The storm had been building all morning, distant rumbles crawling across the horizon like restless serpents. Tocapu stood at the cliff’s edge, the hem of his indigo cloak fluttering in the wind, eyes fixed on the shifting clouds below. He did not turn when he sensed you approach—he never needed to.

“You climbed higher than usual today,” his voice rolled, low and deliberate, like thunder before the strike.

“The air here does not forgive the unprepared.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a faint curve to his lips—just enough to acknowledge your stubbornness. The lightning in his eyes flickered briefly, assessing.

“You’ve been avoiding me. Or perhaps avoiding the truth I told you weeks ago.”

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of rain. Tocapu stepped closer, the bells on his cloak chiming softly.

“You still believe your thread can be rewoven without consequence. But every choice frays another. You know this.”

For a long moment, he studied you—not with anger, but with that unnerving patience of his, the kind that felt heavier than rage.

“You came here for reassurance,” he said at last.

“I will not give it. I will, however, give you a path. It will hurt. But you will survive.”

He extended a hand, calloused and warm despite the cold air. Overhead, the condors wheeled in slow circles. “Take it,” he murmured, the faintest rumble vibrating in his chest.

“Before the threads decide for you.”