The sky still bore the scars of the previous night—like the tapestry of the world had been scratched by invisible claws. The clouds hung low, unraveling strands swaying over the ruined village. Ashes from the fallen tower still floated in the air, but Lira knew: the Whisperers hadn't been wiped out. They had only retreated—into the deepest folds of the weave.
She and Sern camped at the edge of a dry forest, not far from the abandoned village of Marvalir—the next knot on the map of heresies. According to the Empire's spies, a new node of the cult was forming there. But they weren't just weaving ideas anymore. They were weaving war.
That dawn, they came.
Not as an army. But as fever.
The first to emerge from the trees was a boy—or at least something shaped like one. His skin was sewn in spiral patterns, his face hidden by a mask knitted from living flesh and thread. In his hand, he held a needle long as a spear, dripping with shadow.
More followed—five, maybe six. All hooded, all deformed by their own looms. Fanatics who had traded identity for the raw language of thread.
Sern raised his blade. Lira instinctively felt the strands around her stir—waiting.
The first strike came too fast.
The boy hurled his needle like a javelin, and it halted midair, ricocheting off the shield Lira had woven just in time. The clash sang with a sharp, discordant note—like a symphony being ripped apart.
Sern lunged forward like a blade himself. His fighting style was merciless, honed to kill—but even he faltered when one of the cultists, a woman with stitches crossing her eyes, opened her arms. Threads surged from her flesh and tangled around his sword.
"They're stitching themselves into the world," Lira whispered, horrified.
The Blind Weaver pulled, wrenching the blade from Sern's grip with a force that came not from muscle, but from the tapestry itself, twisted around her will.
Lira rose. Her hands trembled—but not her gaze.
She remembered the Lesser Loom.
She reached out, felt the world pulse.
A Whisperer came at her—a woman with needle-arms and feet that never touched the ground. Lira plucked a thread from the air. It resisted, as if needing to be persuaded. With a twist, she looped it around the woman's chest—and pulled.
The crack was dry and final. The body dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
But the others didn't flee.
One leapt—massive, with a living tapestry inked into his skin that shifted with each motion. He crashed down on Lira like thunder. She blocked him with another thread, but the impact sent her flying into a tree.
Pain roared through her. She coughed blood.
And something inside her caught fire.
They don't follow the weave…
Neither do I.
She stood.
And for the first time—didn't command the threads.
She challenged them.
A snap echoed like a whip, and dozens of silver and gold strands coiled around her, alive with fury. She moved, and the threads danced with her—ripping the air, slicing through the Whisperers like judgment made silk.
Sern roared back into battle, beheading what remained of the Blind Weaver.
The giant tried to run.
Lira didn't let him.
One single thread—stitched with her pain—lashed forward, pierced his chest, and exploded into blackened lines.
Silence.
The forest remembered how to breathe.
The ground was littered with bodies—woven and unwoven. Strands floated like remnants of a war between forgotten gods.
Sern wiped his blade, eyes fixed on Lira.
"You're weaving differently," he said. "Like them."
She said nothing. Just stared at the threads around her, still swirling—as if eager for their next command.
"I'm weaving what comes after," she finally said. "Not for them. Not for the Loom. For me."
Sern looked like he might argue. But then, from the folds of Lira's cloak, a small red ribbon unraveled itself.
A summons.
A new mission.
And this time…
It came from a house she did not know.