The second pull

The second bell was still hours away when I woke, but the sound that roused me wasn’t the chime.

It was the Loom’s hum.

Only this time, it wasn’t distant. It was right there, as if someone had draped the threads over my chest while I slept.

I sat up, searching the dark room. The river lamps beyond the window flickered strangely, their reflections bending and twisting as if caught in a current that didn’t exist.

The pull began in my hands — a faint tingling that crawled up my arms.

I recognized it immediately.

The Threadbreak was near.

I dressed quickly, wrapping the black silk dampener around my wrist. It dulled the pull, but not enough. The Loom still whispered at the edge of my hearing.

Stepping into the corridor, I almost collided with someone.

Maren.

She was in her own coat and boots, a satchel slung across her shoulder.

“You feel it too?” she asked quietly.

I didn’t answer, but the look we exchanged was enough.

We left the Guildhouse without alerting Callen — though I suspected he already knew. He always knew.

The pull led us east, through streets still slick from last night’s rain. The city was quiet at this hour, the only sound the occasional distant clatter of a cart.

We passed under the leaning arch of the Old Weaver’s Bridge, where the fog thickened until even the lamps were smudges in the grey.

And then we saw it.

A shopfront, door hanging open, glass shattered.

Inside, threads hung in the air like frozen spider silk — shimmering, shifting. They formed patterns that hurt to look at for too long, twisting into impossible shapes.

In the center of the room, hunched over a toppled display case, was the Threadbeast.

This one was different from the first. Its form was vaguely human, but its skin was made of layered, woven fibers that moved like muscle.

It turned toward us, and the threads in the air quivered.

The dampener’s silk grew hot around my wrist. My heartbeat slowed, each thump deliberate, controlled.

Maren whispered, “We should call for the Guard—”

But the creature moved.

One blink it was crouched. The next it was at the doorway, claws outstretched.

Instinct drove me forward. My palm met its chest, and the Loom’s voice surged in my head.

Pull.

Threads unraveled beneath my hand. I felt them snap, one after another, spilling a dark mist that smelled of scorched cloth.

The creature shrieked, stumbling back, its form fraying at the edges. But even as it staggered, the threads in the room writhed — and began to weave themselves around Maren.

I tore them apart with a thought, but the effort left a hollow ache in my chest.

The beast lunged again. This time, I sidestepped and yanked hard on something that wasn’t entirely there.

The world dimmed. The beast froze, its movements suddenly slowed, as if trapped in amber.

I struck once, pulling the last thread that bound it together.

It dissolved into black strands that faded before they touched the floor.

When I turned, Maren was staring at me.

Not with fear. With calculation.

“That wasn’t any Guild technique,” she said. “What are you really, Kael?”

Before I could answer, the bell began to toll in the distance — not the second bell of the night, but the heavy, urgent clang of the Guild Alarm.

Somehow, I knew it wasn’t for us.

It was for another Threadbreak.

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