That evening, as dusk bled into indigo, Ahri wandered the temple's outer edge. She needed air, space away from the choking silence of the Loom. The mountain winds were harsh, carrying the smell of frost and pine.
It was there, at the broken gates, that she saw him.
A stranger, cloaked in gray, leaned against the shattered stone. His face was obscured beneath a hood, but his posture was too calm, too deliberate, as though he had been waiting.
When Ahri approached, his voice came soft and measured. "So you are the one the Loom chose."
Her hand instinctively reached for the thread-etched dagger at her waist. "Who are you?"
The man chuckled low. "Names change. Titles endure. I was once called Keeper. Keeper of what was forbidden to weave."
Jin materialized at her side, wary. "He lies. There has been no Keeper since the First Fracture."
The man ignored him, addressing Ahri directly. "You've seen it, haven't you? The silence. The reflection. The hands. The Loom does not ask—it demands. And when it demands too much, it devours."
His words dug into her like hooks. "Why tell me this?"
"Because the Loom is not your master. And if you cling to it, you will become its sacrifice."
He reached into his cloak and revealed a shard of obsidian thread—jagged, alive with faint light. He held it out, offering. "Take it. With this, you may weave outside the Loom's command. A path not bound by silence."
Ahri's pulse raced. The shard pulsed as if it knew her, calling out like a second heartbeat. She hesitated, torn between instinct and temptation.
Jin's voice was harsh. "Do not touch it. That shard is cut from the Hollowed Realm. To take it is to invite corruption."
But Ahri's hand trembled, hovering inches away from the shard. She felt the pull of freedom—dangerous, intoxicating.
The stranger's hood tilted. "Decide quickly. The Loom's silence grows louder with every moment you waste."