Valeight did not believe in mornings. Or schedules. Or food that didn't sigh melodramatically when bitten.
Still, the group found themselves seated at a café where the menus tried to psychoanalyze your order and the chairs refused to match. Loup was charming a croissant into being sentient. Sylvane was dramatically sipping air from a teacup.
"Why aren't we doing anything?" Ashwen grumbled. "We have a Threadcore, a sentient coin, and zero leads."
"It's called a rest day," Sylvane said, flipping her hair. "Even fate needs a break. Besides—" she turned to Ilyan with wide, hopeful eyes "—you look tired. Have you been sleeping? I worry, you know."
Ilyan blinked. "That's... kind?"
"I feel your burden," she said, resting her chin on her palm. "It's so brave, carrying all this... destiny. If it gets heavy, I could help. Or just hold your hand. For balance."
Ashwen choked on her aggressively bitter coffee. "Is this happening?"
Lune, deadpan as ever, stirred sugar into his tea. "She's currently auditioning for the role of Tragic Love Interest #2. Don't interrupt."
"I'm not!" Sylvane said, clearly lying. "I just care about our hero."
Ilyan stared at his toast, which was whispering encouragement in his mother's voice. "I'd like to leave now."
Groat buzzed with ancient, paper-dust energy. "We have two options. One: seek the Threadmason Guild here in Valeight. They document relics like the Threadcore. Or two: skip straight to a probable catastrophe by invoking the Loom's call."
Loup threw a knife at the wall, where it stuck into a wooden sign labeled NO DRAMATICS.
"Obviousment, we pick the catastrophe. It builds character!"
"No," said everyone else simultaneously.
Ashwen stood, slapping a coin on the table (it screamed and ran away). "Threadmasons it is."
Sylvane clutched Ilyan's arm. "It's so romantic. A journey through secrets and forbidden knowledge. You'll need someone to help you... emotionally."
He detached her like static cling. "Please stop hovering."
"I'm not hovering," she whispered, hovering.
The Threadmason Guild was located past a staircase that looped back on itself and asked three riddles about knitting patterns. At the top was a small room that contained more books than air.
A man stood among them, beard tangled in red string. "I'm Murdle. You have a relic that wants you dead?"
"That's the polite version," Ilyan said.
Groat emerged, smug. "Threadcore imprinting. Unclassified behavior. Possibly sentient. Definitely dramatic."
"Like her," Lune muttered, gesturing at Sylvane.
She ignored him entirely. "So what happens now? Will Ilyan need... someone to comfort him at night? Someone perceptive? Devoted?"
"Please let me fall down the stairs," Ilyan said.
Murdle examined the relic. "It's fragmenting threads across your weft. You'll start pulling echoes. Other timelines. Versions of yourself. Or others. Possibly both."
Ashwen groaned. "Perfect. A glitchy protagonist with reality bleed."
Groat flared faintly. "To fix this, you'll need a stabilizer weave — a pattern that anchors your core identity."
Sylvane practically vibrated. "I could be part of that pattern. Something... emotionally significant. A core memory! A tragic embrace!"
"I haven't hugged anyone since I died," Ilyan said. "Not about to start now."
Outside, the city had shifted. Valeight never stayed still. What was once a square was now a maze of mirrors.
Loup somersaulted into frame. "We need to seek the Weaver's Echo. The one who sings threads into place. It is a myth. A ghost. A total diva!"
Ashwen raised an eyebrow. "Is that a real lead, or did you dream that?"
"Both!" he chirped.
Lune sighed. "It's real. The Weaver's Echo is a known stabilizer. Lives somewhere beyond the Threadmarket."
Sylvane, taking the opportunity, linked arms with Ilyan again. "Then let's go. All of us. Together. As a... team." She batted her lashes. "But also, maybe... just us two at some point? For bonding?"
"Sure," Ilyan said. "When the city explodes."
She beamed. "So you're saying there's a chance."
As they passed an alleyway made entirely of lies and laundry lines, a spoon on the ground turned toward them and spoke:
"Beware. Threads pulled without caution unravel what was once worn safely."
Then it dissolved into powdered tea.
Ashwen muttered, "This place is exhausting."
Sylvane adjusted her hair. "Well, I think it's meaningful. Like me. Complex. Slightly bitter. But worth it."
Lune didn't look up from his book. "You misspelled 'deranged.'"
Groat, in Ilyan's palm, sighed. "Valeight is a city of performance. You were chosen. Now we need to find out why."
They kept walking — past mirrors that almost remembered them, toward threads that tugged even harder.