Chapter Two: Threads of the Unseen

Yren ran.

His feet pounded against the stone bridges that linked the floating isles of Harrow's Rest, his breath coming in sharp bursts. The village below was in chaos—murmurs turning to shouts, the usual hum of Seams' ever-present magic faltering, skipping like a frayed thread ready to snap.

The tear in the sky loomed overhead, stretching wider, jagged like broken glass. The stars flickered in and out of existence, as if struggling to hold their place.

Yren reached the main square just as the village elder, Mareth, raised his hands for silence. His long silver hair, woven with golden thread—a sign of his connection to the Loom—fluttered in the uneasy wind. His eyes, normally steady and filled with the weight of centuries, were dark with something Yren had never seen before.

Fear.

"This," Mareth said, voice edged with urgency, "is not a storm. Not a trick of the sky. This is a tear in the very fabric of Seams."

A murmur rippled through the gathered villagers. They knew what that meant. The Loom, the ancient force that kept their world stitched together, was failing.

"The Loom slows, but it does not stop," Mareth continued, as if trying to convince himself. "Not yet. But this—this tear—it is a sign. Something from beyond Seams has touched our world."

Yren swallowed hard. He had seen it first, high upon the cliffs. Had heard the whisper, cold and foreign, curling through his mind.

"It begins."

"What do we do?" someone called from the crowd.

Before Mareth could answer, the wind shifted. A pulse rippled through the air, a deep hum that vibrated in Yren's chest. The tear in the sky pulsed with it, and for the briefest moment, something moved beyond it.

Not light. Not darkness.

Something in between.

A scream cut through the village. Yren turned just in time to see a figure collapse—a woman, clutching her head, gasping for breath. And then another fell. And another.

Yren's pulse roared in his ears.

Whatever was beyond the tear… it was already reaching through.