Thud.
Pain.
Not the kind of ache you ignore after a bad night. This was sharp. Crawling. Like something stuck in his skull, twisting. He breathed in sharply — smelled stone, blood, rot. Like a dead alley.
His eyelids were heavy but he forced them open.
Above him, everything looked wrong.
Broken bits of stone — glass? Pottery? Part of a clock? — hung in the air. Frozen. Caught in red light that poured through the stormy sky like spilled wine. The old clock tower ruins of Caldareth loomed over, broken like a bad memory.
Lycus groaned.
What the fuck...?
This wasn't a dream.
Last thing I remember… light, then nothing.
Must've hit too close.
Tear flare? again?
He tried to stand. His elbows shook under him. His boots scraped wet cobblestone. The market square around him was wrecked — stalls overturned, crates split open. Cabbages rolled through oily puddles like they were running away.
Then—silence.
Or more like the absence of sound.
A merchant's shout nearby cut off mid-sentence: "Get do—"
Nothing.
Then came whispers.
Not words. Not really. More like pressure behind his eyes, like gears grinding inside his bones.
Something's here. Watching? No—pressing. Like it's inside already. Shit.
He blinked again. His left eye twitched. That feeling was back.
That hum. The weird vibration in his jaw.
That's not a real sound. That's something deep in the bones. Whatever this is, it's crawling under my skin.
He wasn't even surprised anymore.
Move.
His body moved before he thought. He stumbled upright, hands on a toppled crate. Blood dripped from his nose. One drop hit the stone and hissed faintly — just his mind playing tricks. Another Tear flare. He'd seen worse.
Still standing. Still bleeding. Good. Means I'm not dead yet.
But the whispers grew thicker. Real, like wires wrapping around his thoughts.
Fracture. Fracture. Fracture.
A child's doll floated nearby — porcelain eye shining. A crack ran down its cheek like a fresh wound.
Lycus lunged forward. His shoes slipped on something wet.
Damn. Always something. Streets don't forgive.
Should've traded for better shoes, not bread.
He crashed into a dark alley. Narrow, with shadows pooling like spilled oil. Ahead, a rusted pipe leaked thick black sludge. And just above it—
A thread.
Thin like a hair. Silver bright. Tied tight between the walls. It vibrated softly, making his teeth ache.
Below it, carved in the wall:
ϟ
Lycus froze.
That symbol.
The one from his dreams.
The one stuck in the corners of his Echo-Sense, always there at the edge of his thoughts.
It's real. No doubt now. The dreams weren't dreams. Just warnings.
Glass shattered above.
No. Not here.
A shard, the size of a blade, smashed down beside his head.
He flinched and ducked. Breath ragged.
Close. Too close. Next time I won't get to flinch.
Think. Breathe.
He searched his pockets—nothing. Just a single copper coin and smooth river stone he'd kept since he was a kid. Cold. Familiar. Useless.
Figures. Sentimental junk when you need a weapon. Always the wrong thing in hand.
The thread's hum got sharper. The sludge below twitched.
Move or die.
He bolted out of the alley onto a wider street.
The air seemed to ripple. A cart lay shattered ahead, its wheels spinning slowly in the void. Someone—or something—had painted the side with dripping red paint.
The same symbol.
ϟ
He stopped breathing.
Then:
THUD—THUD—THUD.
Not his heart.
The Tear's pulse.
Floating debris shook. A wine bottle exploded mid-air.
And then—rain.
Not water.
Glass. Needle-thin shards falling like rain.
His shirt tore. Cuts burned on his cheeks. Black blood welled from shallow wounds.
Glass-thread storm.
Lycus dove under the broken cart. Glass hit wood like hail. Through a crack in the wheel, he saw it again:
That silver thread. Still glowing.
Fracture. Fracture. FRACTURE.
The whispers turned into a scream.
His vision blurred. Pain surged — not on his skin, deeper. Behind his eyes: a flicker of gold. Shapes. Threads. Patterns.
The Loom.
Gone.
Then—silence.
The rain stopped as fast as it started.
Lycus crawled out, breathing hard, blood dripping from his chin. His fingers touched the side of his head.
Not just scratches.
A scar.
Deep. Still warm.
Something cut deeper than skin. That wasn't glass. That was a mark. A tag.
Across the street, a door creaked open.
An old woman peeked out, eyes wide with fear. She made a sign—thumb over heart, fingers spread like gears.
The Wardens' sign against anomalies.
She shut the door.
Hard.
Alone.
Lycus stared at his bloody hand, breath ragged.
The whispers faded—but behind his eyes, the symbol ϟ stayed.
Can't scrub it out. It's inside now.
Why here? Why me?
Doesn't matter. Wrong question. The real one is: how do I live with it?
He stumbled forward.
Toward the northern bridge.
Toward home—if that word still means anything.
Halfway there, something made him stop.
High on a half-collapsed tower, a figure stood against the bleeding sky. Cloaked in dusk. Still.
Watching.
No face. Only shadow. But on one wrist...
A silver thread.
Lycus's breath caught.
The Architect?
The figure turned.
Vanished.
And only then did Lycus feel something in his hand.
Warm. Metal.
Not his river stone.
A cracked brass gear. Glowing faintly. Warm as a heartbeat.
Etched with one symbol:
ϟ