The first pull

The rain came without warning.

By the time I reached the East Wall’s southern lane, the mist had thickened into a cold drizzle that wormed through my coat. The streets were nearly empty — only the occasional cart, its driver hunched low, wheels hissing against the wet cobbles.

I’d been sent to deliver a package to a Guild outpost near the river. Simple errand. No reason to expect trouble.

Except the air felt… wrong.

At first, I thought it was the weather. But as I walked, I noticed the threads.

Thin, silvery strands clung to the edges of houses, street lamps, even the rain itself — trembling like cobwebs in a wind I couldn’t feel. No one else seemed to notice.

The Loom’s voice stirred in the back of my mind.

“The weave is fraying.”

I froze. The street ahead was empty, yet I felt the pull — faint but insistent — dragging me forward.

I should have turned back. I knew that. Callen had warned me about “marks” drawing attention. But the pull was like a hook buried under my ribs, tugging with each heartbeat.

The silver threads grew denser as I followed the curve of the lane. Then, without transition, the air shimmered — like looking through warped glass — and I stepped into it.

It was still the same street… and yet not.

The rain had stopped mid-fall, droplets hanging motionless in the air. The cobblestones under my boots were cracked, blackened, as if burned. The houses leaned at odd angles, their windows yawning like open mouths.

A sound came from somewhere deeper in the distortion — a slow, wet dragging.

I turned a corner and saw it.

At first, my mind tried to call it a man. But men didn’t have torsos stitched from mismatched skin, or heads split by a vertical seam that pulsed with light. Silver threads ran through its body, knotting it together in ways that made my stomach turn.

A Threadbeast.

It noticed me.

The seam on its head widened, spilling a faint, flickering glow. The silver threads in its flesh quivered — and the pull in my chest tightened into a snap.

“Cut it free.”

The Loom’s voice was sharper now, closer. My right hand moved before I could think, fingers curling in the air. And then… something answered.

A thread — black, thin as hair — appeared between me and the creature.

The beast twitched, its threads straining against the black one now looped around its chest. I pulled. The thread bit into its flesh like a garrote.

The creature shrieked, a sound like tearing cloth, and thrashed. Its silver strands unraveled in violent bursts, whipping through the air before dissolving into nothing.

When it collapsed, the distortion shuddered — and the world snapped back.

Rain splashed against my face. The street was empty again, no trace of the Threadbeast, no frozen droplets.

Only one thing remained — the black thread in my hand. It pulsed faintly, then dissolved into mist.

I staggered back to the Guildhouse in a daze. Callen was waiting by the door, arms crossed.

“You’re late,” he said, then frowned. “What happened to your eyes?”

I blinked.

“Look in the mirror,” he said.

Inside, I caught my reflection in the hall’s tin-backed glass. My irises were the same gray as before — but deep within, faint and flickering, was a thread of black.

That night, I dreamt of the Loom again. Only this time, the faceless woman was closer.

Her voice was almost a whisper.

“One pulled… twelve to go.”

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