Chapter 2: The First Tide
The docks of Moonfall snapped back into focus with a sickening jolt, like a taut thread snapping inside Kael's chest. One moment, Gavyn had gasped awake in the Dreamtide—water streaming from his beard, eyes wide with panic—and the next, time had coiled in on itself, the thread rewinding with invisible hands. Now, the world stood as it had before: nets half-drawn, seagulls wheeling above, and the burly dockhand barking curses at a crew too distracted by fear to obey.
Kael stood still, letting the wash of temporal recoil settle. The runes on his palm pulsed faintly beneath the damp fabric of his glove—a dull itch, cold and rhythmic. Counting down.
Three days.
He raised his eyes to the sky. The rift-moon hovered above, jagged and violet, its warped halo bleeding color into the clouds. Its shadow stretched long across the harbor, draping the sea in bruised light. The hum—ever-present since the rift opened—had grown louder, threading through the wind's moan like a blade against silk.
Moonfall was unraveling.
He strode forward, cloak heavy with sea mist and dream-residue, weaving through a crowd that barely noticed him. They moved like ghosts, half-faded from fear and sleeplessness. A woman clutched a small child, whispering prayers too old for the stars to remember. A merchant pounded iron nails into his shutters with shaking hands, sweat glistening on his brow despite the chill.
"The moon's falling," the woman muttered, not looking up.
"The rift'll take us all," the merchant growled, not slowing his hammer.
Kael kept his hood low and his runes hidden, though the weight of their fear pressed into his mind like fog.
He found Gavyn near the edge of the dock, struggling to haul in the same net Kael had watched him pull before. Time had looped—but something lingered in Gavyn's eyes.
"Gavyn!" Kael called, his voice clear above the din.
The fisherman froze. The net slipped from his hands, a cascade of silver-scaled fish slapping onto the dock. Gavyn turned slowly, his weathered face drawn in lines of confusion and faint terror.
"You…" he rasped, blinking. "I saw you. Somewhere. Deep."
Kael stepped forward. The runes flared, invisible to all but those attuned—an electric pulse across his palm. "You were trapped in the tide. A dreamscape eddy near the rift. I pulled you out. What did you see, Gavyn?"
The old fisherman's eyes flicked to the moon. He swallowed, fingers curling around the haft of his spear—a crude weapon, but held with a grip born of desperation.
"It was pullin' me under," Gavyn murmured. "Dark tide… deeper than the trenches. Something down there. Big. Shadowed. It whispered in the water. Said… said three days 'til it wakes."
He shuddered. "Felt like drowning, but I could still breathe. Like the sea didn't want to kill me—just keep me."
Kael's throat tightened. The vision matched the last five dreamers. Whatever slept beneath the rift-moon, it was stirring.
"You're no dockworker," Gavyn added, voice rough. "What are you? Some rift-witch?"
"No," Kael replied. "Not a witch. Just someone who's faced the Tyrant before. I've seen the signs. You said it's waking. Did the dream show you where?"
The fisherman hesitated, eyes narrowing. Then he jabbed a calloused finger northward, toward the jagged cliffs rising beyond the harbor.
"There's a shrine up there," he said. "Old thing. Been quiet for years. But in the dream, I could feel it—like it was calling me. Pulling me in."
Kael nodded once. The cold weight in his palm pulsed harder, a tug behind his sternum pulling him toward the cliffs. "Then that's where we go."
Before they could move, a shadow loomed in their path. A broad figure, arms crossed, eyes narrowed beneath a mop of salt-crusted hair.
Brann, the burly dockhand. His voice was a growl.
"Hold it right there, stranger." His gaze dropped to Kael's covered hand. "Gavyn's been off for weeks. But now he's running around with a glowing-handed outsider talkin' moon-madness?"
He looked to the fisherfolk gathering around. "What's your game, boy?"
"Saving this town," Kael snapped. His patience, already fraying, hissed like tensioned thread. "The moon's not waiting for you to argue."
Brann stepped forward, feet heavy on the wet planks. He loomed close, face inches from Kael's. His breath smelled of salt and stale ale.
"You walk in here with that cloak and those cursed lights on your skin and expect us to trust you?" He jabbed a thick finger toward Kael's chest. "You want us to believe you're not some rift-spawn come to finish what the moon started?"
Kael's jaw tightened. The air around him shimmered faintly, threads twitching like living things.
"You want proof?" he said quietly. Then louder, voice rising over the creak of the waves: "Fine."
He stepped back, shrugging off his cloak, letting the glowing runes blaze on his hand and forearm. A hush rippled through the crowd. The dock space cleared around them like a ripple in still water.
"Try me."
Brann grunted and reached into a nearby boat, pulling a scarred oar from beneath a tangled net. It wasn't elegant, but it would crush a man just the same.
"Let's see what you've got, rift-boy."
Kael exhaled and whispered the threadword under his breath.
Thread Step: Flicker Dash.
Light exploded at his feet. In a blur, he surged forward, reappearing behind Brann before the oar had finished rising. The dockhand twisted, surprisingly fast, and swung wide.
Kael leapt—Thread Dance: Spiral Evasion. Runes flared around him, a cyclone of violet thread coiling in a spiral. The oar struck them with a thunderous crack, sparks leaping from impact.
"Fast," Brann grunted. He lunged again, swinging like he meant to kill.
Kael snapped up his palm. Thread Wall: Shatter Pulse. A translucent barrier erupted from the air, the oar slamming into it and rebounding with a jarring boom. The crowd gasped as Brann staggered back, teeth gritted.
"Not fast enough," Kael murmured.
He raised his hand—Thread Dance: Binding Lash. Glowing tendrils snapped into being, coiling around Brann's arms. The man roared, muscles flexing, veins bulging as he fought the magical bonds.
"You think this stops me?" Brann bellowed, wrenching one arm free and hurling the broken oar aside. He lunged—
Kael moved faster.
Thread Step: Sky Fang. Threads burst beneath his boots, launching him high into the air. He flipped, cape flaring, and landed behind Brann in a skid.
"Crescent," Kael whispered.
Thread Pulse: Crescent Wave. A radiant arc of violet light surged from his hand and slammed into Brann's back. The man stumbled forward with a shout, falling to one knee. His breath came in heaving gulps.
The silence was deafening.
Kael lowered his hand slowly. The runes dimmed.
A murmur rippled through the onlookers.
"Did you see that?"
"He moved like a wind-born."
"Is he even human?"
But it was Gavyn who stepped forward, his voice calm, steady.
"He pulled me from the deep," he said. "I saw the shadow. I felt the whisper. He's the only one who can stop it."
Brann glared up at Kael, still breathing hard. Then he chuckled—a low, rumbling sound.
"You fight like a storm," he said. "You'd better be worth it."
He stood, tossing the shattered oar aside and brushing off his coat. "You've got three days. You better make them count."
Kael inclined his head. "I intend to."
He turned to Gavyn. "Let's move."
The path northward was steep and narrow, carved into the cliffside like a scar. The sea crashed far below, waves colliding against black rock. The rift-moon's hum grew sharper, almost whistling. Gavyn said little, spear tapping rhythmically with each step.
They reached the shrine by dusk.
It was older than Kael had expected—half-buried in moss and salt, with weather-worn runes etched into crumbling stone. Time and sea had tried to erase it, but something deeper had kept it intact.
"This is it," Gavyn said softly, pointing. "I saw it in the dream. It was glowing."
Kael approached slowly. The air around the shrine shimmered faintly, and the runes on his palm ignited in response. A threadlock—woven long ago by someone like him. Simpler than the sealed vaults in the west, but urgent. Alive.
He knelt, placing his hand against the stone.
The lock pulsed.
"Something's waking here," he muttered.
The ground shuddered beneath them.
Then—a voice. Soft, sinuous. Slipping into Kael's ears like mist.
"Kael…"
He froze.
The whisper was familiar.
Too familiar.
"The Tyrant…" he breathed.
The shrine convulsed. Light spilled from the cracks in the stone. Gavyn backed away, spear raised.
"What in the hells—"
"It's him," Kael growled, standing. "He's speaking through the rift."
The voice grew louder. "You delay the tide. But tides… return."
Kael pressed his palm hard against the lock.
Thread Pulse: Unraveling Cry.
His runes flared white-hot. Threads exploded from his hand, spinning into the old glyphs, forcing their way through ancient resistance. The shrine screamed in its own language—a sound of unraveling tension—and then…
The rift snapped shut.
The hum faltered.
Silence fell.
But Kael staggered back, trembling. The moon above continued its descent, its shadow spreading like a stain. The hum returned—quieter, but faster. Accelerating.
And the voice returned, fading into the wind:
"Soon…"
Kael's fists clenched.
Three days.
No. Less now.
And the first tide had already begun.