"The threads are neither silent nor still; they hum with the breath of the universe, guiding us to truths unseen by mortal eyes. To follow them is not a choice, but the calling of existence itself." — The Nyxarian, Verse 17
The alarm wailed through the cramped hallways of the mining facility. Arlo sat frozen in the cafeteria, his pulse pounding in rhythm with the relentless siren. He'd been the one to spot the asteroid—a job he'd taken on to earn food from one of the lazier workers. It wasn't uncommon for him to take on odd jobs like scanner duty. They required little effort, and his anonymity in the facility meant no one questioned why he wasn't assigned to a role of his own.
But now, none of it seemed to matter.
Nineteen years. Trapped on this desolate, unnamed moon—known only as **Teve IV**, the fourth satellite of the equally unremarkable planet Teve. His entire life wasted on this bleak, lifeless rock. And for the last nine years, since his mother's death, Arlo had been utterly alone. Her "accident," as the workers called it, had left him to fend for himself, bargaining for food and performing menial tasks to scrape by. He'd lived in the shadows, a ghost among the contracted workers who never once thought to question his existence.
Arlo slumped over the cafeteria table, the chaos around him fading into a muffled blur. Complacency, that's what this place had bred. No one questioned Finisterra. No one defied their endless contracts. Everyone simply… existed. And he was no different.
Amanda—the closest thing he had to an ally—had once explained his peculiar position. Sarah, his mother, had "rescued" him. From what, exactly, Amanda didn't say. All she could say was that Sarah had risked everything to hide him from Finisterra, ensuring he'd never be entered into their system, never signed to one of their contracts.
"Freedom," Amanda had called it. But Arlo wasn't so sure. Was it freedom, or was it just another kind of prison?
A distant crash snapped him back to the present. The cafeteria was a storm of panic. Workers shoved and trampled each other in a mad rush for the escape pods. The three open archways leading to the hallways buzzed with bodies in motion. Faces Arlo recognized—though he wouldn't call them friends—blurred past him. The sight should have spurred him to action, but what was the point? Finisterra hadn't accounted for him, and there weren't enough pods for the unregistered. Each pod was locked behind biometric scanners, programmed to recognize only those bound by the corporation's iron grip.
There would be no escape for him.
The screaming and scrambling continued. A few faces glanced his way, confusion crossing their features at his indifferent posture. Still, they moved on, driven by their own desperation.
He muttered to himself, "What a pointless life."
Then it happened. A yell. A crash. The sharp, unmistakable crack of bone against metal. Arlo's head shot up, scanning the cafeteria. His heart pounded as he spotted the source of the noise.
In the left entryway lay a body. One of the workers, sprawled on the cold metal floor. Blood pooled beneath his head, staining the dull surface. Arlo recognized him—a loudmouth known for crude jokes and few friends. The man's skull had split open, likely from being shoved in the chaos. Arlo hesitated. His stomach churned, and his thoughts blurred into a chaotic whirlwind.
Then it clicked. This was his chance.
Arlo bolted toward the body, skidding to his knees beside it. He pressed two fingers to the man's neck. No pulse. Dead. His mind raced, the urgency of survival overriding any revulsion. He glanced at the man's hand, knowing exactly what he had to do. this was likely an accident but this man had no allies; Arlo doubted anyone would miss him.
He scrambled to the cafeteria counter, grabbing a knife. His hands shook as he returned to the body. "I'm sorry," he muttered, though he wasn't sure if he meant it. He gritted his teeth and began sawing through flesh and bone, bile rising in his throat. The blade slipped more than once, slicing into his own hand, but he pressed on. His vision blurred with tears and sweat. Finally, with a sickening snap, the hand came free.
Gasping, bloodstained, and trembling, Arlo clutched the severed hand and sprinted for the escape bay. The corridors were empty now, save for the blaring red lights casting an eerie glow. The pod bay was a long, dimly lit tunnel, its far end shrouded in shadow. He pushed forward, his breath ragged, feet pounding against the floor.
At last, he reached the final pod. The bay was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the blaring alarm. The absence of frantic footsteps and panicked cries sent a chill down Arlo's spine. Everyone had already escaped. He was alone now, and fear crept in as the realisation hit him—he might be too late. What if the pod failed to launch? What if he'd wasted precious moments severing the hand?
His heart hammered as he held the hand to the biometric scanner. Seconds stretched into eternity. The scanner beeped, and the pod door hissed open.
Arlo practically fell into the cramped pod, collapsing into the single chair. The door sealed behind him, and the pod shuddered as its launch sequence engaged. Through the small viewport, he saw the moon's surface shrinking beneath him. His chest heaved with relief.
But his relief was short-lived.
The asteroid loomed in the distance, massive and unstoppable. Debris hurtled past the pod, some pieces grazing its hull with a metallic screech. Arlo gripped the armrests as the pod's WHIP drive began to hum, a low, pulsing vibration that seemed to fill the air. The Wormhole Interstellar Passage Drive—capable of opening temporary rifts in space to transport its occupant to preprogrammed safe zones—was Arlo's only chance. For him, that meant Frostvault, the nearest Finisterra-controlled planet.
Arlo gripped the armrests, his breath uneven as the pod jolted from another wave of debris. The asteroid loomed closer, its shadow darkening the viewport. Then, a hit spun the pod off course, throwing him sideways in his seat. Through the small window, the wormhole formed by the WHIP drive came into view—a swirling, glowing black maw that seemed to both emit light and consume it. Thin, faintly luminous lines spiraled around its edge, creating an almost hypnotic vortex. The sight was both mesmerizing and terrifying.
The pod's automated systems fought to realign its trajectory, and the wormhole disappeared from view as the thrusters pushed the pod upwards. A holographic display blinked to life in front of him, showing a countdown:
**29 seconds.**
The pod jolted again, the impact throwing it into another spin. For a brief moment, the wormhole reappeared through the viewport, closer now but slipping away as the pod stabilized.
**10 seconds.**
The asteroid's shadow engulfed the pod. Larger fragments smashed into the hull, denting the exterior, and throwing the pod off course again.
**5 seconds.**
The thrusters roared, a final desperate push. The wormhole flickered into view one last time.
**0 seconds.**
The pod hurtled into the wormhole just as it began to collapse. The light engulfed him, and Arlo closed his eyes tightly as the pod shuddered violently. A sharp jolt rattled through his body, and then—everything went silent. No alarms, no thrusters, no spinning debris—just a vast, all-encompassing stillness. Arlo realised something had changed. Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.
The pod was gone. He was floating, suspended in an endless expanse of shadow. At first, there was nothing but the silence—profound and unbroken. Then shapes began to emerge faintly at the edges of his vision, coalescing into something tangible. Threads of dancing light stretched out in every direction, forming a vast and intricate web. They shimmered, pulsing faintly as though alive. Some glowed bright and vibrant, while others were thin and faded, barely holding their place in the tapestry. The space around him was infinite yet intimate, the threads winding closer as if drawn to his presence.
He reached out, his hand trembling. The nearest thread seemed to vibrate in response, its light intensifying. It felt alive, like it was watching him. Arlo hesitated, a sense of both wonder and dread filling his chest. Slowly, he extended his fingers and touched the strand.
A jolt of energy surged through him, sharp and overwhelming. It was as if the thread carried the weight of a thousand voices, a thousand stories all screaming at once. The sensation was too much to bear. His body convulsed, and the web of threads around him shuddered violently.
In an instant, he was ripped away. The threads vanished, replaced by the claustrophobic confines of the pod. Systems reactivated with a jarring hum, the pod spinning wildly before stabilising. The WHIP drive's display flashed green, signalling success. The pod had made it through. Arlo gasped, his body trembling, his mind reeling from what he had just experienced. Through the viewport, an unfamiliar planet grew larger, its surface rushing up to meet him.
Arlo's head swam. The threads… what had he seen? What had he touched? The questions lingered as the pod hurtled toward the surface, smoke trailing behind it. He had escaped Teve IV, but he had no idea what lay ahead.
----
Whether it was the violent descent through the planet's atmosphere or the disorienting experience of the wormhole, Arlo was unconscious long before the pod hit the planet's surface.
When he finally stirred, his body ached, his head pounding as though it had been caught in a vice. His senses returned slowly. First, the cold—biting and relentless. It seeped into his skin, his bones, making him shiver uncontrollably. Then the sound—the eerie silence of a desolate world, broken only by the soft whistle of wind.
His eyes fluttered open, the pod's door already ajar. Snow had piled against its edges, a thin drift even dusting the floor inside. Arlo blinked, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. He gritted his teeth as he pushed himself upright, a sharp, stabbing pain shooting through his shoulder.
"Damn it," he muttered, clutching his arm. The joint was dislocated, and even the slightest movement sent waves of agony radiating through him. He crawled out of the pod, his boots crunching on the snow as he landed outside.
An endless expanse of white stretched before him, rolling dunes of snow glowing faintly under the dim light of the sky. Frostvault. The name fit perfectly. The planet was a frozen vault, its secrets locked beneath layers of ice and snow. Arlo's lips curled into a small smile despite the pain. He'd heard of snow, overheard the workers on Teve IV telling stories about it, but he'd never seen it himself. It was beautiful, pristine. For a moment, he almost laughed, a spark of joy in the midst of his despair.
Then reality hit.
The beauty didn't matter. He was stranded, injured, and alone on an unknown world with no supplies and no idea where to go. The excitement faded, replaced by a cold dread that seeped deeper than the freezing air. The snow seemed to stretch endlessly, broken only by a wall of mist in the distance. Or was it smog? It churned faintly, an ominous barrier that blurred the horizon.
"What now?" he whispered, his voice swallowed by the vast emptiness. He'd escaped one prison only to find himself in another. Was this freedom? Was this what his mother had risked everything for?
A thread.
It was faint at first, almost imperceptible against the white backdrop, but unmistakably there. It shimmered faintly, a line of light stretching vertically in the distance, as if tethered between two invisible points. Arlo's heart quickened. He didn't understand what he was seeing, but he felt drawn to it.
"Nowhere else to go," he muttered, his voice trembling as much from the cold as from apprehension. He clutched his injured shoulder and began trudging through the snow toward the thread. The drifts were deeper than they appeared, the snow dense and unforgiving. Each step was a struggle, the cold biting at his exposed skin.
As he drew closer, doubts gnawed at him. What was this thing? Another hallucination, perhaps? Like from the wormhole?. They had felt alive, pulsing with a strange energy. Was this one the same? Was it even real?
The thread grew clearer as he approached. It hung about eight feet above the ground, shimmering faintly in the cold air. He hesitated beneath it, craning his neck to look up. He didn't dare touch it. The memory of the wormhole thread's overwhelming energy was still fresh in his mind. This was the same—alive, powerful, and utterly alien.
Then, without warning, more threads appeared.
They spiralled down from the sky, twisting and weaving through the air like living things. Arlo stumbled back, his breath quickening. His arm throbbed, but the pain was drowned out by the sheer awe of what he was witnessing. The threads wove intricate patterns, some clustering together while others drifted alone. They weren't intruding—they belonged, as if they had always been part of this place, hidden just beyond sight.
A sudden sensation made him freeze. It wasn't physical, but he felt it all the same—threads brushing against him, wrapping around his legs and arms. They didn't bind him, but their presence was undeniable. His breathing grew ragged, each exhale forming clouds in the freezing air.
"What is this?" he whispered, spinning in place as more threads appeared, weaving a surreal tapestry around him. Some threads glowed vibrantly, their light warming the cold air, while others were dim and faded, barely holding their form.
In the distance, two lights pierced the mist. Bright and unwavering, they cut through the smog like beacons. Arlo's heart sank. A vehicle. Someone was coming. But who? And why?
The threads seemed to react to his thoughts, shifting and pulsing faster. He stepped back, and they moved with him, wrapping closer as if trying to shield him. The lights drew nearer, resolving into the form of an armoured ground vehicle. Its bulky frame ground through the snow with mechanical precision, stopping a few meters away. The engine's hum cut through the silence as two figures emerged, their silhouettes sharp against the misty backdrop.
Arlo's instincts screamed at him to run, but his body refused to obey. He was too cold, too injured, too overwhelmed. The figures approached quickly, their movements practiced and efficient. He tried to step back, but one of them grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. Pain exploded in his shoulder, and he let out a choked cry.
"Let go!" he croaked, struggling weakly against the hold. The other figure stepped forward, producing a device from their belt. It was sleek and metallic, ending in a sharp point.
"What's happening?" Arlo gasped, his voice barely audible.
"Shut up," one of them barked. The device jabbed into his arm, and a cold sensation spread through his veins. His struggles weakened, his vision blurring. The last thing he saw was the faint glow of the threads, pulsing softly around him as if watching, before everything went dark.
At least he wasn't cold anymore.