Zal was caught in a deep, shapeless sleep, shattered by the synchronized chirping of sparrows—as if tuned to the city's clock. When he went to his window, he saw the morning was still thin and pale. He had risen far too early.

  "Awakening in a new world always carries this sensation: that time is a medicine you do not carry enough of in your pocket."

  He returned to his bed and lay on his back, staring at the wooden ceiling, reviewing yesterday. He thought of Adam's words. Of being called lucky. A faint, bitter smile touched the corner of his mouth. "I doubt it," he murmured to himself. Luck was a concept for those who had not yet paid the price for something.

  Then his mind turned to the tale of the White Spire. To that strange history. Something familiar lingered there... Yes. That name. Kael. The madman of the forest? It seemed impossible. Adam had said the story dated back nearly fifteen centuries. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence of names. But the threads that had spilled from the mouth of that mythical Kael... His mind sparked like two metals being struck together.

  "The human mind, when faced with myth, always seeks personal correspondences. Because accepting that a myth can be utterly alien is harder than accepting it might be entirely about you."

  What if... What if those threads were of the same essence as the divine Threads? And the Kael he had met had wanted him as a sedative to quiet the world's maddening symphony... Everything connected too neatly. It was too strange. Perhaps when he went to the White Spire, he would ask about that. Or about his own sickness. He rested his chin on his hand. "I suppose those are the main options."

  He placed his palms flat on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps he would ask about the nature of this world. Or a way back... though it was unlikely they would know. But he had to ask something. Something worth the peril of this journey.

  A dry, harsh cough scraped his throat. Perhaps he would ask how much life he had left. That question was always lurking.

  "Death is the most faithful shadow a man has. It is the only true friend that follows you unquestioningly to the very end."

  A voice from below pulled him from his reverie.

  "Zal! Wake up, sleepyhead! Time for work!"

  It was Adam. Zal sighed. "Better get started."

  He put on his work clothes and descended the dark stairs. Adam was behind the counter with a smile that showed too many teeth. "Morning, my lucky hero. No customers yet."

  "Yeah, not yet."

  Adam continued, curiosity rippling in his voice. "So, friend, you're going to that mansion... what do you want to ask about?"

  Zal rubbed the back of his neck. "For now... I'm not exactly sure. Everything's happened so fast."

  "Well, how many days until you go?"

  Zal was startled. "Oh! I haven't even looked at the date yet!"

  Adam gave him a firm slap on the back of the neck. "Quick! If you don't know when you're going, I won't give you the day off!"

  Zal pulled the paper from his pocket. Three days. Time was tight.

  "How do I even get there? I don't know."

  Adam raised an eyebrow. "Fortunately, I do. This paper... it's like a gate. On the appointed day, place it on the ground. You'll see a carriage appear. Get in. The journey... is miraculous. Those who have returned only say they don't know how they reached their destination."

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  "And if I don't do it at the appointed time?"

  "Obviously. Your pass expires. The coupon becomes void."

  Zal nodded. "Alright, so I work here for now."

  Adam's smile returned. At that moment, the door clattered. Customers entered, and the rhythm of the day began.

  After several hours, when the last patrons had left and Adam had locked up the shop to rest, Zal stepped outside. He needed fresh air. He needed to see the city whose secret heart he was about to probe.

  He saw children in a square, laughing loudly and chasing each other. He watched them. "This joy... it's not a sign of unreality. It's too real." The simplicity of being was foreign to him.

  "Only one who has long lived in shadow fears even the ordinary light of the sun."

  He came to a shop where a buyer and seller were haggling loudly over a price. The voices were harsh. But Zal smiled. This was real. Conflict, friction, desire. Perhaps the problem was with him. Perhaps he was the one who had been removed from society for so long that he now stared with a sick gaze at the natural disorder of people.

  On the sidewalk, a small boy had fallen, his knee scraped and bleeding. He was crying. Zal moved toward him without thinking, lifted him up, and wiped the blood from the wound with the corner of his own coat. The boy looked at him, wiped his tears, and said, "Thank you, mister. Sorry if I got your coat dirty." Then, he ran off like the wind.

  Zal continued on his way. He came to a plain, stone building with a sign on its door: Orphanage. Its walls were high and windowless. No sound came from within. He passed it quietly. A world within a world.

  Then, in the corner of an alley, he saw something that caught his breath. A cat. Its legs were broken, its ears cut off. It opened its eyes to Zal—eyes that held not fear, nor supplication, only an infinite weariness. Weariness from a suffering it had not chosen.

  "Sometimes mercy takes the cruelest form. Because life is not always a gift; sometimes it is a sentence best commuted before its time."

  Zal sat down gently beside it, picked it up, and placed it on his lap. He stroked its back. The small, warm body trembled under his hands.

  "Madmen exist in every world," Zal whispered to himself. "For their momentary laughs, they create for another a world darker than hell."

  The cat purred. Softly. "Meow... meow..."

  Zal wrapped his hand around the thin, warm neck of the animal. In that moment, he remembered something else: the thin, cold Thread tied around his own wrist. Both were strands. One for guidance. The other for strangulation.

  He pressed. A small, dry sound came. Then, silence.

  In that silence, he felt no victory, no sorrow. Only a heavy knowing. He had paid a debt. A debt to a creature whose suffering he had not authored. Perhaps this was practice for a greater debt—one he himself had initiated in another world.

  He lifted the weightless body and buried it in soft soil at the foot of a tree. Silently. Like a secret.

  "Secrets, great and small, are always buried. The only difference is the size of the grave."

  He walked back toward the tavern. Adam was behind the counter, reading a book. A quiet greeting was exchanged. Zal went up to his room and lay on the bed. He closed his eyes.

  The image of the cat played against the darkness of his eyelids. Set free. From a life it had not chosen.

  And his subconscious mind nurtured a question not yet spoken aloud: Is the Sage of the White River—that mass of flesh and knowledge—also trapped in a suffering it did not choose? Is it, too, deep within its spire, waiting for someone to apply pressure to its neck?

  "And thus, the final question takes shape: not from without, but from the darkest depths of empathy. Zal now knew what he wanted to ask. He did not want to know about his own death. He wanted to ask about the suffering of a god's existence. For if a god can suffer, then the whole world takes on new meaning—and perhaps, a new path to salvation."

  The Thread around his wrist glowed with a faint, amber light in the dark—as if in agreement with this thought.

  In three days, the journey would begin.