They let him stay.
Corren slept for the first time in what felt like a week—though even here, the Song still pulsed faintly behind his thoughts. When he woke, food had been left: dried fruit, mushroom broth, and black bread spiced with something bitter. No one watched him eat, but he could feel the watching anyway.
The Veil was not idle.
That morning, Eryn guided him through the winding chambers. She pointed at rooms like someone naming tombs. "That one's for the Bound. The ones who broke. Don't go in there."
Corren didn't ask questions. She filled silence anyway.
In the Hall of Echoes, he saw a boy maybe eight years old singing to a caged animal—a small fox-like thing with three tails. It curled up and slept the moment the child's song began.
Another room held a girl weaving thread into a silk strip. When a lie passed near it—spoken or thought—the fabric flared hot and turned dark. She wove in silence, her eyes blank.
"They teach us young here," Eryn said. "You either learn control early or... you don't."
"What happens if you don't?"
"They bury the parts that can't be saved."
Later, Tomas cornered him in the sparring chamber.
"No knives," he said. "You can use the staff."
"Fine."
Corren picked up the weapon, feeling its weight. Tomas didn't wait for a count. He moved first—fast, low. Corren blocked, turned, struck. They danced in circles, exchanging sharp blows that cracked through the silence.
Tomas pressed harder. "Prove what you are."
"I'm not anything," Corren snapped.
"You are. We all feel it."
Corren dodged, parried, swept Tomas's feet. Tomas rolled, grinned, surged up with a feint—then aimed for Corren's throat.
That's when the Song flared.
It sang hot and furious in Corren's chest, like it had been waiting. His staff came down hard on Tomas's shoulder—too hard.
Tomas hit the wall and slid, stunned. Not unconscious. But close.
Corren dropped the staff, breathing hard.
Tomas looked up, blinking. "You didn't hesitate. Even the Song recoiled."
"Are you trying to make me the monster?"
"I don't have to."
Alsen summoned Corren to a higher chamber lit by a spiraling brazier of sound-stone. Runes flickered like breath along the walls.
"You see what we are," Alsen said. "Scraps. Exiles. Survivors. But also keys. To something greater."
"You think we're chosen?"
"No. I think the world is a weave of bad choices. And the Gifted are the only ones who can re-thread it."
"You're not just hiding," Corren said. "You're preparing."
Alsen smiled thinly. "It's not paranoia if the war already started. You just didn't hear the first note."
He stepped forward, voice low.
"You're untethered. No oath. No relic. No blood-pact. You're rare. Too rare. The Threadwalker, maybe."
"I don't care about prophecy."
"Prophecy cares about you."
That night, Eryn showed him the nursery.
Children. Six or seven of them, most under ten. They slept in suspended hammocks of silk and moss, tended by two Bound whose faces were half-burned by failed rituals.
"They'll be tested soon," Eryn whispered. "We'll see who bonds and who breaks."
"Why do you stay here?" Corren asked.
She shrugged. "Because outside, I forget who I am. Inside, I make others remember."
One of the children whimpered. The air rippled.
Too powerful. Too soon.
Corren turned away.
This wasn't safety. It was sharpening.
Not a sanctuary.
A forge.