The sword hummed in Kaen's grip, its power thrumming through his veins, filling him with a strange sense of purpose. Yet, beneath the sharpness of the blade, a deeper unease clawed at him. Something was wrong. The memories that flooded his mind were not his own, and they were growing stronger by the second.

  As he stumbled to his feet, his breath ragged, the remnants of his village burned in the distance. The flickering flames cast an eerie glow, making the entire landscape seem unreal—like a scene from a forgotten dream. The assassin’s body, crumpled in a heap nearby, was a stark reminder that he was not safe. Not yet.

  Kaen looked down at the sword, its glowing symbols now more vivid, twisting and shifting as if they had a life of their own. He didn’t understand the markings. They felt ancient, distant, as though they had once belonged to a world far beyond the reach of time.

  “Focus,” he muttered, trying to steady his breath and calm the rising panic in his chest. He could feel the pulse of time swirling around him, the delicate threads that tied reality together—threads he had no right to control. He had no right to play with the flow of existence itself.

  But the voice… that voice was still there.

  "You are the last thread, Kaen. You must follow the path, or all is lost."

  Kaen clenched his jaw, trying to block out the echo. He didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want to hear any more cryptic warnings. He didn’t care about paths or threads or any of it. All he wanted was to survive. But the sword in his hand felt like a key to something much bigger than himself, and that scared him.

  He turned away from the village ruins and started walking. Each step felt heavy, as though the weight of a thousand unknown burdens was pressing down on him. His body ached from the fight, the pain in his side still sharp, but he pushed through it. There was no time for weakness.

  His mind kept circling back to the memories that were not his own. They were haunting—flashes of faces he didn’t recognize, places he had never been, and events that made no sense. A woman with raven hair and eyes like molten gold. A dark city with towers stretching far beyond the clouds. A battle… so many battles. He felt the strange pull of those images, like they were a part of him, yet not. And the more he tried to push them away, the more they clung to him.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. This was madness. None of this made sense.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  As he neared the edge of the forest, he heard the unmistakable sound of movement behind him. Footsteps. More soldiers.

  Kaen spun around, his sword raised in an instant, his heart hammering in his chest. The assassin he had just killed lay motionless, but it didn’t matter. His enemies were still out there, lurking in the shadows. And Kaen wasn’t about to wait around to find out how many more of them there were.

  A shadow darted between the trees, quick as lightning. Kaen’s instincts kicked in, and before he even had time to think, he was in motion, charging forward with the sword extended. His thoughts, muddled and fractured, couldn’t keep up with his actions. The memories were taking over, guiding his movements, pushing him into a battle that was no longer his to fight.

  He didn’t even see the soldier until it was too late. A sword flashed in front of him, cutting through the air with a deadly precision. Kaen barely had time to react, his sword meeting the other with a deafening clash.

  Time slowed.

  The soldier’s face was obscured beneath a dark mask, but the intent in their eyes was unmistakable. They were trained, disciplined. And Kaen… Kaen was a boy with no real purpose, wielding a sword he didn’t understand, fighting against forces far beyond his control.

  He felt it again—time. The threads were slipping. The pulse of the world around him, vibrating, growing more intense with every passing second. He could feel it in his chest, the pressure mounting as the sword in his hand hummed louder, vibrating with an unnatural force.

  "Remember," the voice whispered again. "You are the last thread. Don’t lose yourself in the unraveling."

  With a shout, Kaen swung the sword, the glowing symbols blazing to life as they cut through the air. In that moment, everything else fell away. The pain. The confusion. The overwhelming flood of memories. Everything was still, frozen in a heartbeat.

  And then the world exploded into motion.

  Kaen’s sword crashed against the soldier’s, sending a shockwave of force that knocked the soldier back. But Kaen didn’t stop. He pressed forward, his mind numb, his body moving on instinct. His every movement was a blur, each strike more powerful than the last. The soldier was skilled, but Kaen’s fury was unmatched.

  As the final blow landed, the soldier crumpled to the ground, their weapon falling from their hand. Kaen stood over them, chest heaving, eyes wide with disbelief.

  He hadn’t just defeated the soldier. He had… he had rewritten the battle.

  The sword pulsed once more, and Kaen felt it deep within him. The memories, the voice, the power—it was all connected. The thread. His thread.

  But at what cost?

  As the last soldier fell, Kaen felt the darkness closing in. The weight of the memories, the power of the sword, and the constant pull of time were too much to bear. His knees buckled, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse right there in the forest.

  He was the last thread, but he had no idea what it meant. And time—time had already begun to unravel.