Torn threads

The Following Morning

Yasmin entered Sartor's room only to find it empty. Panic, fear, and anger surged through her all at once— but after noticing the neatly made bed, the scent of soap lingering in the air, and a pile of worn clothes resting in the laundry basket, she exhaled in relief. Nothing seemed out of place.

She stepped out and made her way to the library—her young master's sanctuary. Dust danced through the air. The scent of old books clung to the silence. The faint hum of an old oil lamp echoed in the stillness.

And Sartor sat in the middle of it all, surrounded by towers of books, utterly engrossed in the one held between his hands, paying no mind to the daylight that had long broken through the fog, nor to the sun that had risen behind the mist, rendering the lamp unnecessary.

—

"Good morning, young master. Breakfast is ready. Shall I bring it here?"

Sartor lifted his head toward the voice. Standing before him was Yasmin. What once had been a mere dark blur had sharpened into a girl in the bloom of youth—Hair black as the night, golden eyes gleaming like fine gemstones, and a complexion so smooth it could rival silk.

—

"Yes, please. I'll eat here," he replied.

He began examining himself, his fingers trailing slowly. His left eye… unchanged. The dimmed right one… still veiled. His left arm, the remains of the right. From his neck to his torso. Down to his legs.

He was looking for something—anything out of place. But found nothing. Still, something felt off. A strike of lightning—no, a memory. That strange sensation he'd dismissed when Master Tian struck him. Back then, he'd chalked it up to training—pain as a lesson. But now… it seemed more than that.

—

"I need to ask the Master."

No sooner had he whispered the thought than his stomach growled in protest. He glanced around and realized he was completely barricaded by books. Looking up, he noticed that the thirteenth shelf—the one reserved for metaphysics—had been entirely emptied. Every single book was now stacked around him.

He began gathering them, one by one, placing them back where they belonged in preparation for Yasmin's return with breakfast.

Yet as he worked, something else drew his attention. The glass chandelier above his head. The velvet-red carpet beneath his feet. Even the grain of the leather-bound book in his hand.

All of it seemed… clearer. As if his mind had sharpened—woken up.

But hunger outweighed curiosity. Cleaning up his mess would have to come first.

As he slid the last book into place, standing on the wooden ladder, something stirred. His shadow... moved strangely. Not with him—But of its own accord.

He froze.

Finished, he stepped down with the ladder in hand. His gaze drifted over its frame—The same engravings lined the rungs as those carved into the thirteen shelves.

No… they were the very same runes he had seen in Master Tian's dojo.

Running his hand along the smooth wood, he traced the grooves. They were lifeless. Just patterns. Mere symbols etched into the grain.

—

"Too many fantasy books, that's what this is," he muttered.

—

"That's what I get for reading about runes and monster lore. Maybe I should focus more on alchemy… At least that's real."

He opened the side room of the library—where the cleaning supplies were kept—and returned the ladder to its rightful place.

Moments later, Yasmin entered, pushing the breakfast cart. She placed the tray gently on the table, gave a polite nod, and quietly left—Leaving Sartor alone with his meal... and his silence.