Night fell in layers.
The twin suns dipped behind the serrated horizon, and Eltherra's moons rose—three of them, each a different hue. One burned red like a coal, another shone silver like the surface of still water, and the third glowed with a pulsing green that shimmered between the trees like breath.
Lyssira led him through a winding trail, narrow and silent, under the arching canopy of trees that glowed from within. Their bark gave off a bioluminescent pulse, faint and rhythmic—as though the forest itself was alive and dreaming.
Haraza touched one of the trees in passing.
It was warm.
("You shouldn't do that,") Lyssira said softly, not looking back.
("Why?")
("They remember touch. They might try to call you back one day.")
He pulled his hand away.
("You mean the trees have memories?")
("In this forest," she said, "everything has memory.")
They reached a clearing where the air grew thinner, sharper, as if cut by invisible blades. At its center lay the broken remnants of a stone archway, ancient and moss-covered. Floating above it was a fractured glyph—flickering with blue and violet light—like a holographic rune suspended mid-collapse.
Lyssira approached it reverently.
("This is a Threadmark," she said. "It used to guide the flow of time and story. A checkpoint in the Loom.")
Haraza stepped beside her.("It's… broken.")
("All Threadmarks are," she replied. "But some still echo. If you're lucky, they'll show you something useful. If not… they'll show you too much.")
Before he could ask what she meant, the glyph pulsed once.
Haraza felt his mind stretch—then shatter.
He was no longer standing in the clearing.
He saw flames.
A castle wrapped in chains, suspended upside-down in the sky.
Screams—some human, some not.
A throne made of swords, with no ruler.
A child with black eyes holding a broken hourglass.
And a man—tall, faceless—surrounded by clocks, whispering:
("The Threadless will tear the pattern. One will come who should not be. And he will be offered a choice: to mend the Loom… or to burn it.")
Then—
Darkness.
He gasped awake, back in the clearing.
His knees buckled. He hit the ground hard.
Lyssira caught him before he collapsed fully. Her hand rested on his chest, glowing faintly.
("Your soul bled through," she murmured. "The Echo pulled too hard.")
("What was that?") he whispered, trembling.
("Fragments of futures. Pieces of what may come. Visions of things the Loom can't control.")
("Who was the man?")
("I don't know." She looked disturbed. "But you saw him. That means something.")
("I don't want to see anything like that again.")
("You will," she said. "You've already begun to change. You touched a Threadmark and lived. That alone marks you.")
Haraza didn't reply.
But something inside him stirred—like an engine starting for the first time in centuries.
As they resumed their journey, the forest grew stranger.
Plants turned to look at them as they passed. Trees rearranged their branches to clear the way—or to block it. Faint whispers, like wind passing through memory, drifted at the edges of their hearing.
Haraza found himself holding the wrench again without realizing it.
("I didn't bring this," he said aloud. "It just… shows up.")
Lyssira glanced at it. ("It's your Willcraft. Your first one.")
("My what?")
She slowed her pace, watching the shadows.
("Threadwalkers can reshape objects from memory or concept—wills forged into form. Some summon weapons. Some tools. Some entire places. You brought a wrench.")
He frowned. ("Is that… lame?")
She smirked faintly. ("No. It's honest. You used what you trusted. And in Eltherra, that matters.")
Haraza turned the wrench over in his hands. It was still rusted, still dented—but now inscribed with shifting lines of runes that pulsed in time with his heart.
They made camp near a grove where the trees bowed inward, forming a circle. A natural ward. The moss here glowed softly in lines—sigils formed by nature, not man.
Lyssira summoned fire without flint—by whispering a word in a tongue that cracked the air.
The flames rose blue and quiet.
Haraza sat on a fallen log, watching the stars flicker in strange constellations. He turned to Lyssira.
("You've done this a long time.")
She nodded. ("I was summoned when I was ten.")
He blinked. ("Ten?")
("I was taken from my world. From a battlefield. I never saw my home again.")
Haraza was silent.
Lyssira looked at him. ("I don't know why they chose you. But I do know this: the Rift doesn't make mistakes. If you're here, it means the world needs something only you can give.")
("I don't even know what I am.")
("You will.")
They sat in silence a while longer.
And then the fire whispered.
A sound cut through the trees.
Not a creature. Not a wind.
A tear—like fabric splitting across reality.
Haraza stood instantly.
Lyssira unsheathed her blade.
From the east, the sky cracked. A line of light—violet, writhing, hungry—split the horizon. From it poured figures.
Shadows with mirrored faces.
Their hands dripped silver fire.
Their mouths moved without sound.
And all of them turned toward Haraza.
Lyssira's voice was iron. ("They're Riftborn.")
("What do they want?")
("You.")