoke threaded the air. Somewhere further down the corridor, hammers clanged. The sound wasn't distant enough to be forgotten; it crawled down the stone like faint thunder.

"They're still fixing the aftermath," Aurelia said without turning her head. "The Wrathborn hit one of the Dawnreach headquarters cell blocks last month. The damage reached further than anyone thought."

Aki didn't answer. He hadn't been here for that — back then, he'd still been on Earth. But the faint tang of burnt stone in the air felt like it had been waiting for him anyway.

Whispers waited for him too.

Two novices carrying scrolls slowed as they passed. One stared openly, the other not enough to be polite.

"That's him," one hissed.

"The Raw Woven."

"I heard he bled gold."

"No, I heard his—" The second caught Lyenne's gaze — storm-grey and sharp — and swallowed the rest of the sentence, speeding away with the scrolls clutched tight.

Their words stayed behind like smoke.

They talk like anyone can just 'open a Path' by feeling hard enough. Like if you cry or rage enough, something in you just… turns on.

But Aki knew better.

Opening a Path wasn't just about feeling. Every soul in Ecaria felt. The world was thick with grief, joy, rage, longing.

What made the difference was the break.

To open a Path, you had to crack, and not everyone survived the cracking.

The hallway widened suddenly into a market hall.

Not the kind of market that sold fruits or bolts of silk. This was the Order's market — a logistics artery.

The air smelled of ink and iron, and the tables reflected that.

Jars of spell-ink — black for Inkshapers, cobalt for Glyphbound — lined one side. Barrels of iron filings sat beside crates marked "Pulsebearer forging stock." Bundles of dried herbs hung overhead, tagged for "Dreambinder sedation."

A merchant slammed down a crate, muttering, "The Order buys everything. Leaves scraps for the rest of us."

Another argued loudly over a shipment of enchanted parchment.

Lyenne's voice cut through the noise, quiet but sharp. "Everything here has a price." Her storm-grey eyes slid to him. "And you — you'll cost more than you know."

Aki didn't respond. But his thoughts curled: I already have.

The market corridor bent into a balcony passage, and suddenly the walls opened.

The city of Seriglia sprawled below, the capital of the Rowen Kingdom, a tangle of rooftops and streets alive in ways the fortress could never be.

Smoke drifted from dozens of chimneys. A peddler's cart rattled by on the cobblestones, the driver shouting curses at a stubborn mule.

Down below, children chased flimsy paper birds kept aloft by cheap emotion-charms, the little wings flapping awkwardly in the breeze. A woman leaned over a stall, pressing her hands to a weak warming charm that barely managed to heat her pot.

Aki slowed at the rail. The tracking sigils on his wrists warmed faintly, as if they could sense hesitation.

Most people never Awakened. They didn't open Paths. They used scraps — trinkets, charms, crumbs of emotion magic. True Wovening demanded more — a surge so strong it cracked you open.

Sometimes the cracks never closed.

One of the kids below tripped, scraped a knee, and laughed as if pain didn't matter.

For a heartbeat, Aki thought of Reya's laugh — sharper, but just as unguarded.

He turned away before the thought hurt.

They moved through the outer ward, where the sound of repairs sharpened — hammer on stone, wood being carried, ropes creaking.

A voice rose over it all.

A street preacher stood on a stone block, cloak frayed, staff topped with a cracked charm that sparked weakly.

"Raw Wovens are cursed!" he shouted, voice breaking the cold air. "They always turn! Always!"

Two guards moved in, hands rough, shoving him off the block and dragging him toward the street.

The preacher stumbled, but his words didn't stop. They tore into the air even as he was hauled away.

Aki didn't flinch, didn't comment.

But the words settled somewhere heavy, and when he glanced sideways, Lyenne's storm-grey eyes met his for just a moment.

She didn't speak. She didn't have to.

The look said enough.

The fortress paths narrowed again as Aurelia led them to a different wing.

"The Observation Wing," she said simply when they reached a door marked with three glyphs that pulsed faintly under torchlight.

The quiet inside was worse.

Not peaceful — stifling. Every sound was sharper here: the scratch of a quill, the faint squeak of boots on stone, the low murmur of healers.

Healers in pale robes moved like ghosts between rooms, their hands glowing faintly as they whispered controlled incantations.

A scribe at a desk didn't look up as his pen scratched across parchment.

Subject: Raw Woven – Inkshaper. Initial observation pending.

The walls were lined with doors. Some were pristine. Some bore gouges and long, desperate scratches.

From deeper inside, someone screamed. Not words — just a sound jagged enough to snag in the air.

Aki's jaw tightened.

Raw Wovening wasn't bravery. It was survival instinct tearing through you. Most who tried it burned out or went mad. The survivors? They weren't lucky. They were dangerous. Ticking bombs.

He didn't have to wonder how they saw him. He felt it in every glance.

They stopped outside a small room, and Aurelia gestured him inside.

"Temporary quarters," she said. Her voice wasn't hard, but it was steady.

The room wasn't a cell, but it wasn't a home either.

Too clean. Too controlled. A cot, a desk, a single candle that flickered every time the door moved.

Aurelia stood in the doorway, armor plates catching the candlelight.

"I vouched for you," she said. "If you slip, I fall with you."

Aki sat on the cot, brushing his fingers over the faint gold lines of the tracking sigils.

"I'm not planning to die," he said.

Aurelia's eyes — crimson and steady — searched his face.

He added, softer: "Not after everything."

There was a name in his head. Reya.

He didn't speak it aloud.

Later, Kaelen knocked softly before entering. He didn't bring demands. He brought tea — steam curling from a chipped mug — and his ever-present sketchbook.

"Inkshapers aren't all bad news," Kaelen said, opening the book.

A small paper creature smiled up from the page — awkward, endearing.

Aki stared.

The tightness in his chest loosened, just slightly.

By the next day, Aurelia returned, knocking once before opening the door.

"The Council wants your stability tested," she said. "Standard procedure for Raw Woven survivors."

Aki didn't answer, but his chest felt heavier.

They led him out, Kaelen and Lyenne trailing, and passed the library annex on the way.

Shelves climbed toward the ceiling, scrolls and books stacked high.

Some sections were sealed with shimmering runes.

A young archivist looked up, eyes wide at the sight of Aki, his quill freezing mid-note.

Lyenne's storm-grey glare snapped his way, and the boy ducked his head, nearly dropping the quill as he scrambled away.

Aki's gaze lingered on the sealed doors.

The Order hoarded knowledge like treasure. Especially about Raw Wovens. Especially about people like me.

They moved on, and eventually reached a heavy door where a Glyphbound Examiner waited.

White robes, ink-stained fingers, expression smooth as glass.

"This is the Resonance Chamber," he said. His voice was calm, but there was something brittle underneath.

"The procedure is simple," he continued, though his eyes didn't leave Aki's. "You will stand in the central ring. The runes will measure your emotional threads — your resonance with the Tapestry itself."

Aki's eyes flicked past him into the chamber. The walls were carved with runes — lines that curved and intersected like veins.

He knew every symbol.

Glyphbound always relied on resonance. Measuring how emotion touched the Tapestry. A false reading and they'd think you were safe. A surge too strong and they'd think you were a threat. All of it — my own design, staring back at me.

"And if the reading is unstable?" Lyenne asked flatly.

The Examiner's mouth didn't curve. "Then we assess… containment options."

Kaelen shot Aki a glance — sympathy flickering across his face, quickly hidden.

They waited in a narrow side room while the chamber runes were checked.

Aurelia leaned against the wall, arms folded. Lyenne stood like a statue, storm-grey eyes unblinking.

Kaelen sat with his sketchbook, quill scratching softly.

Lyenne broke the silence.

"What's your real plan?"

Aki didn't look at her.

"Survive."

Lyenne's eyes narrowed.

Kaelen looked up, voice mild. "He's had a long day."

No one disagreed, but the tension didn't leave.

When the Examiner returned, they led Aki inside.

The Resonance Chamber swallowed sound.

The air tasted faintly metallic.

Runes crawled over the walls, glowing faintly, their light shifting like breath.

Aki stepped into the circle at the center. The tracking sigils on his skin glowed in answer, soft and sharp.

The Examiner raised a hand, and the runes brightened.

"Focus," the man said simply.

Aki didn't need to be told what to do. He already knew.

The hum started low. The runes began to pulse, taking his measure.

At first, the readings were steady.

Then something shifted.

The golden marks along his face — the ones born from surviving Raw Wovening — crept higher, faint lines spreading toward his left eye.

The hum turned into a buzz.

The runes flared.

The instruments — crystalline rods arranged along the walls — spiked with light, their readings scribbling into patterns no one had ever recorded.

The Examiner's quill hovered in midair.

"This…" His voice stayed calm, but there was a crack under it. "This isn't in any register."

The room filled with whispers — healers, aides, voices too low to catch but too sharp to miss.

Kaelen stared at the readings, his voice barely more than breath.

"That wasn't supposed to happen."

The runes didn't dim. They kept humming, the sound crawling into the silence, neither warning nor comfort.

Just a reminder that whatever they'd thought they were measuring, they hadn't been ready for this.

The runes didn't dim.

They burned brighter.

Lines of pale gold crawled across the walls, bleeding over the neat geometry the Glyphbound had etched there, turning perfect circles into jagged arcs.

The crystalline rods meant to record his emotional resonance glowed so hot their bases steamed.

The Glyphbound Examiner — calm moments ago — snapped his fingers twice, calling aides from the doorway.

"Check the secondary calibrators," he barked, voice cracking for the first time. "The register can't— it doesn't have a frame for this reading."

A younger aide — robes too new, eyes too wide — stammered, "The readings are clean, sir. No corruption, no false input."

"Then recheck them!"

The aide's quill nearly snapped in his hand.

Lyenne's storm-grey gaze swept the room, sharp as a blade. "What does that mean? Speak plainly."

The Examiner hesitated, then said it flat.

"It means… the resonance doesn't exist in our records. He's not reading as an Inkshaper. Or as a Raw Woven. He's reading as—" He stopped himself.

Kaelen muttered, "As what?"

The Examiner's mouth tightened.

"I don't know."

The aides whispered behind him, words tumbling over each other.

"Not in the registry?"

"Has that ever happened?"

"Maybe once— no, that was a false surge—"

"No, this— this isn't false—"

One of the aides, braver or dumber than the rest, glanced at Aki and muttered, "What if he detonates?"

Aki's head turned slowly. He didn't say a word, but the look was enough to make the aide blanch and look away.

Outside the chamber, the whispers spread faster.

Novices who'd been pretending to study the runes outside were now clustered by the wall, whispering sharp little things.

"They said the instruments screamed."

"They said his resonance broke the readings."

"I heard his sigils glowed like a—"

"Stop talking!"

A soldier passed, armor clinking, muttering to another under his breath, "Does he explode if he sneezes?"

The other elbowed him. "Not funny."

But their eyes kept sliding toward the glowing runes on Aki's wrists.

Inside, Aki stood very still, his hands loose at his sides, the golden marks, crawling across his cheek— to his left eye, still faintly glowing.

On the surface, he looked calm.

Inside, his thoughts moved like knives.

The resonance isn't wrong. The instruments aren't broken. They're seeing something they were never built to see.

Resonance wasn't just a reading — it was how the Tapestry itself measured you.

Every Inkshaper, every Pulsebearer, every Path left a pattern in that weave.

But Aki wasn't just on the Tapestry.

He'd written it.

And now the system was looking back at its author and didn't know what to do.

The Examiner drew a sharp breath and stepped back, holding up his ink-stained hands like the runes might leap at him.

"This… is beyond our remit," he said quietly.

Aurelia's voice cut through the hum like a blade.

"Explain."

The Examiner met her crimson eyes and didn't look away, though his voice was thin.

"If his resonance doesn't match any known register, it means his emotions aren't threading the Tapestry like anyone else's. Which means—"

Lyenne interrupted, voice cold. "Which means what? That he's unstable?"

The Examiner hesitated. "That… he might not have a limit we understand."

The aides flinched like he'd said something obscene.

One of them muttered, "Containment—"

"Don't," Aurelia snapped, and for the first time her voice carried heat.

The word cut the room.

She took one step closer to Aki, not shielding, but standing between him and the half-formed suggestions in the air.

"I vouched for him. You'll not chain him again because you're frightened of what you don't understand."

Lyenne's storm-grey eyes didn't leave Aki, but her words surprised him.

"Fear makes people reckless," she said quietly to the aides. "Do something rash and you'll regret it."

Her tone made it unclear whether she meant you'll regret it because you'll be wrong… or you'll regret it because he'll make you regret it.

Either way, the aides shut up.

The Examiner exhaled, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered to no one in particular, "We need a full Council review. This is beyond standard."

To one aide, he said, "Prepare an assessment room. Keep him under observation."

They left the chamber.

The hallway outside was noisier now, the rumors had reached the walls.

A pair of novices tried to look like they weren't staring. Their conversation wasn't quiet enough.

"They say he made the runes sing."

"They say the instruments almost cracked."

"They say he—"

A guard barked, "Enough gossip!"

But even as they fell silent, their eyes followed Aki.

They moved down a side corridor, torches flickering in wall sconces, each step kicking up a faint dust that smelled of old stone.

Past a narrow stairwell, they passed a pair of soldiers hauling buckets of water, still scrubbing soot from last month's Wrathborn breach.

"Another mess," one muttered to the other, jerking his chin at Aki. "Feels like it never ends."

Aki didn't react.

He just walked, the sigils on his wrists pulsing faintly with every step, like the Tapestry itself was breathing with him, or against him.

Finally, the Examiner led them to a quieter hall and pushed open a heavy door.

Inside was a room with shelves of crystal rods and stacks of parchments, the kind of place that smelled of candle wax and cold ink.

"This will be for assessment," the Examiner said, his voice steady again — but only because he was forcing it.

Aurelia stayed at Aki's side. Lyenne took a place by the door like a sentinel.

Kaelen stood a little behind, sketchbook clutched tight to his chest now — not to draw, but like it was something solid in a room that suddenly didn't feel solid at all.

The Examiner wrote something down, the quill scratching loud in the quiet:

Anomaly confirmed. Resonance unregistered.

He set the quill down, flexed ink-stained fingers, and finally said the thing everyone had been circling:

"We'll need to summon the Council back, and call the healer squad and asses the markings that kept crawling up."

He looked at Aurelia, at Lyenne, at the golden sigils crawling faintly up Aki's wrists and jaw.

"This is beyond anything we're equipped to handle."

The runes from the chamber still hummed faintly in Aki's ears, a sound no one else seemed to hear.

And for a heartbeat, everyone in that room felt the same thought, cold and unspoken.

What if the thing standing in front of them wasn't a miracle… but the beginning of a rewriting?

A writing that felt less like a warning and more like the Tapestry whispering back to its creator.

Chapter 8 END