Kael’s fingers trembled as they traced the frayed edge of the thread, its silver sheen catching the dim light of the weaving room. The air smelled of damp wool and burnt incense, a scent that clung to the walls of Veylan’s Loom Hall like a second skin. He had spent years threading the city’s emotions into patterns, weaving calm into the merchants’ voices, serenity into the soldiers’ steps. But this—this was different. The thread pulsed beneath his touch, a heartbeat thrumming through the fabric of the world. He yanked his hand back, heart hammering. The other weavers would call it a flaw, a mistake. But Kael knew better. This thread was alive.
The Loom had always been silent, its great frame of bronze and bone humming only when the city needed it. It was the Council’s creation, an ancient machine that translated human emotions into color and sound, then spun them into the air like mist. Veylan thrived on its order—no anger, no fear, no joy. Just the steady rhythm of neutrality. But Kael had seen the cracks. The way the Loom’s gears ground when it tried to process something too wild, the way the threads sometimes frayed at the edges, as if resisting. He had never dared to question it. Not until now.
That night, he stole a second thread from the storage vault, its surface slick with something he couldn’t name. It felt warmer than the others, like a living thing curled in his palm. He hid it beneath his cloak as he left the Hall, the cold air biting his cheeks. The streets of Veylan were empty, their cobblestones slick with rain. Lanterns flickered in their sconces, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. Kael’s boots echoed against the stone, each step a rebellion.
He found Lira in the undercrofts, where the city’s discarded threads were stored. She was crouched over a pile of fabric, her hands moving with a precision that made Kael’s breath catch. Her hair was matted with dye, her clothes stained with the same silver hue as the thread he held. When she looked up, her eyes were sharp, too sharp for someone who had spent her life in the shadows.
“You’re late,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice was low, roughened by years of whispering secrets.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Kael replied, stepping closer. The thread in his hand felt heavier now, as if it knew where it was going.
Lira finally met his gaze. “You’re the first weaver to come looking for us. That means you’ve seen it too.”
Kael nodded. The thread in his hand pulsed again, a quiet rhythm that matched the beat of his own pulse. “The Loom’s breaking. I can feel it.”
Lira stood, her movements fluid, practiced. “Then we don’t have much time.” She reached out and took the thread from him, holding it up to the dim light. It shimmered, not with the dull sheen of the other threads, but with something else—something raw and untamed. “This is why they’re hunting us,” she said. “They know what you’ve found.”
Kael’s stomach twisted. “Who’s hunting you?”
“The Council,” Lira said, her voice steady. “They’ve been trying to erase the threads that don’t fit. The ones that feel too much. But this—this is different. This is a thread that remembers.”
Before Kael could respond, a shout echoed through the undercrofts. The sound of boots against stone, too loud, too fast. Lira cursed under her breath and shoved the thread into his hands. “Go,” she said, already moving. “Find the others. Tell them what you’ve seen.”
Kael ran, the thread clutched to his chest like a secret. The city blurred around him, its gray walls and silent streets closing in. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he couldn’t stop. The Loom’s hum grew louder in his ears, a low vibration that made his teeth ache. It was warning him, or maybe pleading with him. He didn’t know which.
He found the others in the old weaving hall, its doors long since sealed. The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of forgotten threads. A dozen figures stood in the center, their faces half-hidden by hoods. At their feet lay a tangle of silver threads, each one pulsing with a faint light.
“You’re late,” said the tallest figure, a man with a voice like rusted metal.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Kael said, his breath ragged. He held out the thread, its glow brighter now. “The Loom’s breaking. I can feel it.”
The man stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “Then you’re one of us.”
Kael hesitated. The others watched him, their expressions unreadable. He thought of the city above, of the people who walked its streets without knowing what they were missing. He thought of the thread in his hand, warm and alive. And he knew, with a certainty that made his knees weak, that he had already chosen.
The man nodded. “Good. Then you’ll help us fix it.”
Kael looked down at the thread, its glow steady, unyielding. He didn’t know what that meant. But for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of the unknown.
