I woke to the sound of weaving.

Not the rhythmic click-clack of an ordinary loom, but something deeper — like the shifting of continents, like a thousand taut strings vibrating under an unseen hand. Each note burrowed into my skull until I thought my bones would hum apart.

I opened my eyes.

The world was wrong.

Threads hung everywhere. Thick as ship’s ropes, thin as hair, they stretched into an endless darkness in every direction. Some glowed faintly, some shimmered with colors I didn’t know existed, and some pulsed like veins carrying light instead of blood.

And I… was tied.

A single black thread wound around my right wrist, leading off into the void. When I tugged at it, it didn’t move — but the entire space seemed to notice. Threads shifted, brushing against each other like whispering voices.

“Not yet.”

The words weren’t spoken aloud. They vibrated through the black thread and straight into my mind. My heartbeat quickened.

“Where am I?” My voice vanished into the dark. No echo.

“The Loom.”

It wasn’t an answer I understood.

A figure stepped out from behind a curtain of golden threads. At first, I thought it was a woman — tall, robed in strands that shifted color as she moved. But her face was smooth and featureless, like uncut cloth.

She extended one finger, and a dozen thin threads unspooled from it, hovering toward me.

“You have been chosen. Not born. Not made. Chosen.”

I tried to step back, but my feet wouldn’t obey. The black thread around my wrist tightened.

“What happens if I refuse?”

A long pause. The threads around her shifted, revealing glimpses of faces — countless, blurred, all watching me from behind the strands.

“You already refused. That is why you died.”

I froze. Memories surged — rain, cold stone under my palms, the taste of blood, and the crack of something breaking inside my chest. My last breath in another world.

Before I could speak, she touched my forehead with one of her threads.

The Loom collapsed around me.

Light stabbed my eyes. Smells rushed in — woodsmoke, damp wool, the faint tang of dye. I was lying on a rough bed in a small, dimly lit room. Outside the open window, unfamiliar stars glimmered.

And my hands… were not my hands.

The skin was paler, the fingers longer, the nails neatly trimmed. I sat up, heart hammering, and caught sight of a basin of water on the table.

A stranger’s face stared back.

Young. Seventeen, maybe. Sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and a streak of white running through black hair. His — no, my — gaze looked both wary and exhausted.

That’s when I saw it: the faint mark around my right wrist. Not a bruise. A thread-thin black ring that didn’t break no matter how I rubbed it.

The door creaked open.

A girl, maybe fifteen, peeked in. Her hair was bound in a messy knot, her sleeves rolled to the elbows. She frowned at me. “You’re awake.”

I swallowed. “Where… is this?”

“East Wall district. The Guild found you in an alley, half-frozen.” Her eyes flicked to my wrist, lingered for a moment, then quickly looked away. “You’re lucky Master Callen took you in.”

“The Guild?” I asked.

She hesitated, then shrugged. “You’ll find out soon enough. Breakfast’s in ten minutes.” And she left.

I sat there for a while, staring at the black ring on my wrist.

The Loom’s voice echoed in my head.

“Not yet.”

I didn’t know what it meant, or why I’d been chosen. But I knew one thing:

This wasn’t my first life.

And whoever — or whatever — had rewoven me… wasn’t done.

The East Wall district smelled of damp stone and boiled grain.

From the upper floor window of my small room, I could see crooked lanes winding between slate-roofed houses. Lanterns still burned along the streets, casting a weak orange glow that made the mist look like it was holding its breath.

The girl from earlier hadn’t returned, but I heard voices downstairs — a low rumble of men’s laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clink of tin mugs. Somewhere, a loom was in motion, its dull rhythm steady as a heartbeat.

When I stepped into the main hall, I saw a long table with half a dozen people eating. A pot of porridge steamed at the center, flanked by bread so dark it was almost black.

An older man sat at the head of the table, broad-shouldered with hair the color of ash and a face that looked carved from old oak. A simple tunic hung from him, but the way the others glanced his way between bites told me he was in charge.

The girl gestured me over. “Master Callen, he’s the one I told you about.”

Callen’s gaze swept over me — sharp, measuring. “You’ve got your feet under you. Good. Eat.”

I took a seat. The bread was coarse, the porridge thin, but I was too hungry to care.

Halfway through the meal, Callen asked, “You remember anything before the alley?”

I hesitated. Memories of the Loom lingered — the black thread, the faceless woman. But if I spoke of that now, I’d be dismissed as mad.

“Not much,” I said. “Cold. Then… nothing.”

His eyes lingered on me, then moved to my wrist. “You’ve got the mark.”

I froze. “Mark?”

“The Threadmark,” the girl said. “Most people never see one. You either inherit it, earn it, or… survive it.”

“Survive what?”

She glanced at Callen, who gave a short nod. “The Threadbearers,” she said. “Those who walk one of the Twelve Paths.”

The room quieted. Even the scraping of spoons slowed.

Callen leaned back. “You’ll see them in the city — Spinners, Cutters, Binders, Knotters… each Path works the Loom in their own way. Twelve in total. They serve the Guilds, the Crown, or themselves.”

“And the mark?” I asked.

“It means you’ve been… touched,” Callen said. “The Loom noticed you.”

A prickle ran down my spine.

“Then… which Path am I?”

The girl snorted. “If you have to ask, you’re none of them. Not yet.”

After breakfast, Callen took me outside. The mist had lifted a little, revealing the outer wall of the district — a looming barrier of dark stone laced with faint silver lines that caught the morning light.

“That’s Guild work,” Callen said, nodding toward the silver threads. “The Weave-Ward. Keeps Threadbeasts out, most days.”

“Threadbeasts?”

“You’ll hear them at night. Sometimes see one if you’re unlucky.”

We turned down a narrow lane toward a squat building with a sign showing a spindle and knife crossed over each other. Inside, shelves were stacked with spools of thread — some ordinary, some shimmering faintly, and others that made my eyes ache to look at.

A man behind the counter looked up. His left eye was cloudy, and a thread-thin scar ran from brow to cheek.

“Another stray?” he asked Callen.

“Found him in the alley. Has a mark.”

The man’s gaze went to my wrist, and for a moment, his expression shifted — not quite fear, but wariness.

“That’s not one of ours,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just reached under the counter, pulled out a small, battered book, and slid it toward me.

The cover was marked with twelve symbols — each one a knot or spindle in a different style. But in the center, faint enough to be almost invisible, was a thirteenth mark. A circle broken by a single loose thread.

My fingers brushed it, and I felt the Loom’s voice stir in my skull.

“Not yet.”

I pulled my hand back.

Outside, Callen looked at me for a long moment. “Stay close to the Guild for now. East Wall’s safer than most places… but your kind of mark draws attention.”

“My kind?”

“The kind no one talks about.”

That night, as I lay in my narrow bed, the city’s noises faded — the last carts on the cobbles, the shutters closing, the loom’s heartbeat slowing.

In the silence, I heard it again.

Weaving.

Somewhere, unseen, threads were moving — and one of them was pulling at me.

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.”