Chapter Six: Threads of Fate

The golden barrier flickered.

Yren could see the strain in Mareth's face, the tremor in his hands as he held the threads of magic together. The dark tendrils continued to lash against the shimmering weave, writhing like starving things. The tear in the sky pulsed, stretching wider, as if something on the other side was pulling at it.

They had to move.

"The Threadspire," Mareth repeated, his voice tight. "We need to reach the Loom before this barrier unravels."

Yren hesitated, glancing back at the fallen villagers. Lenna's breathing was slow, but steady. The others—those who had been touched by the dark threads—remained in their eerie stillness.

"If we leave, what happens to them?" Yren asked.

Mareth's expression darkened. "I do not know."

That wasn't the answer Yren wanted, but it was the only one he was going to get.

"Then let's go," he said.

Mareth turned to the remaining villagers—the ones still conscious, still untouched by the creeping void. "Stay within the barrier. Do not touch the threads. If I do not return, find another Elder—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening. "No. If I do not return, run."

A murmur of fear rippled through the crowd, but no one argued.

Yren adjusted the grip on his knife, feeling the weight of it in his palm. The blade had cut through the dark threads before. He would need it again.

Mareth moved first, lifting one hand. A single golden thread unraveled from his fingers, weaving into the barrier. A small opening formed—just enough for the two of them to slip through. The moment they stepped out, the gap sealed behind them, the hum of magic vibrating in the air.

And then they ran.

The village blurred past as they raced across the floating isles, crossing narrow stone bridges that swayed underfoot. The air was thick with the scent of magic and something else—something wrong.

Yren glanced up. The tear in the sky still loomed, but now, shapes moved behind it. Shadowy figures, shifting in and out of focus. Watching.

"The weave is breaking."

The whisper curled through his mind again, sending a chill through his spine.

Mareth grabbed his arm, pulling him forward. "Don't listen to it," he warned. "The voices beyond the veil speak in riddles and lies."

Yren swallowed hard and forced his legs to move faster.

Ahead, the Threadspire came into view—a towering structure of silver and stone, its spiraling design defying logic. It had no true entrance, no doors, only shifting archways that opened and closed like breathing wounds.

Mareth didn't hesitate. He stepped onto the base of the spire, and the stone rippled beneath his feet. Yren followed, though every instinct screamed at him to turn back.

As they stepped inside, the world twisted.

The air shimmered, bending around them. Threads of light and shadow wove through the walls, shifting in and out of existence. It felt as though they had stepped between moments, into a space where time did not move properly.

At the center of the chamber stood the Loom.

Or at least, what should have been the Loom.

Yren's breath caught in his throat.

The Loom was not spinning.

Its great celestial threads—golden and silver, binding all of Seams together—hung limp, as if cut. The mechanism stood still, silent, cold.

Mareth took a slow step forward, his voice barely a whisper.

"This… this is not possible."

Yren's pulse roared in his ears. If the Loom wasn't spinning, then Seams—

A new sound broke the silence.

A slow, deliberate snip.

Like a thread being cut.

Yren turned sharply—just in time to see something move in the shadows.

A figure, standing just beyond the Loom. Wrapped in shifting threads of darkness and light.

The same figure he had seen beyond the tear.

It lifted a single hand. A thread unraveled from its fingers, winding through the air like a serpent.

The whisper returned, colder than before.

"Tell me, Yren… what happens to a world when the last stitch is undone?"