Beyond the world of mankind, lies a place, untouched by time, not bound by the laws of gravity and gazed upon by the eyes of mortals. The stars, ever so shining as they cast their faint light and beauty on to the realm below—cold, distant, yet eternal to an extent. They glow in silent defiance of the darkness around them, blazing with truths that no mortal tongue could speak. But beyond even these stars. Beyond the constellations that mankind have named and worshiped— lies another place as old as time memorial and greater than it.
Beyond them lie the heavens.
Not the heavens spoken of in scripture or whispered of in bedtime stories. No winged angels flit through the clouds bringing those who did good in. No golden gates.
The heavens grow ever brighter with age, their brilliance surpassing the comprehension mere mortals would never understand. Radiance it not a byproduct of energy but a language in itself. Light is not illumination— its essence memory and thought.
But there is still more.
A place where colours never even known to know to human eyes bleed together like oil being poured on water—shimmering, alive. Flowing into a river of shifting light that moce in directions that cannot be described, defying every natural order and law known to creation.
Vast shapes drift through this realm, forminh towers of translucent geometry, spiralling upwards in an endless cycle. Then isn't natty vanishing. Bridges made of living light stretch horizon to horizon. Constantly moving. Existing yet dont. Swallowed by a nebulous mist. Defying and contradicting laws. Buzzard structure appear. All from different epochs and era of time, and collapse as though dreaming themselves into existence, only to forget they were real.
No laws were obeyed here.
The law of physics. Removed.
The constraints of time. Gone.
It could not be called a world. A universe. A dimension or a realm.
It was something else entirely.
A whisper between realities. The pause between the tick and the tock of an eternal clock. Some might call it the Cradle of All. Others might name it the Loom of Infinity if they took a look at it.
And there—within this space where existence is stitched and unstitched with each heartbeat—he sat.
His form was like a silhouette sculpted from pure white light. Not glowing, not burning, but still brilliant—so flawless in its radiance that it cast no shadow. He had no distinct features, and yet one could sense the suggestion of arms, a back, a neck. A form.
But his hair—that remained curiously human. Long strands of it, cascading down his back in waves of silvery white tinged with hints of starlight. Each strand moved gently as though caught in a breeze, though no wind blew in this place. It was the only part of him that felt familiar, as though he had once walked among mortals, and his hair had chosen to remember.
He sat upon what could barely be described as a throne—if a throne were ever woven from threads of existence itself. It pulsed and breathed, shifting with the rhythm of creation. And in his hands were threads. Countless threads, more than any mortal count count— as futile as counting the hairs of a donkey.
They were stretching in every direction, vanishing into the swirling landscape of light and thought. Some threads shone with vibrant hues, others pulsed with soft glows, and some flickered ominously, dancing with the shadows.
He hummed to himself.
The sound was not music, not melody, but something older—more elemental. A rhythm, perhaps. It was a vibration in the fabric of whay was false and reality. His precision was immaculate, his fingers moving with elegance and care. Drawing the threads inward and bending them and sometimes even weaving them, plucking at them like the strings of a grand comic harp.
Every motion sent ripples through the shifting tapestry around him. Entire dimensions blinked in and out of view with a flick of his wrists. Threads that glowed with destiny, twisted together, forming braids thag spanned across dimensions, binding fates to one another. Others were unraclenrs gently, lime undoing the knots in time itself.
He paused for a moment.
A singer thread in particular l, quivered beneath his touch— thin and fragile, yet bring with a small but defiant. For the briefest of moments, the colours of this place dimmed ever so slightly, as if holding their breath upon seeing its masters expression.
Then he resumed, and the harmony continued.
This man—if he could be called that—was not a ruler, nor a deity in the way mortals would understand. He was a caretaker so to say. Making the strings dance to his tune.
A whisper drifted through the space—a wordless echo from another time, another place. Perhaps it was a memory. Perhaps it was a warning. He tilted his head slightly, listening, though his expression never changed.
And still he worked.
Time had no meaning here. Moments stretched and folded like parchment, overlapping and separating with each shift of his fingers. To him, it was all one piece. One great pattern waiting to be completed.
The air had long since stilled in that space where time unraveled and color bled into void and at the center of it all. Was Weaver. It was his space. His area. His domain.
Then... it came.
A ripple. A distortion in the nonexistent horizon. Reality groaned in protest as something approached—slowly, deliberately. Its form was broken, jagged, and shifting. One moment tall and thin, the next hunched and crawling. It moved like an echo through a dream, impossible to pin down with mortal eyes. Its presence warped the very idea of space around it, as though it had never belonged in existence in the first place.
Each step it took was soundless, yet thunderous in weight. The ground beneath it bent—not crushed, but rewritten, as if the world itself made way for it unwillingly. The colors of the realm peeled back like dead skin beneath its feet. The hues of thought and emotion receded, turning gray and voidlike in its wake. It did not need permission to walk here. It was not a guest. It was inevitability.
It came to a halt, just a breath away from the Weaver, and sat with unnatural ease—like a shadow pretending to be a person. Silence wrapped the air in frost.
"Weaver," it rasped, its voice not spoken but felt—a dissonant murmur crawling across every plane of the mind. "What have you been up to?"
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ARC 1 END
Ill be relasing a notice today, dont worry I will still be posting new chapters