The sky above Laphyzel was the color of spilled ink, streaked with veins of gold. Somewhere in the distance, a mountain hummed.
Dee Megus paused mid-step. "That's new."
"What is?" Hiro asked, lugging a sack of sweet potatoes over his shoulder.
"The mountain. It's humming."
Vampher tilted his head. "Could be a volcano?"
"No heat," Dee muttered, eyes distant. "No ash. Just… threads snapping."
"Mana?" Hiro asked.
"Threads," Dee corrected, his voice uncharacteristically grave. "The original threads of the world. The raw weave."
Hiro dropped the sack. "Didn't you invent weaving?"
"I didn't invent it," Dee said. "I just… listened to the world closely enough to understand how to pull the strings."
Vampher raised a brow. "And the mountain's singing off-key?"
"No." Dee turned toward the horizon. "Something ancient is waking. Something that shouldn't."
Two Days Later – Approaching the Singing Mountain
They traveled through Elnore's Spine, a range of high hills and hidden valleys. The humming had grown louder, almost like a chant too low to understand.
Vampher walked with a hand on his blade. "You sure we're not going toward danger?"
Hiro grinned. "We always walk into danger."
"Yes," Vampher said flatly. "But usually, it's stupid danger. This feels like... divine danger."
"Same difference," Dee said, tossing a pebble into the air and watching it turn into a glowing butterfly. "Besides, if I'm right—"
"You're always right," Hiro sighed.
"—then something has pierced the foundation of this world's weave."
Vampher stopped. "The threads?"
Dee nodded. "Someone… or something is pulling the original treads apart."
"You sound scared," Hiro said.
"I'm not scared." Dee smiled faintly. "I'm annoyed. This weave took me centuries to stabilize."
The Cleft of Whispers
They reached the base of the mountain by twilight. The land was split open—an unnatural fissure lined with glowing veins of red and gold.
"It's bleeding," Hiro whispered.
"Not blood," Dee murmured. "Pure mana. Raw treadstuff. It's leaking from the wound in the world."
"Cool," said Vampher. "Horrifying, but cool."
A stone slab lay nearby, half-buried in dirt. It pulsed faintly, etched with strange glyphs.
Dee knelt beside it. "This script is older than the gods."
"I thought the gods made the language," Hiro said.
"No." Dee touched the runes, and they flared. "The gods learned it. I studied it before they ever offered me a seat."
Vampher narrowed his eyes. "What's it say?"
Dee's voice turned quiet. "The Sealed One Dreams."
The ground trembled.
Flashback — The Sealing of the First Thread Fiend
4,000 Years Ago
There was no magic then—only the silent threads that flowed beneath Laphyzel's skin, unseen by all.
Dee Megus was the first to see them. The first to hear the hum.
And the first to face what slept beneath it.
A creature made of unwoven reality. A being that rejected form, rejected purpose. A Thread Fiend—a creature that fed not on mana, but on the concept of magic.
It had no name, no face. Just hunger.
Dee defeated it—not with power, but with pattern.
He sealed it beneath the mountain, stitched with runes made from his own blood, tied with a knot of his lifespan.
He lost seventy years that day.
And never told anyone.
Present — Back at the Cleft
"It's breaking free," Dee said softly. "The seal's unraveling."
"After four thousand years?" Hiro asked.
"Someone must have disturbed the pattern."
Vampher drew his blade. "We stopping it?"
"Not yet," Dee muttered. "The seal still holds—for now. But something helped it stir. We need to find out what."
"Which means…" Hiro groaned.
Dee grinned. "A city!"
Meanwhile — In the Obsidian Court
Far to the east, in a palace made of black glass and silence, a figure wrapped in veils sat before a mirror made of still water.
The mirror shimmered.
"The threads move," a voice whispered from the water.
The figure did not speak.
"The Magi is watching," the voice continued. "The Vampire walks. The Hero breathes. The tapestry begins to twist."
Then the figure raised a hand.
A wisp of black thread hovered above the mirror—corrupt, hungry, and alive.
"We will weave our own fate," the figure whispered.
And the mirror shattered.
City of Orunfall — The Tangled Marketplace
Back in the city, Dee wandered through the Weavers' District with Hiro and Vampher trying not to look suspicious.
"Act casual," Dee said.
"I'm always casual," Hiro replied, holding a pineapple like a weapon.
"You're holding fruit like it owes you money."
Vampher grunted. "You're being watched."
From the rooftops, faint eyes shimmered. Small children ducked behind curtains. The Weavers here knew power when they felt it—and Dee practically hummed with it.
A nervous young apprentice approached them. "S-sir Magi? Is it… really you?"
Dee raised an eyebrow. "That name again."
The girl knelt. "The Magi who taught the world how to speak to the threads! You… you are him, aren't you?"
Dee sighed. "Technically, yes. But don't kneel. Makes me feel old."
"You are old," Hiro reminded.
The girl looked up. "There are whispers… that the threads are sick. Some weaves come out wrong now. Spells backfire. Potions boil in their bottles."
Dee looked grim. "It's already begun."
Later That Night — Rooftop Reflections
They sat atop an inn roof, looking down at the lantern-lit streets.
"You think we're enough?" Hiro asked.
"For what?" Vampher asked.
"To stop it. Whatever it is. Again."
Dee was silent for a while. Then he smiled.
"Three immortals walk into a broken world," he said. "It's either the start of a tragedy or the best joke ever written."
"I'm hoping for a joke," Hiro said.
"I'm hoping there's pie at the end," Vampher muttered.
"Then let's keep walking," Dee said. "Until the punchline hits."