God of the Loom

They call it the Loom — a hidden weave that stitches power into fools reckless enough to bind it. Sparks of metal, flowers, stone, secrets. Enough to make a gutter rat a ruler — or stitch their corpse right back into the dirt.



Kael Merin’s never been reckless. He trades ruin scrap for Shards, sleeps with one eye open so nobody cuts his throat for his last Token. Not a hero. Not chosen. Just hungry enough to crawl into holes the Orders don’t guard — the ones they warn you to leave shut.



Some swear the Loom is alive. Some say a Numen — the Weaver — still dreams at its heart, half-god, half-lie, waiting for a fool to wake it up and finish what it started.



Kael finds a Spark he shouldn’t. Steals it. Survives it — somehow. Now his Threadrealm hums with secrets that shouldn’t whisper, and every ruin is deeper, darker, hungrier. The vaults cough up riddles and half-dead things that remember too much.



There’s no prophecy. No blessing. No mentor with answers. Just a desperate boy, a stolen Spark, and a rumor that maybe the Weaver didn’t vanish — maybe it hid inside him.



The gutter wants him gutted. The Orders want him chained and bled dry. And the Loom?



The Loom wants him to weave — or die screaming.