The streets of Althmire twisted beneath them as Solin and Lirien continued their walk. The air around them was thick with the scent of burnt incense, a byproduct of both the city's cultural practices and the unspoken tension in the Weave. Lirien's mind, still trying to absorb everything she had learned so far, buzzed with a new question that had been lingering in the back of her thoughts for a while. She hesitated, unsure of whether to ask, but Solin's silence made her think it was the right moment.
"Solin," she began carefully, her voice cutting through the hum of the city. "I've been meaning to ask you something for a while. Don't Weavers typically live... a long time? You're older than most, right? I read in the history books—"
Solin's pace didn't falter, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. His jaw tightened for just a moment, as if the question had touched on something he wasn't eager to confront.
"I've been around a while," he replied quietly, his voice steady but carrying the weight of something unsaid. "And yes, most Weavers live longer than other folk. The Weave… it changes things in us. Gives us longer lives, in a way."
Lirien glanced at him, her curiosity growing. There was something in his words—something he wasn't saying. She knew he had a history, a past that stretched far beyond his role in the Order. Her eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of concern and intrigue crossing her face.
"How long exactly, though? You look older than you should be for someone who's tied to the Weave," she pressed gently, her gaze meeting his. "The history books mention some Weavers who lived for centuries. But you, Solin… you look like you've lived through all of them."
Solin slowed his steps, his boots tapping softly on the cobblestone as he glanced up at the iron spires towering overhead, their twisted shapes a stark reflection of the city's unsettling beauty. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, but he didn't immediately answer. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sound of the city's pulse. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, as though the words themselves were hard to pull from the depths of his soul.
"During the War of the Shattered Weave… I had to do things," he began, his voice low, almost reluctant. "Things that broke what should never be broken."
Lirien was silent, waiting for him to continue. She knew the war had been a turning point, a cataclysm that had left its scars on the world and its people. But she hadn't understood until now how deep those scars ran.
"I took the Thread of others," Solin said after a long pause, his tone darkening. "To win. To survive." His eyes flashed briefly, and for a moment, the air around them seemed to crackle with a sense of power long suppressed. "If I hadn't… I wouldn't be standing here now. And neither would anyone else."
The weight of his words hung in the air, and Lirien could feel the shift in him, as though a barrier had been breached. The calm, collected exterior he maintained was slipping, revealing a man who had been forged in the fire of unimaginable choices.
"They called me 'Threadbane' during the war," Solin continued, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse. "I earned that name. It wasn't just a title—it was a warning." He looked at Lirien then, his eyes cold and hard. "I broke the Weave. I took what wasn't mine to take."
Lirien's heart skipped a beat. She'd read about the war, but she hadn't understood what it had cost the Weavers who had fought it. Now, she saw that Solin had been one of those who paid the highest price—by sacrificing parts of his own soul to ensure victory.
"That's why the Association of Weavers exiled me," Solin added, his voice sharp. "They said it was justice. But it wasn't. It was fear. Fear of what I'd become. Fear of what I'd taken. They couldn't understand what I had to do. So they cast me out."
Lirien was silent, processing the weight of his confession. She knew there were things about the war that had never been fully revealed, but to hear them from Solin's mouth—the cold truth of it—was something else entirely.
"But the Order," she murmured, her voice tentative, "they didn't exile you?"
Solin's lips tightened into a thin line, and for a moment, he said nothing. They continued walking, the air between them thick with the unspoken.
"The Order saw things differently," he said, finally, his voice low. "They understood why I did it. They knew that sometimes, to survive, you have to bend the rules. They let me stay in Althmire when the rest of them cast me out. They know what the world needs… and they knew I had the strength to give it."
Lirien's eyes flicked to him, a mixture of admiration and unease in her gaze. "So, you stayed because the Order saw you as… necessary?"
"Exactly," Solin replied. "They understand the balance. The Weave is fracturing. And sometimes, the Weave itself requires sacrifices—things we can't even understand fully. The Order took me in, because in the end, the people who lead have to do things others won't."
Lirien's steps slowed as she processed the enormity of what he was saying. She had known that Solin was different, that he carried a past darker than most. But hearing it now, in pieces from his own mouth, made her realize just how much he had lost—and how much of himself he had sacrificed.
They turned a corner, the towering spires of the Order's stronghold now visible in the distance, looming like sentinels over the city. The weight of Solin's words lingered in the air, and Lirien couldn't help but feel the shift in their partnership. She was still learning, still understanding the full scope of what Solin had faced. But for the first time, she wondered whether she was prepared to follow him through whatever came next.