He began to see the threads.
He knew what he had to do. Not to fix himself—that was impossible. But to balance the equation. He had taken without asking. He had rearranged without understanding. And now, the only thread left to cut was his own. blue majik
He didn't believe her. He couldn't. He was too far gone. He could see every thread in Manhattan now—a billion brilliant, writhing lines of cause and effect, joy and sorrow, life and death—and they were all connected to him . He was the central node. The hub. The god. He began to see the threads
The woman gasped. Her eyes snapped to his, wide and tearless for the first time in a year. The black thread didn't break—it loosened . It dissolved into a harmless gray mist. She smiled at him, bewildered, grateful, and Kaelen felt a rush of power so absolute, so intoxicating, that his own blue threads pulsed like arteries. But to balance the equation