She plucked a single thread from her web—not silver, but deep amber. “This is the first sound you ever loved. It is not a thought. It is a rhythm. Follow it.”
His wrist glowed. Not silver, but gold.
The amber thread touched his bare wrist, and suddenly he remembered not the event, but the feeling of the event: the warmth of a blanket pulled to his chin, the smell of woodsmoke, the certainty that someone was watching him sleep with soft, tired eyes. wapego
Kael was sixteen when it happened.