The Red Strings of Fate

The Past

"Marriages are only recognized by both law and tradition when the partners are tied by ceremonial red strands." -from Continental Traditions, Volume I

Wick unequipped Forage for Cut inside the Choosing Room and thought about his next moves before giving the command to wake up. He couldn't stay inside the Choosing Room forever, but he did have some reprieve after his dream.

It was a nervous wait in the white empty space. Even though he wasn't awake to feel the pain from the beating he got, Wick's nerves were on edge. He was in Grey Forest, an amnestic zone and one of the most dangerous places on the continent.

Sure, the fact that he was thinking and floating in the Choosing Room was proof enough he was still alive, but he didn't know how long he could guarantee that.

When he woke up, would he just forget who he was and rely only on luck to help him stumble out of the forest unscathed? Even the sorcerers with level three skills from the Skillia stayed far away from amnestic zones.

"On top of that," he wondered aloud into the white space, "I'm no better than a cripple right now. My ribs are broken, and I'm probably bleeding out. If I'm still floating in the water, I need to wash off the blood quickly or trouble will come find me."

Inside the dungeons of the Sprawl, Wick had been trained to patch up or burn off any cuts he took. Depending on how low the dungeon was, the smell of blood could attract an eager monster from the lower dungeons or one of their hiding places.

He had once pointed out a poorly bandaged wound on a Spade to his dad. By then, it was too late. Even though their group was in a relatively safe level of the Sprawl, a black divali spider had shown up for its dinner.

Luckily, they had had a warrior with them with powerful skills. Magic would have been nearly useless. The warrior and her friends weren't able to take the spider down. No one expected them to. They did their job and distracted it for long enough so that the Sprawlers could get out with their quarry.

The Spade with the bad bandage had been heavily fined by the Guild.

And now, Wick was in a forest full of dangerous creatures that hadn't been seen since the days of Etheria Hemincross and the High Kami. If the stories of the old creatures were correct, then they would have made a divali look like a puppy.

Wick could feel the pressure of the Choosing Room evaporate.

He had Cut equipped and barely enough manna to use it once, considering his terrible manna leak. However, he did remember the feeling of the manna density thickening when he was thrown inside Grey Forest, enveloping around him like several layers of a warm blanket. That meant he could have absorbed plenty more manna.

If he had been out for a while, that meant he might have enough manna to throw Cut around a few more times. The level one skill wouldn't do squat to any of the monsters in the forest, but it would buy him precious seconds.

Wick tried not to think about the fact that he would barely have the energy to move once he woke. Or how his body felt when he'd been thrown in the stream.

I might be an hour's walk into the forest, Wick thought. Maybe losing my memory on waking would be a mercy.

Then he thought about the shadowed silhouettes of Pebbles and her crew beating the daylight out of him. The rage he quieted until then took him.

Wick stewed in his anger, letting it sharpen to clear his thoughts. He realized then the source of his anger. It wasn't Pebbles and her crew. His hate should be directed at the one who tugged at the orphans' puppet strings.

Lanton. The mayor's son.

Only a day before, Wick had never even heard of the name. This Lanton had hated Wick enough to send a bunch of other kids to not only break his body, but throw him into one of the most dangerous places on the surface of the world.

All he felt for Lanton was hate.

Wick focused on that hate as the whiteness around him disappeared, and he prepared Cut like an unsheathed knife.

--

A hand as rough as tree bark brushed against Wick's cheek. Wick opened his eyes and saw it wasn't a creature or animal, but a living tree as tall as two buildings.

It grasped Wick's body with its giant branches for hands.

The rage Wick had summoned while in the Choosing Room sharpened into Cut, and he released a blue arc at the tree. Manna splashed everywhere from Wick's body, and its light showed him the tree had no eyes.

His skill didn't damage the creature, but it did drop Wick into the quiet river he had been picked up from. He fell backward into the water and righted himself.

"Get back!" Wick managed to scream when he surfaced. He kicked furiously to keep his head above water.

The water around him twisted, and soon he was in the center of a whirlpool. Forget terrifying beasts. The forest itself was trying to kill him.

He threw out two more Cuts, splashing leaking manna around like fireworks in a desperate attempt to flee from the water. His gut felt hollow, and he knew he was out of SP.

Wick realized the river below him was shifting. He was raised up from the center of the twisting water. His feet were locked in place, but he felt the water mold to his back until he was sitting high in the air on a chair made of the river.

A face the height of ten men morphed out of the water.

The river's going to eat me, Wick realized. He couldn't do a thing about it. Besides dying on a bed of money, Wick had given in to the romance of dying while diving deep in the Sprawl for legendary riches.

The face continued to twist until it looked more human to Wick, finally settling on the features of a pretty girl. Wick's heart dropped from his chest to his stomach when he understood what he was looking at.

"A nymph," Wick said, his voice trembling. Despite the overwhelming fear, a cooler part of his mind scrounged up lessons from the several books he had read in the Guild libraries. "Naiad, river entity. Unlike actual rivers, they travel. The Wash is thought to be the corpse of a great naiad."

Nymphs came in different tribes. Each tribe was about as different from each other as chickens were to bears. The oceanids birthed half-breeds like Pebbles and her younger brother on coastal cities. They sometimes took the forms of fabled mermaids sailors bumped into while out at sea.

The oreads lingered in the mountains at the nation's border and had been warring with Vandia for several generations. It was where everyone in Vandia was sent for their mandatory military service.

All the nymph tribes had their own goals and powers and characteristics, but two important facts tied them all together. They were powerful and they were dangerous.

What bound Wick to her waters was a naiad, creatures he had only ever read or heard stories about. Some of the stories involved a beautiful woman made of water healing the wounds of...

Wick blinked at the naiad. He was seeing her. When he had been beaten by the orphans, Wick's eyes had swollen shut. He had been so focused on channeling his anger to keep himself alive that he didn't realize he didn't feel any pain.

His hands weren't bleeding and broken. He touched his face. To his surprise, they were smooth and unswollen.

The giant tree he had seen before rooted itself back to the edge of the river bank. It stood so still that if Wick hadn't seen it move only moments earlier, he would have thought it was just a very large but normal tree.

"Angry little monkey, aren't you? The poor tree kami did not want the monkey to drown," spoke the naiad. Her head tilted sideways, which Wick took as an expression of curiosity.

Wick gathered his wits. If the living tree or the nymph had wanted him dead, he never would have woken up from the Choosing Room. He didn't know what the protocol was to speak with a powerful spirit entity, so he stammered for some kind of favor with it. Despite being soaked, his voice came out dry and cracked. "Thank you for healing me."

The naiad hummed, water rippling across her face from the vibrations. She seemed pleased but did not set Wick down. Her water had eyes shaped too wide, as if she had tried imitating what a human looked like only based off of what she heard about them. Her gaze was alien, unnerving.

It was then Wick remembered the other kind of stories he heard about nymphs. Those ones didn't always involve a brave hero who was mortally wounded only to be brought back from the edge of death by a water beauty.

Some Sprawlers had shared tales of sailors lured off their boats by the siren songs of oceanids, the people of the Mar, only to drown in the waters. Others spoke of adventurers who found themselves in untrekked dungeons, only to find themselves the tortured playthings of the lampads, nymphs of the dungeons.

Wick gulped. He had been healed, but for what, exactly?

He asked, "Honored spirit of great beauty and power, may I ask why you have healed me?"

In answer, a thin tendril of water no wider than Wick's little finger protruded from the river and reached closer to him. Wick stiffened, but since he was bound by the naiad's grip, he couldn't do anything except flail his hands.

He wanted to panic. His heart raced, but he did his best to hide his fear because it might have come off as disrespectful. The books he read didn't have instructions on the proper etiquette when dealing with an immortal spirit that could crush you with a thought. It was best to try to get on her good side, if she had one.

Wick winced, closing his eyes. He felt the tendril touch his neck and rise.

Curious, he opened his eyes to see the nymph holding the glass amulet his dad had given him. Wick felt his memory begin to fog over, his thoughts increasingly harder to recover.

Then the darkness in his mind lifted instantly, and he realized the glass amulet rested back on his chest, the thin rope around his neck. Wick's eyes widened.

The amulet allowed him to resist the amnestic effects of the forest. It allowed him to walk into a place that had eluded even the most powerful sorcerers.

Something swelled inside Wick that pushed aside the fear. It was the memory of seeing his dad step through the wormhole, returning from his excursions into the Labyrinth. His dad had come back with one less arm and a fear Wick had never seen before.

Clutched in his remaining hand had been the glass amulet.

Until now, Wick thought it was a useless trinket his dad had found. But it had saved his life when he needed it most. He felt tears wet his cheek.

A thought came to him while the naiad studied him with her alien gaze. What were the chances the same glass amulet his dad clutched from the terrors of the Labyrinth would be the same thing that could allow Wick to travel into an amnestic zone while keeping his memories?

As if reading his mind, the naiad finally spoke once more. "Not chance, my curious little monkey. No chance with threads like these. The gold was already pulling you here."

Wick didn't understand, and he didn't know what to say. So he reframed the same question as before, "Naiad. Why have you kept me alive?"

The water spirit giggled and spoke in a tone as if the answer was obvious. "Because it pleased me. You were a broken monkey. You were to break until you were no more. But I saw your threads. Most human threads are dull and brown, but since I am so clever, I could see the red and gold."

Wick shook his head, more confused than before. "What do you mean by threads?"

The water beneath Wick bubbled, and he feared for a moment that he had angered her. Instead, he was unbound and set to the side of the river bank, next to the same tree that had grabbed him before.

To his surprise, his spade and leather jacket sat next to him on the bank. He contained his excitement and decided it was smarter not to reach for them.

Now that his attentions weren't completely focused on the naiad's face, he realized her form had been blocking a hexagonal marking in the ground behind her. Moss had grown over the marking, but he pulled out his amulet and found it was the same shape.

Was this what she meant by no chance?

Before he could ask about the markings, the naiad spoke again as if explaining to a very stupid child. "Threads are for us who see. You little monkeys call them fates. Many fates for each monkey. Always dropping fates or cutting them or tying them or picking up new ones. Knots, the lot of you. Most are boring and brown. But you have two pretty ones."

Wick saw it then. He recognized the look in her eyes. It was the same one dungeoneers had when they found a vein of rare ore or a corpse of a powerful monster, untouched by decay.

The naiad wanted something from him, these threads. Wick slowed his breathing, trying to control the rising fear. If she really wanted to kill him for whatever the threads were, she would have done so.

But he reminded himself that she wasn't a human and probably didn't think like a human. And even though he knew his amulet could now keep his mind awake in the forest and his body had been healed by the naiad, it didn't mean he could get out alive.

He asked, "Do you want my threads?"

The naiad's already-wide eyes widened even more, her smile both childlike and vicious as a predator. Her head nodded up and down so quickly that water splashed everywhere. The tree kami shuddered seemingly in annoyance. The nymph wanted something from Wick. He could just give it to her and ask her for a ride out of the forest, but a thought occurred to him.

She had not only healed him, but she had also waited for him to wake up. That meant that she couldn't just take what she wanted or she would have done so already.

This was a transaction, and if Wick knew anything, he could haggle even experienced merchants to the ground. His dad had wondered out loud countless times where in the world he had gotten the skill. The trick was just wanting it more than the other person so much that you never showed it.

Wick found himself smiling. "And what will you give me in return for my threads?"

The naiad frowned. She spoke in her bubbly voice, a little anger leaking through. "I fixed the monkey. That should be enough."

Wick licked his lips. Her first attack was a weak opening on her part, but her anger gave him caution. He was on the edge of a knife. Any wrong word could get him squashed or drowned or both. Out of all his approaches, he decided to go with possessive. "But these are my threads. What colors did you say they were again?"

"Gold. Red," replied the naiad instantly, not even trying any standard negotiation tactics. She wore her desire for his threads openly, like a child drooling for candy. The vendors at the markets would have ridiculed her technique to tears. "The monkey doesn't have to give me the entire thread. I can just eat a little. Little for me. Monkey keep rest."

It can't be this easy, Wick thought. He didn't know what in the Cursed Crawl a gold and red thread were exactly, but it was clearly more valuable to her than it was to him.

He remembered something important, and opened his status screen.

Name: Wick

Title: None

Trait: ??? (Locked)

His trait. It was unknown. Nearly every person in the world had an unknown trait, completely locked to them. The status line was practically useless. Unless a person had extraordinary amounts of money, were royalty, or made it to the top of the Skillia, they'd be staring at those three question marks for the rest of their lives.

But according to the history books, there had been a time when nearly everyone had access to their traits. That was back in the glorious days when the Misonians’ technological advancements brought cities into the skies and Qeneri the Gold shared his terrifying magics with Etheria the Wise the way old friends exchanged gossip.

Before the demonic Arachs were banished to the Cursed Crawl, humans and nymphs worked great magics side by side to survive under their Arach rule. The most famous among the nymphs had been the hesperides, nymphs of light.

Hesperides had never been numerous, even in those days. But they didn't need to be because they were the most powerful tribe of nymphs to have ever walked the surface.

Most famously, they had one ability crucial to humans. The hesperides could unlock a human's trait. The trait could be anything.

A trait could give a person the power of flight, or make their fire-based skills stronger in the sunlight, or an infinite variety of things. Back then, traits had been crucial to keep the Arachs at bay. Without traits, legendary beasts like the guntus would have never been defeated.

According to the legends, other nymphs could unlock traits, but not as easily as the powerful hesperides. Nymphs like that were rare these days, and the only ones he had ever heard about belonged to the royal palace and the Skillia. Common people didn't have access to such a privilege. The strong stayed strong because they were strong.

Wick didn't know if this particular naiad could unlock his trait but he needed to try. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. "Naiad, I propose to you this: if you unlock my trait, I won't just give you a bite of one of my threads. I'll give you the whole thing."

The naiad seemed to consider this, and Wick's breathing slowed in anticipation. He thought the nymph would have jumped at the opportunity. This was it. He could obtain something he never would have even dreamed of.

In his fanciful plans, he had imagined growing his hoard to the point he could afford to attend the Skillia and work his way up to earn the right to have his trait unlocked. But this and now? If the naiad agreed, all he'd have to do was trade it for a thread. He almost felt guilty for taking advantage of the creature.

Her curious face became grave, and Wick's elation began to sour. Still, he kept his hope. She said, "You know not what you ask."

Her voice carried weight, and for some reason, warning. Wick sighed. "I do. I want my trait unlocked, like the hesperides did in the days of Etheria Hemincross."

The naiad seemed startled at the legendary sorcerer's name. She sounded wistful. "Ah, wise and beautiful Etheria. Her trait was a joy and a curse. You may be intelligent for one so young, but you lack the wisdom of Etheria. I am not filled with the evening and mornings like my cousins. I am water alone. The sun and moon are blooming powers. Mine is the slower turning of banks through earth."

Wick didn't like where this was headed, noticing the broken speech and playful tone of the naiad had grown more certain. "So, you can't do it?"

She shook her head. "I can, little monkey. But not alone. You must help."

Wick felt his hopes drop into a bottomless hole. "I can't. I only have one skill slot open, and both my skills are level one. What do you expect me to do?"

The naiad sighed. "You monkeys have strayed far from the intelligence of the greedy Misonians and wise Etheria. I cannot blame you. The world has gone stale. My people have also slowed in their ways to an almost glacial pace. But little monkey, you can help."

"How?"

She gave Wick an almost pained look, and he couldn't tell if that sorrow was for him or for her. "By doing the difficult task of choosing. Your choice in this holds unbelievable power, for the cost is absolute. Make the choice between which thread I devour. The red or the gold. Some of that power will be used to unlock your trait. The rest is for me."

That was it? He just had to make a choice about two different-colored threads? But he stopped himself and asked, "You said fate. That's what threads are, right? But we have multiple of them. What happens when I lose one?"

The naiad paused as if considering her words carefully. "Like an empty pond, waters from other rivers rush in. For you, little monkey, the other thread grows thicker in the Great Weave."

Wick processed her vague words. "So, you're saying my other fate compensates for the lack of the other one? Will my lifespan shorten?"

She shrugged. Her features no longer looked young and bubbly, and were now older and grave. The broken patterns of her speech became melodic, almost sing-song. "Lives bend by choices. The length of your life depends on you, not your threads. You may find new fates. But to give up a great fate is a costly thing, and not just for you. You will find yourself losing a future you will have loved. It will be so totally gone that you will not even miss it. That is the tragedy. The other thread will dominate in its stead."

"Will my trait be different if I choose one color over the other?"

"No. Your trait is already there, inside you. This, I cannot change. But I may break the careful bonds with some of the thread I devour and the power from your choice."

Wick sighed. If he stayed in the forest, he was going to die. If the old stories were true, then having a trait would spike up his survival chances from impossible to a soft maybe. "Two final questions."

"Speak."

"What do you get out of this and what's the difference between my threads?"

"I will gain power to strengthen my river. The red thread is love. It is a love so great, songs will be spun to ring across the ages. The gold is an ancient fate, threaded long before you were born. It is inheritance. It is power beyond anything, and it will grow so thick it will pull on other threads around you like a talon on a weave. But this is also a curse. Your luck will rise, both good and bad equally."

Power, probably power the likes of which he could never have imagined. Of course. The bold get the gold. It made too much sense. He had practically been born for this moment. Wick found himself laughing at the thought of it, his echoes dulled out by the nearby fog.

The naiad looked alarmed at his response. "You have your answer?"

Wick nodded. He was ten. What was he going to do with love? People couldn't be trusted. The only thing that mattered in this world was hard money. He said, "Eat the red thread. I'm chasing gold."