The Empire was a body, and each Weaver, a nerve. But there were veins that pulsed beyond its reach—small, persistent heresies stitched along the torn edges of the Tapestry. And it was one of these rogue threads that Lira now followed.
The imperial carriage swayed softly along the Trail of the Broken Veil. Outside, dry hills concealed villages where the Loom was no longer prayed to. In whispers, people spoke of a sect—the Whisperers. Weavers of fate who rejected the Order, claiming to spin with black threads pulled from another realm—or perhaps from beyond reality itself.
Beside her sat Steel-Weaver Sern, silent as always. A veteran of the Veiled Guard, with eyes sharp enough to unravel lies on sight. He hadn't been sent to protect her, only to watch. That was what they did to those who rose too fast.
"They are few, but dangerous," he muttered. "They grew in the cracks left by the War of Burnt Threads. They weave in circles. Spirals. As if waiting for the Loom to begin again."
Lira gave no answer. Her thoughts were still tangled in the tapestry she had created. In the words it whispered. He still remembers you.
They arrived at the village by dusk. A dying place, its houses like hollow shells. But at its center, an ancient pre-imperial tower still stood—stone with no name, its surface etched in half-erased runes.
At the top, the needles whispered.
They were greeted by a hooded woman whose eyes had been sewn shut with threads finer than silk—yet she seemed to see more clearly than anyone else.
"Did you come to rip... or to stitch?" she asked.
"To observe," Sern answered before Lira could speak.
But Lira stepped forward.
"I came to listen. If you truly weave outside the Loom, I want to know how you're still alive."
The woman tilted her head.
Sern frowned, disapproving. But the Whisperer led them into the tower.
Inside was a womb of shadow and murmurs. Every wall was draped in tapestries—but something was wrong with them. The threads moved backward. They wove futures that never came and pasts no one had lived. It was madness turned into art.
An old man awaited them at the center. Pale skin, empty eyes, and a crown of twisted needles.
"You are Lira," he said. "The one who cut, but did not kill. The thread that sings in two tones."
Lira met his gaze without fear.
"What are you?"
"Echoes. Fractures. Forgotten seams. We do not follow the Loom. We follow what comes after."
"Heresy," Sern hissed, his hand already reaching for his blade.
But the old man lifted a thread—and with one motion, Sern's limbs froze. The line vibrated like a struck chord.
"You feel it, Lira. Threads are not obedience. They are language. And your needle... already speaks a new one."
She wanted to deny it. But the living tapestry before her—drawn from her nightmares—was forming something familiar. A face. A touch. A name she had never spoken aloud.
Kael.
"He is not your enemy," the old man whispered. "But the Loom... might be."
Sern broke free with sheer brute force, snapping the thread. He drew steel and struck the old man in a single fluid motion. Dark blood, nearly black, poured forth—along with threads that fled the wound like freed serpents.
The tower shook. The tapestries burned without fire. Lira screamed, grabbing a strand mid-air and instinctively weaving it around herself like a shield.
Outside, night had fallen. But the stars now formed patterns. Lines. As if the sky itself were being stitched.
On the ground, the old man lay dying. Smiling.
"You've already chosen…"
Sern seized Lira and pulled her away as the tower began to collapse. But even among the rubble, she knew:
The Tapestry was unraveling.
And she was a loose needle inside it.