The morning Theron turned fifteen, he won his first real fight.
It wasn't much of a victory. Three boys from the Threadless quarter, angry and desperate and looking for someone weaker to take it out on. They'd cornered him in the alley behind The Green Remedy while he was taking out the morning's compost. Theron had seen them coming, had calculated his odds, and had decided that running would only delay the inevitable.
Better to handle it now.
The first boy lunged with a knife—rusted, poorly balanced, held like someone who'd never been taught proper grip. Theron sidestepped, caught the wrist, and used the boy's own momentum to send him face-first into the wall. The second came in with wild thrashes. Theron ducked under the first punch, drove his elbow into the boy's solar plexus, and swept his legs while he was still gasping for air.
The third boy was smarter. He backed off, eyes calculating, looking for an opening that Theron didn't give him. After ten seconds of stalemate, he helped his friends up and they retreated, muttering threats that everyone knew were empty.
Theron watched them go, breathing steady, hands unshaking. No injuries. No property damage. A clean resolution. His mother would never know it happened.
"Not bad," a voice said from the mouth of the alley.
Theron turned to find Captain Mira Depths leaning against the corner of the building, arms crossed. She wore the silver-and-blue uniform of the City Watch, her azure Threadmark flowing across her collarbone like water frozen mid-ripple. She'd probably been there the whole time.
"Good morning, Captain," Theron said, as if he hadn't just put three boys on the ground.
"Happy birthday." Mira pushed off the wall and walked toward him, her steps casual but her eyes sharp. "Fifteen years old. That's the age most kids start academy training."
"Most kids have Threadmarks that work."
"So I've heard." Mira stopped a few feet away, studying him with the same assessing look she'd given him since they'd first met seven years ago. She'd found him in an alley then too, bleeding from a broken nose and split lip, and had spent the next hour teaching him how to properly throw a punch. "You planning to apply anyway?"
"What would be the point?"
"Education? Knowledge? Thread theory doesn't require active abilities to study."
Theron picked up the compost bucket he'd dropped, brushing dirt from his hands. "The Academy doesn't accept students without functional Threadmarks. Official policy. They say it's about resource allocation—why waste teaching slots on someone who can't practice the material?"
"Unofficial policy?"
"They're worried about liability. A Threadless student getting hurt during combat training would be bad for their reputation." Theron started walking back toward the shop's rear entrance. "Besides, I'm getting an education. My mother's library is extensive."
"I've noticed." Mira fell into step beside him. "I've also noticed you asking some interesting questions at the public archives lately. About pre-Concord history. About Thread classification systems and about—"
"I'm curious," Theron said, keeping his tone light. "Is that a crime?"
"No. But curiosity attracts attention. And attention can be dangerous for someone in your position." Mira lowered her voice. "Especially lately."
Theron caught the shift in her tone. He slowed his pace, giving her time to elaborate without asking directly. Mira was careful about what she said and where she said it—a useful trait in a Watch captain, less useful when you wanted actual information.
"There have been travelers," Mira said after a moment. "More than usual. Well-dressed. Asking questions about unusual Threadmarks. The kind of questions that make people nervous."
"Anything specific?"
"Colors, patterns, locations on the body." Mira glanced at him. "Marks that don't fit standard classifications."
Theron felt the hairs on his left hand tingle where his own mark lay hidden beneath his sleeve. He kept his expression neutral, mildly curious, nothing more. "Sounds like Thread researchers. Don't they come through periodically?"
"These aren't researchers. They move like military, even in civilian clothes. And they're not asking the Academy or the Thread Guilds—they're asking merchants, innkeepers, people in the markets." Mira stopped at the shop's back door. "People who might notice someone trying to hide something."
"Are you warning me about something specific, Captain?"
"I'm suggesting that a smart young man might want to keep his head down. Avoid drawing attention." Mira's expression softened slightly. "Your mother's been through enough, Theron. She doesn't need to worry about you more than she already does."
"I'll be careful," Theron said, which wasn't quite a promise.
Mira studied him for another moment, then nodded. "Enjoy your birthday. And Theron? Those boys will probably try again, with more friends. Please do not cause serious injuries. I did not show you combat techniques for you to become a merciless brute."
She walked off, and Theron stood in the doorway, thinking.
Well-dressed travelers asking about unusual marks. His mother's increasing nervousness over the past month. The way she'd started insisting on extra training sessions, drilling him harder on combat techniques and survival skills. The packed bag he'd found under his bed three weeks ago, carefully hidden but not quite carefully enough.
She had even started being less careful with hiding information from him.
Theron pushed open the door and stepped into the shop's back room, where his mother stored the bulk herbs and raw materials for her tinctures. The space smelled of earth and growing things, with bundles of dried plants hanging from the ceiling and clay jars lining the shelves.
Elena Thorne stood at the preparation table, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. Her Threadmark—delicate vines wrapping around her right wrist—glowed with soft green light as she worked. A Trained Verdant Thread. She looked up as he entered, her dark eyes scanning him automatically for injuries.
"The compost?"
"Dealt with." Theron set the bucket down and began washing his hands in the basin. "Captain Mira says hello."
"She's too observant for her own good" she muttered.
Theron smiled. "She said the same thing about me."
His mother's hands paused in their grinding, just for a fraction of a second. "Did she?"
"She mentioned travelers in the city. Asking questions."
"There are always travelers in Crossmark. It's a trade hub."
"These ones are asking about unusual Threadmarks."
Elena set down the mortar and pestle with careful precision. "Theron, come here."
He dried his hands and approached the table. His mother reached out and took his left hand, turning it palm-up to reveal the black mark that had defined his entire life. The pattern was intricate—more complex than most Threadmarks he'd seen—but it had never glowed, never shown any sign of functionality.
"What do you know about your mark?" Elena asked quietly.
"That it doesn't work. That I've been tested by three different Thread scholars who all concluded it was inert. That it appeared two years later than normal Threadmarks, at age ten instead of eight." Theron had recited these facts so many times they'd become rote. "That it makes me effectively Threadless in the eyes of society, regardless of whether I technically have a mark or not."
"And what do you believe?"