Nytherion hit stone, palms splitting like a slum deal gone sour. The Fissure Tear stank of rot, Loom Vapors scorching his throat like a creditor's bad brew. His blood glowed, a damn signal for Bonegnashers chittering like dice he'd never roll right. Dusk eat this place, he thought, humming Lir's tune, fingers carving a Dusk rune into his obsidian shard. Scrape. Scrape. The rhythm kept him from breaking, but barely
The air was thick, Vapors coiling like debts he couldn't pay. Jagged rocks loomed, their edges glinting with a sickly purple glow, pulsing in time with his blood. The Loom's work, feeding on him. His arm throbbed where the Scuttler clawed him, the wound glowing faintly, a beacon in the dark. Above, the Tear's violet glow was gone, sealed, trapping him in this hell. A Fissure Tear, survivable for Unbound, but not for a rat with no Strand and a curse that wanted him dead.
The Betrayer's Mark burned in his chest, a needle twisting: Run. Survive. Profit. Nytherion snarled, shaking it off, but it lingered, cold as Lir's scream. He'd saved that woman and kid, defied the Mark, and the Loom had noticed, marking him Unbound, Dusk Strand—shadow-weaver, it called him. But the Mark made it a lie, promising his shadows would betray him if he tried to be more than a rat.
He crouched, shard tight, scanning the dark. Bonegnashers chittered closer, their hulking shapes shifting beyond the rocks—ogre-like, with jaws that could crack stone. Worse, something watched from the shadows, eyes like cracked glass, too human. The Glass-Eyed Reaver, hissing "Nytherion," its voice a blade across his nerves. It looked like Veyr, the Strandbound who'd named him, but warped, Frayed into a Shade. His gut twisted. Veyr had seen him as a weaver of dusk, but this thing saw meat.
Nytherion's shadow flickered, instinctive, blending him into the rock's edge. The Dusk Strand, Unbound but stirring, like the Loom knew he was screwed. A Bonegnasher lumbered past, its nose twitching, missing him. Nytherion held his breath, Lir's lullaby looping in his head: Spoolhaven's waiting, past the dark… But the Mark stung, sharp, and his shadow wavered, glowing faintly. The Bonegnasher froze, head snapping toward him.
"Dusk eat you," Nytherion hissed, bolting. The Bonegnasher roared, claws scraping stone, its bulk crashing after him. Nytherion darted between rocks, Vapors burning his lungs, blood pulsing brighter, drawing more chittering from the dark. The Fissure was alive, feeding on him, the Loom's whisper cutting through: Weave Dusk to seal the Tear, or fray.
He skidded into a crevice, heart slamming, and curled up, shard trembling. "I'm no Strandbound," he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm a rat out of lies." Lir's face flashed—singing, promising Spoolhaven, her hand slipping as Scuttlers tore her. He'd run, bread clutched, her scream chasing him. The Vapors twisted, showing her now, pleading: "You promised Spoolhaven." Nytherion squeezed his eyes shut, humming her tune, chest burning with the Mark. "I left you," he choked. "I'm sorry."
A glint caught his eye—a corpse, slumped against a rock, black armor cracked, a Strandbound. A Frayed Thread pulsed in a broken Weaving, a dagger glowing faintly. Beside it, a carving in the stone: Weaving War comes. Loom eats Unbound. Spool-eaters lie. Nytherion's breath hitched. The Strandbound hoarded Threads, letting Tears rip the slums, and the Loom was planning something bigger—a war to reweave reality, burning through rats like him.
The Mark burned hotter: Steal the Thread. Run. Profit. Nytherion's hand twitched, reaching, but a clean scrap of cloak floated in the Vapors—maybe the kid's, no blood. They'd lived. His jaw clenched. "Not this time," he muttered, defying the Mark's sting. He pressed the Thread to his shard, instinct guiding him. It glowed, sinking into the obsidian, the Loom whispering: Slay the Reaver to Spin Dusk.
The Bonegnasher's roar echoed, closer. Nytherion stood, shard glowing faintly, shadows stirring around him. The Mark's pain made them flicker, but he pushed forward, Lir's lullaby steadying him. The Glass-Eyed Reaver hissed from the dark, "Weaver of dusk," its face Veyr's, twisted, Frayed. It was his Binding, his trial to Spin his Strand—or die as a rat.
Nytherion smirked, humming Lir's tune. "I'm not your weaver," he said. "But I'll carve my way to Spoolhaven." He slipped into the shadows, shard ready, the Reaver's eyes tracking him.