ChewingGravity

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.

God of the Loom

Ashveil's rain always found a way in. It slipped under Kael's collar, cold and greasy, running down his back as he hugged the cracked brick wall. His coat was too thin — everything he owned was too thin. But at least he had bread in his pocket. A soft lump, stale but real, wrapped in a scrap of wax cloth.

Nan Kethra's voice drifted through his head — "Don't eat it all at once, boy. Save half. There's always tomorrow."

Kael pressed his thumb into the bread through his pocket. He could almost feel warmth there, as if her hands were still on his shoulders, fussing at him to stay warm, to stay fed, to stay alive. He'd stay alive. He always did.

A sharp whistle cracked the thought in half.

He didn't have to look. He knew the voice that came next.

"Oi! Kael!" Jorrin — gutter scum with a face half his age and fists twice as quick. Kael ducked his head, tucked his chin to his chest like maybe that'd make him invisible.

Bootsteps scraped. Rain hit tin. Another shape slipped out of the alley shadows — Tatch, all elbows and bone, grin chipped like his tooth, more hungry boy than thug.

Kael swallowed. "I'm not carrying. Swear it."

But his hand tightened in his pocket anyway — bread. Three Cog Shards. The last of his week's find. The only reason his stomach wouldn't be empty tonight.

Jorrin stepped closer. "Liar. We saw Bran slip you a scrap bag. And that old crow feeds you."

Kael's throat burned. "It's just bread, Jorrin. Let me go."

Tatch snorted. "Then hand it over. We're hungry too."

Kael shook his head. He could see Nan's face. Eat half. Save half. If he gave it up now, what would be left to save?

He bolted sideways. His shoulder slammed Jorrin back just enough — Kael ducked under Tatch's grab and sprinted. Boots sloshed in pooled rain. His breath came ragged, puffing white in the cold.

Behind him — laughter. A curse. Footsteps splashing after him.

Kael cut down a side alley, slipping between a half-collapsed scaffold and a leaking pipe that steamed faint warmth into the wet night. His foot hit something — wire coil — he stumbled, hands out, scraped his palms on wet brick.

Fingers grabbed his collar. Yanked him back.

"Got you now, rat." Jorrin's breath stank of cheap ale. Kael felt a tug — the bread came free first, then the little pouch of Shards.

"No — please — it's all I got—"

Tatch shoved him down. Kael's knees hit broken glass. The bread hit the mud. He reached for it, but Jorrin's boot pinned it flat.

"You can have the crust," Jorrin jeered. He bent down, scooped the pouch, the Shards jingling like tiny bells of shame.

Kael's fingers brushed the ruined bread. It was soaked, splitting in the rain. Jorrin's boot lifted — they were laughing already, vanishing into the shadows with his food, his scrap of hope.

He stayed crouched there, dripping, breath hitching in the cold. He picked up what was left — half a heel, soggy, filthy. He brushed it on his sleeve. He ate it anyway.

When you're hungry enough, you don't care about mud.

Ashveil dripped on. Somewhere down the alley, a steam pipe hissed like a lullaby.

Tomorrow, he'd try again. He had no other choice.

Missing shards & Cracked Bread