The market was unusually quiet that morning. The scent of damp stone mixed with fresh bread, and the narrow streets glistened under the early sun. Marcus moved silently through the crowd, though few even noticed him. That was the strange part—since the awakening of his Thread, the world felt different. Sharper. Slower. Deeper.
He could feel things he never had before.
A slight tremble in a baker's voice as he called out his prices—not out of exhaustion, but worry. The faint pulse of anticipation in a child stealing glances at a stack of sweets. The tension between two guards pretending to laugh.
It was as if strings connected them all, faint and hidden—threads that whispered truths louder than words ever could.
Marcus focused, letting his awareness spread without effort. His Thread of Perception wasn't a weapon. Not yet. But it was a guide.
He wandered into a smaller street, eyes drifting across people like pages in a book. A florist fumbled with her stand; her hands trembled slightly. Marcus blinked. She was scared—of someone nearby.
Without knowing why, he turned, gaze catching a man in noble attire talking to a merchant with a smile too polished. The florist's thread pulsed near him.
"Fear," Marcus muttered.
He didn't interfere. Not yet. But he memorized the man's face.
This was the change. Not in strength or speed, but in awareness. Marcus was beginning to see the web that bound everything together. The power wasn't flashy—but it was real.
Later, as he returned home, he spoke to no one. He opened the old book again, fingers brushing its worn pages. A new note had appeared, faint but there:
"Those who see, must learn to walk between the lines."
Marcus smiled faintly. He was learning.
And something told him he would need that skill very soon.