Two days of riding south, and Spencer found new ways to be useful.
Lan trained Rand in the sword between camps — advanced blademaster forms that demanded more precision than the basic movements Spencer had watched during the journey from Emond's Field. The Warder moved through positions with the fluid certainty of someone who'd spent a lifetime perfecting death, and Rand followed with determination that almost masked the desperation underneath.
Spencer watched from the edge of their practice space, Thread Sight active, archiving everything.
[Skill Archive: Recording. Category: Blademaster Forms (Advanced). Entries: Whirlwind on the Height, Parting the Silk, Folding the Fan, River of Light. Status: Theoretical (Comprehension 0). Notes: Physical execution impossible without years of dedicated training. Value: Combat analysis, tactical prediction, instruction capability.]
The forms were beautiful. Lethal geometry expressed through human bodies — angles of attack and defense that had been refined over centuries of warfare. Spencer's body couldn't replicate them, would probably never be able to replicate them, but understanding how they worked meant understanding how to fight beside someone who used them.
[Warder Positioning: Comprehension advancing. 2→3 in progress. New understanding: Advanced sword forms create predictable zones of control. Positioning around a blademaster requires reading their form-flow and maintaining complementary angles.]
Level 15 gets me Tier 3 Splice. That's the goal.
But until then, I can keep getting better at the skills I already have.
---
Rand practiced channeling at night.
He thought no one knew. He'd wait until the camp was asleep, walk into the darkness, and reach for saidin with the particular desperation of someone trying to master a power that was killing him. The tainted male half of the Source responded to his touch, flooding him with power and madness in equal measure.
Spencer knew because Thread Sight showed the aftermath.
Each time Rand touched saidin, the channeling left scorch-marks on the Pattern. Burns in the weave of reality, visible only to those with the right perception. The marks were faint — Rand wasn't channeling at full power yet — but they glowed with the particular sickness of the taint, leaving trails that anyone with Shadow-sensitivity could follow.
He's learning to control it. That's good.
But every practice session is a beacon. The Forsaken could track those burns.
Fain could track those burns.
Spencer approached Moiraine the next morning, choosing his words carefully.
"Can I speak to you about something I've observed?"
Moiraine's expression suggested she was still waiting for the full truth she'd demanded. But she nodded. "Speak."
"Rand's been practicing. At night. Reaching for saidin."
Moiraine's composure cracked — just for a moment, just enough to show the concern underneath. "You can see when he channels?"
"Not exactly. But I can see what it leaves behind. Every time he touches the Source, something in the Pattern... scorches. Like burn-marks on silk." Spencer chose analogies that Moiraine could understand without revealing the full scope of Thread Sight. "Those scorch-marks could be followed by anyone with the right perception."
"The Shadow has such perception."
"Yes."
Moiraine was silent for a long moment. Her thread churned with calculations Spencer couldn't fully read — weighing the value of Rand's practice against the danger of detection, measuring Spencer's reliability against his continued evasions.
"You have told me something useful," she said finally. "I will address it with him."
"Without revealing how you know?"
"If possible." Moiraine's eyes held his. "Though it would be simpler if I could tell him the full truth about your abilities."
Always back to the same pressure. Tell her everything or keep dodging.
I can't tell her I'm from another world. I can't explain the Codex. I can't reveal that I've read the last page of this story.
But I can give her something. Enough to satisfy the ultimatum without exposing everything.
"Before Tear," Spencer said. "I promised. I'll keep that promise."
---
Thom's old knife needed sharpening.
Spencer found a river stone at their noon rest stop and worked the blade against it — the repetitive motion calming the part of his brain that kept calculating Fain's trajectory. The Darkfriend was ahead of them, positioning himself at Tear, waiting with the Horn and the dagger and whatever intelligence he'd gathered about Spencer's connections.
"I have what you love."
He could mean Nicola. He could mean the Hunt party. He could mean the saidin sample in my Inventory.
Or he could mean something I haven't thought of yet. Fain was crazy before Mordeth got into him; now he's crazy and brilliant.
The knife's edge gleamed sharp enough to cut thread. Spencer tested it against his thumb — a thin line of blood, bright red against pale skin — and felt the particular satisfaction of tools maintained and ready.
I'm not helpless. I have Sharp Sight and Thread Memory and Twist and Warder Positioning Comp 3.
I have allies who don't know they're allies. I have intelligence no one else possesses.
And I have a carpenter's hands that are getting better at holding weapons.
---
Perrin announced his departure at the evening fire.
The golden-eyed man stood with the particular tension of someone who'd been arguing with himself for days and finally reached a decision. His thread pulsed with wolf-gold intensity that had only grown stronger since Falme.
"The wolves are calling me home," he said, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't fully hide. "The Two Rivers needs protecting. Whitecloaks are moving through the region, and something's wrong with the land around Emond's Field."
Rand nodded slowly. His face showed nothing — the Dragon's mask settling over whatever he felt about losing one of his oldest friends.
"You have to go where you're needed."
"It's not about what I want. The wolves... they're clear on this. My place isn't at the Stone. My place is home."
Mat's expression mixed disappointment with understanding. Loial looked genuinely distressed — the Ogier's sense of fellowship ran deep. Moiraine's thread showed calculation beneath acceptance; she'd probably known this was coming.
Spencer watched Perrin's departure plans with the particular ache of someone who'd read this separation in a book and now had to experience it in reality.
Perrin goes to the Two Rivers. He saves his home from Trollocs and Whitecloaks. He becomes a leader his people need.
That's the story. That's what has to happen.
But watching him pack feels different than reading about it.
---
Spencer found Perrin at the edge of camp later that night.
The wolf-brother sat on a fallen log, sharpening his axe with the same kind of repetitive motion Spencer had used on his knife. His golden eyes reflected firelight with an intensity that was no longer quite human.
"The wrongness around you has grown," Perrin said without looking up. "Stronger than it was in Fal Dara."
"I've changed since then."
"So have I." Perrin's voice carried weight that matched his growing connection to the wolves. "But you feel different from how I changed. Like you're not quite in the world the same way everyone else is."
He's describing my Narrative Weight. The Pattern struggling to accommodate a thread it didn't spin.
The wolves sense what the Pattern senses.
"I'm trying to help," Spencer said. "Whatever I am, I'm trying to help Rand. Help all of you."
Perrin finally looked at Spencer. His golden eyes held judgment that was entirely human — the assessment of someone who'd learned to trust his instincts.
"The wolves say you're dangerous. Not evil — they'd have warned me differently if you were evil. But dangerous. Like a fire that could warm or burn depending on how it's tended."
"That's probably accurate."
"Are you going to burn us?"
The question was direct in a way that reminded Spencer why he'd always respected Perrin in the books. No games, no manipulation — just honest concern for people he cared about.
"I'm going to try very hard not to."
Perrin held Spencer's gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded and returned to sharpening his axe.
"That's all any of us can do, I suppose. Try hard."
---
The next morning, Perrin rode north.
Spencer watched his thread recede into the distance — wolf-gold fading as the miles accumulated between them. Another separation. Another friend heading toward a destiny that Spencer knew from fourteen books but couldn't share.
The Two Rivers arc. Perrin becomes Lord of the Two Rivers. He leads the defense against Trollocs and Whitecloaks both.
I could have warned him. Told him what's coming. Given him advantages I couldn't explain.
But some stories have to be lived, not prepared for.
Rand led the remaining group south toward Tear. His thread blazed with the particular intensity of someone who'd stopped denying his destiny and started embracing it. The Dragon Reborn, riding toward the Stone where Callandor waited.
And Spencer rode beside him, carrying secrets and scorch-marks and the knowledge that Fain was already at their destination.
The road to Tear. The road to Callandor. The road to whatever comes next.
Moiraine wants the full truth before we arrive. Fain wants a reckoning. The Pattern wants whatever the Pattern wants.
And I want to survive long enough to see how the story ends.
Even if it ends differently than I read.
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