A Weavers Duel

The battlefield had transformed into something unrecognizable—shattered stone, broken pillars, and the remnants of fate-bound structures twisted under the weight of clashing Weaving. Dust hung in the air, thick with the golden glow of fractured spells, flickering as they unraveled.

Ren moved before he could think, instincts threading through the Loom faster than conscious thought. He slipped between shifting fate-lines, his steps a fraction ahead of every strike, his body bending around attacks that should have connected but never quite did.

Jorrik, by contrast, was an unyielding force. He didn't evade. He didn't weave through gaps.

He crushed everything in his way.

A fate-spear snapped into his grip, already in motion before his last attack had finished. He hurled it forward, the golden light streaking toward an opponent with precise, lethal intent.

The moment it hit—it vanished.

And before Ren could even track its movement—it was back in Jorrik's hand.

Ren barely had time to register it before Jorrik struck again. Another throw. Another instant retrieval. A perfect loop, seamless, unbroken.

A flash of movement to the right—an enemy lunging for Jorrik's exposed side.

Ren acted without thinking.

A flick of motion, a tug in the Loom—just enough to shift the enemy's footing. They stumbled, their balance unraveling for a heartbeat too long.

Jorrik didn't waste it.

He pivoted, catching his spear mid-return, then lashed out. His weapon sliced through the air in a brutal arc, piercing straight through the enemy's shoulder.

They collapsed.

Jorrik didn't pause. He ripped the spear free mid-motion, already turning toward the next target.

Ren exhaled sharply, adjusting his stance. The fight was escalating fast, too fast. They weren't just holding their ground anymore.

They were tearing through everything in their path.

Ren felt the Loom shift—a ripple in fate warning him of another incoming attack.

He moved before he saw it.

A spear lashed toward him, twisting midair to track his movement.

His footwork slipped between fate-lines, bending around the attack rather than stopping it. The golden spear grazed his side—just close enough to feel its heat, but not enough to draw blood.

The moment he dodged, a second enemy was already moving.

Ren let instinct take over.

A blade cut toward his ribs—he vanished.

His body flickered, unraveling for the briefest moment before reappearing just outside the strike's reach.

His opponent swung into empty air where he had been a heartbeat before.

Ren didn't wait for them to recover. He lashed out—his hand striking forward, golden threads snapping tight around their arm, twisting fate just enough to unbalance them.

The enemy staggered.

Jorrik ended them.

A brutal movement, a single decisive strike—his spear slammed through their defenses, sending them crashing into the stone with enough force to crack the ground beneath them.

They didn't get back up.

Ren turned sharply, breath steady despite the rising tension in his limbs. His eyes flicked toward Jorrik, who hadn't even acknowledged what had just happened.

Jorrik fought alone.

Ren fought alone.

But somehow, they weren't getting in each other's way.

Somehow, they were cutting through the battlefield as one.

For a moment, everything slowed.

The battlefield had thinned. The weaker students had either fled or fallen, leaving behind only those strong enough to remain standing.

Ren straightened, his ribs rising and falling in controlled rhythm. His Weaving hadn't faltered, but he could feel it—the Loom itself tensing.

Like it was waiting.

Like it knew what was coming next.

Then—

A crack.

A fracture in fate itself.

Jorrik's spear shattered midair.

Not blocked. Not deflected.

Unwoven.

Ren turned sharply.

Varian Dusk stood at the edge of the ruins, his golden fate-threads curling around his arms like coiled serpents, slow, controlled, waiting to strike.

He hadn't moved before.

But he was moving now.

Jorrik let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. His fingers twitched, another spear already reforming in his grip.

"Finally," he muttered. "Took you long enough, Dusk."

Varian smirked.

"Tavren first."

His foot pressed forward.

The Loom shattered.

The battlefield changed instantly.

The ground beneath them rippled, twisted, broke apart. Ren barely leapt back before jagged stone spears erupted from the earth, splitting the ruined temple into uneven terrain.

Jorrik lunged—his spear struck true, aimed for Varian's ribs—but it never connected.

Varian caught it.

With his bare hand.

Then he crushed it.

Golden threads unraveled in his grip, snapping apart as though fate itself had been pulled from reality.

Ren moved—fast, low, slipping through the gaps in the battlefield.

Varian didn't fight like a tactician.

He fought like a force of nature.

Every step warped the Loom, shifting the battlefield into something that only suited him. Walls collapsed, pathways sealed off, the very air itself thickened with tangled fate-threads that pulled and slowed movement.

Jorrik tried to adjust, but even he was forced onto the defensive.

Ren wasn't much better.

Every step he took, Varian was already closing the gap.

This wasn't a fight.

This was a collapsing world.

Ren's breath came sharp, his mind racing. They weren't winning this.

Varian's Weaving wasn't just strong—it was rewriting the rules of battle itself.

Jorrik's attacks weren't landing cleanly anymore.

Ren's evasions were being cut off before they could complete.

And then—

A hand grabbed his wrist.

Kara.

"We have to go."

Ren hesitated. Jorrik was still standing.

But not for long.

Varian's golden threads were coiling around the ruins now, preparing to collapse the entire battlefield into something inescapable.

"Now, Ren."

A sharp tug—then the Loom warped.

The last thing Ren saw before the battlefield disappeared was Jorrik, standing alone against Varian, his spears still raised.

Then—

Darkness.