Kael first noticed the icicles hanging from the corpse's outstretched fingers and nose, sparkling in the faint moonlight like crystal scepters. The body was frozen solid, head bowed forward, arms stretched high in a grotesque mimicry of prayer.
He swore he could smell it, an acrid rot that clung to the air. But the cold had sealed any scent away, leaving only the sight behind.
A stone’s throw ahead, the bent sign of The Broken Needle, the village tavern, swung faintly in the wind. The narrow street was choked in snow, a few fat flakes hanging in the air.
A handful of villagers passed by, heads down, boots crunching softly with every footfall. No one looked at the stake. No one looked at him.
This wasn’t the first casualty of Edric’s private war, and it wouldn’t be the last. Lord Edric’s power came from the Crown, yes, but here in Threadneedle he might as well have been king. The village was too remote for any real challenge. Perhaps that was why the Crown had sent Kael here—too much zeal, and a deepening madness, in Edric.
‘A tool,’ one noble had told Kael, ‘is only useful until it breaks.’ Kael’s orders had been clear. Help him with the purges. But watch him.
Kael blended into the shadows of Threadneedle easily, his travel-worn cloak wrapped tightly around broad shoulders, the deep hood casting half his face in darkness. Beneath it, his lean, muscular frame moved with a soldier’s efficiency. A thin scar ran along his cheekbone, pale against the rough stubble on his jaw.
The wind picked up, catching the edge of his cloak as he approached the weathered plaque at the base of the stake. He knelt, brushing away the snow with a gloved hand to read the inscription: Candlemaker.
His hand wavered as something else glinted beneath the hazy light. A ragged scrap of circuitry stuck out from the dead man’s pocket, tangled in stiff, frozen fabric.
It seemed old, older than the purge, older than the Crown, older than anything that should still exist. A relic that belonged in forgotten ruins, not clutched in the pocket of a dead heretic.
His gloved fingers reached for it. Reach… stretch… he jumped up to grab the circuit, locked in an icy embrace with the pocket, tugging it just enough that… CRACK.
Kael barely had time to curse before it collapsed onto him, stiff limbs catching against his shoulders, the dead weight knocking him backward into the snow. A billow of white swirled around him.
His breath tore from his chest as he hit the ground, pinned beneath a frozen corpse. He twisted beneath the body, shoving against its heft.
“A little help?” he called out to the few villagers still within earshot.
No one stopped. No one so much as turned.
Kael dug in, shoving harder. The corpse slid sluggishly in the snow, finally rolling off him with a dull, brittle thud.
For a moment, he sat there, catching his breath, his gloved hands braced in the snow.
Then he glanced down at what he was still holding. The digitalia. Lifeless, old, useless, and rusted at the edges, its jangled wires spilled like veins across his palm. What did it mean?
As he brushed the snow from his cloak, his hand caught on the thin leather cord around his neck. The charm lay hidden under layers of fabric, but his fingers found the silver bird easily, its shape worn smooth from years of absent touch, a habit older than the scar on his cheek.
He exhaled, pushing himself up with one hand. Then, gripping the scrap of circuitry with the other, he hurled it toward the nearest abandoned building.
Glass shattered; the brittle remains of a forgotten window caved inward as the silicon disappeared into the dark.
Then he made for the tavern.
Abeer glass shattered on the wooden floor of The Broken Needle as the door slammed open. A gust of wind carried in snow and the metallic squeal of wheels.
Behind the bar, Ryn knelt low, sweeping up the shards of broken glass. Her movements were quick and precise, a time-worn habit worried into a groove. She gathered the splintered pieces into her apron, the candlelight catching faint glimmers of gold in her dark hair, right where it escaped her braid.
The rattling of a cart drowned out the hush of voices as a man shuffled inside.
A peddler.
He was a mess of wiry limbs, ragged furs, frantic hands, twitching eyes, and hollow cheeks flushed red from the cold.
The cart shuddered to a halt in the middle of the Broken Needle, its contents a grotesque museum of the dead age: fractured hardware, blackened processor cores, twisted fragments of neural interfaces. The electronika caught the firelight like ancient jewelry or magical instruments.
“Treasures from the past!”
Riven’s shout cut through the tavern’s murmur. He spread his arms wide. “Stories in every piece! Antiquities for sale!”
Ryn didn’t look up from wiping glasses. “Not again, Riven.” Her tone was flat. “We don’t deal in your contraband. Take your trash and go.”
“It’s not trash!” He reached into the cart, gripping a rusted scrap of machinery. Wires, like entrails, spilled from its seams.
“See here! A neural lattice. Pure quantum-age craft—”
“I said out.” Ryn’s hand slipped beneath the bar. A warning.
Riven’s shoulders slumped. His fingers whitened around the cart handles as he swiveled around, making for the door.
Then…
A flicker. One of the ancient quantum chips, buried under years of dust, pulsed. Faint at first, then stronger, in a slow and rhythmic glow like bioluminescence. Like breathing.
The Peddler’s wild eyes widened. He lifted the chip, turning it in his gnarled fingers. It shouldn’t, no it couldn’t, be doing that. His gaze moved chaotically around the tavern, finally landing on her. Sarah.
She sat in the corner beside her grandmother. Her tan skin drank in the dim light. A few unruly curls veiled her face, but her chest rose and fell in perfect time with the chip’s mystic pulse.
Riven stared. Sarah’s amber eyes met his. For less than a moment, the room was still. Then the light died, snuffed out like a candle.
Sarah rotated to the frost-clouded window beside her. With one finger, she traced a shape in the fog on the glass.
A cross.
The door burst open. Winter and wind stormed in, carrying snow and the heavy tread of boots—and Kael, his cloak dusted white, the deep hood casting his face in shadow.
Riven’s hands flew to his cart. “No contraband here, Crownsman,” he muttered. “Just a peddler’s wares.”
Without waiting for a response, the Peddler turned, gripping the cart’s handles. The wheels shrieked as he dragged it toward the door and was gone, leaving the tavern as he had come in, thick with smoke, stale beer, and dust. And leaving Kael lingering near the bar, snow melting on his cloak as he took in the room: the crackling fire, the motley crowd, the warped beams overhead, and the blackened walls where fading names were carved deep into the wood.
The tavern’s noise swelled again, and Kael watched the scene unfold like clockwork. Stew steamed, mugs clattered, and boots stomped the grime of Threadneedle onto the floor. Most of the time, the Broken Needle felt more like a stage than a refuge—hosting a drama interspersed with quick scene changes, and a cast that knew their roles.
Except for one.
Kael’s gaze lingered on Ryn, a moment too long. She might have been mistaken for another cog, but there was a difference about her, a kind of freedom in the way she moved. For Ryn, every action was a choice she owned.
She walked deliberately toward Sarah and her grandmother, wiping the window with her apron as she gathered mugs, tidying up while quietly erasing the Candlemakers’ symbol from prying eyes.
As she wiped her palms absently on her apron, her gaze, for a wink, shot across the room and found Kael at the bar. In the moment before her mask slipped back into place, she stared right through him. Then she glanced away as though nothing at all had happened.
Edric didn’t need to be present to command the room. His shadow fell over Threadneedle. Kael knew (or thought he knew) why the Crown hated the gods; the Crown didn’t share power, even with myths, and especially not machines. But what did Edric care if the villagers nurtured a few ancient superstitions, now that the androids were gone?
As Kael turned it over again, he searched for the right tool to pry apart its meaning. A pitchfork, he decided, would be most appropriate for the job.
Kael took his drink to a low table by the window, left by villagers who cleared a wide path for the Crownsman. At least he was getting some respect here, or fear.
Somewhere outside, the Peddler’s cart rattled away into the snow. And Kael, watcher of men, wondered what would happen when Edric, Lord of Threadneedle, finally snapped.
As Kael cleared a porthole in the frost, two castle guards rushed past, their boots leaving fresh tracks in the growing drifts. Snow, caught in the torchlight outside, swirled violently around the guards as they disappeared into the gloom.
Then came more, a whole squadron, followed by villagers with torches. With his focus on the window, Kael adjusted his posture. The wind carried faint echoes of shouted commands. Ryn’s methodical polishing slowed as her posture leaned slightly toward the door. Listening.
And for a moment, The Broken Needle held its breath.
“Something’s happened,” someone suddenly said.
The sound came from the far corner. A boy, too young to be drinking but old enough to loiter, leaned against the wall, his boots kicked up on the edge of the table. His dark hair was unruly, damp from melted snow, and his smirk made it clear he enjoyed the attention. Jory.
The others, three boys of varying heights, waited for their cue. Their breath fogged over the frost as they pressed their faces against the glass.
“Up at the Castle!” one of them said excitedly. “They heard a scream in Lord Edric’s tower. Bet the old man’s finally gone mad—”
“Quiet,” Ryn’s voice parried their chatter. She stood motionless behind the bar with a look that made the boys freeze.
The boys shrank back from the window, but the words were already out. The tavern came to life. In the shadows of the room, a small figure, Sarah, stirred. Her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug of cider, her wide amber eyes glancing between Jory and Ryn.
As Jory focused on her, his grin eased, and he claimed, rather than crossed, the distance between them. His friends shifted in their seats, whispering and giggling.
Sarah felt Martha stiffen beside her as Jory sauntered toward them, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, a grin hanging lazily on his face. He stopped a few feet from the table, close enough to catch Sarah’s eye but far enough to stay out of Martha’s reach.
“What do you think, Sarah?” he asked pointedly, slicing through the hum of the tavern. “You’ve been up there, haven’t you?”
Dropping her gaze down to the chipped tabletop, her vision swam with the rapid beat of her heart. She didn’t answer.
“She hasn’t,” Martha said, unyielding. Her hand clamped down on Sarah’s arm, grounding her. “And she’s got nothing to say to you.”
Jory’s grin widened, his eyes darting to Martha before settling back on Sarah. “Didn’t ask you, old woman.”
Martha leaned forward, her tone dropping low, hard. “And I’m telling you. Leave.”
Her words carried weight, enough to make the nearest tables go quiet as their conversations faded into wary glances. But Jory didn’t flinch. Staying put, he studied her with an expression Sarah couldn’t quite name.
“Alright,” Jory said finally, falling back with a shrug. “But one day, Sarah, you’ll have something to say.”
The way he said her name, like he’d always known it, made her stomach twist.
Martha’s strict rules, the stifling walls, how she wasn’t allowed to have a life of her own. This was her Threadneedle, and it felt smaller every day. Sarah sighed. “I hate it here.”
The wind pressed faintly against the shutters, and more villagers moved past the window, shouting.
Kael set his glass down carefully, its faint clink impossibly loud. He pulled his cloak tight before rising, pausing on the old woman and Sarah by the window. The cross, though wiped away, reappeared, the fog retreating from the invisible oil her fingers left, as if remembering her touch.
Pushing through the door into the night, he followed the wind along Threadneedle’s narrow streets. The guards’ tracks, shadowed cavities already filling with snow, led straight toward the castle.
In the darkness of the Broken Needle, Ryn searched her pockets for matches. Extinguished by the sudden burst of cold air, the candle flames sent up lazy tendrils of smoke.
And as Kael marched stiffly toward the dark tower, the last lights in the little northern village of Threadneedle seemed to have gone out.