The taste of blood still lingered on Aki's tongue.
He sat motionless on the floor, hand trembling as the last smear of writing faded from the tabletop. The room was quiet again, but not empty. Something had shifted—subtly, irreversibly.
The Script had worked.
He could feel it in the texture of silence, in the rhythm of wind tapping softly against the window. A pressure in the world had loosened, as though an unseen veil had been drawn aside.
But the cost was immediate.
Aki gripped his forehead, wincing as a sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes. Not physical pain—not exactly. More like the sensation of something being peeled away. Something fragile, precious, and impossibly familiar.
He couldn't tell what he was forgetting. That was the horror.
A smell?
His mother's cooking—something warm, fried, maybe fish. Or eggs?
A phrase—a joke Reya told once, during a walk home in the rain. Something about a cat that stole her umbrella.
A memory—a scraped knee on asphalt, the nurse's office, a childhood accident that visited him in dreams.
All of it slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Then, a single snap of realization struck.
"What's my last name?"
He whispered it aloud, but no answer came.
His mind went blank, hollow where a name should be. He searched and found nothing. Not even an echo.
He staggered back to the bed, sitting hard, breath shallow. The realization settled heavy in his chest:
This was what it meant to write against the Loom. To defy the world's natural order. Each act of divine authorship took something in return.
And not just any something.
It took him.
Piece by piece.
Was this the purpose of the Loom? That it allowed a human to become its wielder, only to slowly strip away everything that made him human? Until only the role remained?
Not Aki. Not the boy who wept over comic pages and shared stories with Reya in a sunlit dorm room.
Just a god. A hollow architect.
A name without a self.
His throat tightened. He pressed the bloodied fingertip to the inside of his tunic, tried to wipe it clean. The stain had dried, a rust-colored mark over his heart.
Breathing slowed.
He stood, unsteady but grounded, and walked toward the window. Morning filtered through sheer curtains, washing the room in gold. He parted them slightly, staring outside.
The view nearly stole his breath.
Seriglia.
The city he had sketched countless times on paper—alive.
Slanted rooftops, sweeping arches, stained-glass towers climbing like spears into the sky. Narrow alleys teemed with movement, threads of color and noise weaving through plazas and causeways. Far below, knights marched in formation, violet-glowing pendants at their chests, just like Aurelia's. Merchant wagons creaked along cobblestone roads. Flags snapped in the breeze atop parapets.
He saw it all now.
The world he drew… existed.
Not in a dream, not as ink—but in stone, air, and voice.
He watched for a long moment, whispering, "If only you could see this, Reya…"
His voice caught.
They had joked about his architecture—tall towers, oversized arches.
"What is this city compensating for, Aki?" she had once laughed, sprawled across the dorm floor with sketches in her lap.
Aki smiled, slow and sad. That memory hadn't vanished. Not yet.
But it would, if he kept using this power recklessly.
He wouldn't let that happen.
"I'll remember you," he murmured. "Even if the Loom tries to take it all, I'll remember."
He turned from the window and practiced.
Halting, awkward syllables spilled from his mouth. The Ecaran language felt strange—melodic, sharp, shifting—but it came. Knowledge from the Script pulsed in his mind like a newly added layer of instinct.
Thirty minutes passed without notice.
The taste of blood still lingered on Aki's tongue.
He sat motionless on the floor, hand trembling as the last smear of writing faded from the tabletop. The room was quiet again, but not empty. Something had shifted—subtly, irreversibly.
The Script had worked.
He could feel it in the texture of silence, in the rhythm of wind tapping softly against the window. A pressure in the world had loosened, as though an unseen veil had been drawn aside.
But the cost was immediate.
Aki gripped his forehead, wincing as a sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes. Not physical pain—not exactly. More like the sensation of something being peeled away. Something fragile, precious, and impossibly familiar.
He couldn't tell what he was forgetting. That was the horror.
A smell?
His mother's cooking—something warm, fried, maybe fish. Or eggs?
A phrase—a joke Reya told once, during a walk home in the rain. Something about a cat that stole her umbrella.
A memory—a scraped knee on asphalt, the nurse's office, a childhood accident that visited him in dreams.
All of it slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Then, a single snap of realization struck.
"What's my last name?"
He whispered it aloud, but no answer came.
His mind went blank, hollow where a name should be. He searched and found nothing. Not even an echo.
He staggered back to the bed, sitting hard, breath shallow. The realization settled heavy in his chest:
This was what it meant to write against the Loom. To defy the world's natural order. Each act of divine authorship took something in return.
And not just any something.
It took him.
Piece by piece.
Was this the purpose of the Loom? That it allowed a human to become its wielder, only to slowly strip away everything that made him human? Until only the role remained?
Not Aki. Not the boy who wept over comic pages and shared stories with Reya in a sunlit dorm room.
Just a god. A hollow architect.
A name without a self.
His throat tightened. He pressed the bloodied fingertip to the inside of his tunic, tried to wipe it clean. The stain had dried, a rust-colored mark over his heart.
Breathing slowed.
He stood, unsteady but grounded, and walked toward the window. Morning filtered through sheer curtains, washing the room in gold. He parted them slightly, staring outside.
The view nearly stole his breath.
Seriglia.
The city he had sketched countless times on paper—alive.
Slanted rooftops, sweeping arches, stained-glass towers climbing like spears into the sky. Narrow alleys teemed with movement, threads of color and noise weaving through plazas and causeways. Far below, knights marched in formation, violet-glowing pendants at their chests, just like Aurelia's. Merchant wagons creaked along cobblestone roads. Flags snapped in the breeze atop parapets.
He saw it all now.
The world he drew… existed.
Not in a dream, not as ink—but in stone, air, and voice.
He watched for a long moment, whispering, "If only you could see this, Reya…"
His voice caught.
They had joked about his architecture—tall towers, oversized arches.
"What is this city compensating for, Aki?" she had once laughed, sprawled across the dorm floor with sketches in her lap.
Aki smiled, slow and sad. That memory hadn't vanished. Not yet.
But it would, if he kept using this power recklessly.
He wouldn't let that happen.
"I'll remember you," he murmured. "Even if the Loom tries to take it all, I'll remember."
He turned from the window and practiced.
Halting, awkward syllables spilled from his mouth. The Ecaran language felt strange—melodic, sharp, shifting—but it came. Knowledge from the Script pulsed in his mind like a newly added layer of instinct.
Thirty minutes passed without notice.
The door creaked open.
Aki flinched.
Aurelia stepped in, boots quiet against the stone floor. Her cloak trailed behind her like a shadow stitched in silver.
"You're speaking now," she said, tone dry but not unkind. "I thought you were mute."
Aki's mouth opened, but no sound came at first. He blinked, flustered. "Y—yeah. I wasn't. Just… couldn't understand you."
Her crimson eyes narrowed slightly. The pendant at her chest pulsed faintly.
"Now you can?"
"I guess I figured it out," Aki said quietly.
"Convenient," she replied, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't sure if she was joking.
The silence stretched. Then she stepped forward, arms crossed loosely.
"So. I'll repeat my question from earlier. How are you feeling?"
Aki hesitated. The weight of Reya's death hung behind his ribs like a stone. He could feel grief in his bones, but he didn't want to fall apart—not in front of her.
"I don't know," he admitted, glancing at the floor. "Like… I lost something I can't get back."
The pendant at her chest brightened slightly. He saw it, said nothing. Of course it could sense his emotions. He designed it that way. The Order's necklaces were tuned to emotional resonance—wrath, despair, anguish. Tools to detect corruption. Wrathborn.
Aurelia's gaze remained fixed, cautious, measuring.
She doesn't trust me, Aki realized. And she shouldn't.
"Where… am I?" he asked, changing the subject. "This city. What's it called?"
She studied him a second longer, then answered, "You're in Seriglia, capital of the Rowen Kingdom.
Her voice turned slightly formal, almost rehearsed. "Built at the edge of the Brumal Coast, it houses the headquarters of the Order and serves as a barrier between the southern provinces and the more… corrupted northern reaches. Trade flows through here. So do enemies."
Aki took the words in slowly, nodding.
She tilted her head, watching him. "You really don't remember anything, do you?"
"I remember enough."
Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
Then, after a pause, she said, "Come on. You need food."
Aki blinked. "Food?"
She turned toward the door. "It's called breakfast. Most people eat it. You're people, right?"
Aki stared at her, unsure if she was serious, then realized she was teasing him.
A small laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped his nose.
He followed.
The stone corridors were quiet in the gentle blue-gray morning, its walls the color of ivory marble. Aki walked beside Aurelia in borrowed boots, still slightly too big. The air smelled faintly of oil, stone, and incense.
They hadn't spoken since they left the infirmary.
The interior of the Order's stronghold reminded Aki of an old cathedral, arched ceilings, smooth marble columns, and massive banners hanging from vaulted arches. The emblem of the Order, an eye stitched into a flame, was etched into everything, from shield plaques to the floor mosaics.
This was the Eye of Seriglia, the oldest and most fortified branch of the Order. One of three bastion-fortresses in the capital.
Built into the Dawnreach District, the fortress rose high over the rest of Seriglia, a city famously layered by elevation. Dawnreach held the nobility quarter, the Grand Archives, the Mage's Guild, and now, apparently, Aki — a god pretending not to be.
He kept quiet. Not because he didn't know where they were, but because in Aurelia's eyes, he was just a stranger. A foreigner. Maybe even a lost cause.
And that was easier than the truth.
They descended a short flight of stone steps, past sparring halls and quiet sanctums, until they reached the canteen. It was large and practical, rows of darkwood benches, old brick ovens at the far end, and long communal tables already filled with Order members half out of uniform.
Aki felt the weight of their stares as soon as they entered.
"Keep walking," Aurelia muttered beside him.
They made their way to the far end of the hall, where sunlight spilled through narrow windows and a stone terrace opened to the city's skyline. The view was sprawling, towers upon towers, rooftops stacked like slate feathers, smoke curling in soft ribbons from chimneys far below.
An acolyte placed two plates down: dense black bread, smoked root-meat, and hard cheese. A jug of steaming leaf-water followed.
Aurelia didn't eat right away. She just studied him.
"You don't look like someone who got mugged," she said at last.
Aki blinked. "What?"
"That's one theory the guards had. That you were a foreigner, maybe from across the ocean, dumped near the cliffs after being robbed. But your shoes were still on. Shirt torn, chest exposed. Covered in mud, not blood. No panic. Just… still."
She tapped a finger on the table. "That's not a mugging. That's something else."
He said nothing.
"So," she pressed, "what were you doing out there?"
He stared at his plate.
He hadn't forgotten. He had knelt at the cliff because he wanted to end it. Because he couldn't carry the weight of Reya's death, not when it was his own creation, his own hand, that brought the monster into being. Not when he'd written the rules that let it happen.
He wanted to die. But he couldn't do it.
His hands had frozen. His heart had begged. And then… she'd found him.
"I don't know," he murmured. "I don't want to talk about it right now."
Aurelia's eyes didn't change, but the pendant at her throat glowed softly, a pulsing violet hue. Concern. Sadness. Wariness.
"Okay," she said simply. "We don't have to."
They started eating. The bread was hard as rock. The cheese was gritty, sour. Aki chewed in silence.
After a moment, he glanced up. "Where exactly am I? In the city, I mean."
Aurelia tilted her head. "You're in the Dawnreach District. That's upper Seriglia. High elevation. Our fancy little mountaintop."
She motioned toward the view behind him. "Down there? That's the Bellsward. Loud, crowded, full of street mages, alley cults, and bad music. Smells like roasted cinnamon and sewage on a hot day."
She grinned faintly. "Home sweet home."
He allowed himself a small smile.
Aurelia leaned forward again, more serious now. "Do you know what the cliff was called?"
Aki paused. "No."
"Eron's Edge. Named after a man who tried to cut The Loom with his bare hands. Legend says The Loom didn't kill him. It just… wrapped tighter. Until he couldn't breathe."
Aki's brow furrowed. That… wasn't in his story. He had never written anything about Eron, or that legend. It wasn't part of the webcomic.
"What kind of person tries to cut The Loom?" he asked, masking his confusion.
"Someone desperate. Or stupid. Or both."
She watched him carefully.
"People go there when they've lost something," she said. "Or when they want to disappear."
She didn't say die, but the word hung in the space between them.
"Were you trying to disappear?" she asked softly.
He stared at his food.
"I… I don't know," he said. "I just… I don't want to talk about it right now."
It wasn't a lie. Not really.
He couldn't explain the guilt without unraveling everything.
Aurelia sat back and folded her arms. "Next time you try to disappear off a cliff, maybe do it somewhere outside my patrol zone. The paperwork's a nightmare."
Aki let out a sharp, awkward laugh.
She smiled — not smugly, but as if relieved that he had some reaction that didn't feel like grief.
They sat in that soft silence for a bit longer. The city murmured below them, wind whistling against stone and brasswork towers.
Then she asked, "Do you have a Path?"
He blinked. "A what?"
"A Scriptum Path," she said. "You don't look like a Pulsebearer or anything, but maybe Verseweaver? Or Glyphbound? You don't smell like a Dreambinder…"
He hesitated just a second too long. "No. I don't have a Path."
She squinted at him. "You don't know anything, do you?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, faking uncertainty. "…Not really."
Aurelia huffed. "Great. All right, I'll make it quick."
She pointed to her necklace. "The Loom. It's not just fate. It's structure. Emotion is the thread. It's what magic is here. We don't use mana or incantations. We use feelings. Get that wrong, and you might just vaporize yourself."
She took a slow breath, eyes sharp. "Each Path? It's a way of shaping that emotion into something real. Like my Path — I'm Wovenborn. Two Paths. Pulsebearer and Verseweaver. Most people can only handle one. And yes, it hurts. Both physically and mentally. But the payoff? Immense. Or you die. Sometimes both."
Leaning in, she tilted her head, letting a faint smirk curl her lips. "Relicmakers, for instance. Grief and attachment aren't just feelings — they're ingredients. Exilicrafters brew them into elixirs. Fear, loyalty, sorrow… condense it wrong, and congratulations, you just poisoned the barracks."
She straightened, voice lowering like she was letting him in on a secret. "Glyphbound? Pattern-Scribes, Symmetry Judges. Verseweavers? Echo-Singers, Balladeers… they twist beauty, grief, longing into spellsong. Pulsebearers? Wrathknights, duelists, guardians. Dreambinders? Hollow Chorus. Rare, dangerous… the kind you cross paths with and hope you live to tell the story."
Her crimson eyes bore into him, assessing, calculating. "Every branch is shaped by how you express your emotions. Affinity matters. Strength matters. Honesty matters. The Loom doesn't forgive liars or weak-willed pretenders."
She leaned back, letting a faint laugh escape. "But you… no glow, no pulse, no necklace. No trace. You really don't have a Path?"
Aki just shook his head.
She studied him like a predator sizing up prey — sharp, amused, but not cruel. "Then congratulations, either you're the most boring man in Ecaria… or you're hiding something."
Aki allowed a faint, crooked smile. "Maybe both."
Beneath the table, his fingers twitched. The pull of The Loom wrapped around him, subtle and insistent. Reality bent when his thoughts wandered too far. He knew it. He was its Author.
But for now…
He'd pretend he wasn't.
"You're lying," she said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.
Aki blinked. "What?"
"You said you don't have a Path. But you knew what The Loom was. And you speak like someone who's been woven before."
He hesitated. "I've read a lot of stories."
Aurelia's eyes narrowed. But before she could press further—
A scream echoed. Deep. Below.
Everyone turned.
Aurelia snapped to attention. Her crimson pendant flared violently at her chest.
"That's from the lower vaults," barked one of the Order agents nearby. "That wasn't supposed to happen today."
"Containment sector," another muttered. "We didn't schedule any interrogations…"
Aurelia's hand was already on her blade. She didn't wait for orders.
"Stay behind me, Aki," she said, voice tense. "Now."
They descended quickly through the iron stairwell leading into the sub-chambers of the Writ Vault — the place where the Order held its most dangerous captives. Not criminals. Pathbreakers. Wrathborn. Twisted. Broken.
At the bottom floor, a small contingent of guards were already assembling, weapons drawn. Their faces were pale.
A containment cell stood wide open.
That cell has seven locks. Seven.
"Who the hell unsealed it?!" Aurelia shouted.
"No one! We didn't— It just— It opened by itself!"
Then they heard it.
A whisper from the darkness. Wet and trembling.
"You came back…"
The Wrathborn emerged from the shadows, crawling on his hands and knees through the mud-caked floor, grime and old blood still coating his cracked skin. His eyes flicked wildly, until they landed on Aki.
And everything stopped.
His face contorted with reverent terror.
"Is it… you…? Is it truly you…?"
"True author… please tell me it's you…"
"We prayed, oh we prayed, we burned our grief into ink,
We screamed into the earth. We offered our souls. And now… you stand before me?"
Aki's legs nearly buckled.
He backed into the stone wall, breath hitched in his throat. This man—this thing—was looking at him like a disciple glimpsing God.
"No… no, I—I'm not—" he stammered.
But the Wrathborn just kept whispering, louder now.
"You have not forsaken us… you still live! The True Author walks the world again…"
He slammed his head against the wall of the corridor. Once. Twice. Blood gushed down his face. He didn't stop.
"I will show you my devotion—"
"STOP!" Aurelia shouted. "Get the suppression relics, now! Call for a relicmaker—this bastard's about to breach!"
Too late.
The Wrathborn snapped his neck back, and with a blood-choked scream, the glyphs etched into his bones began to flare. Black ink spilled from his eyes, pooling beneath him. Symbols drawn in flesh, carved by madness and obsession.
"Ritual glyphs!" one of the guards cried. "He's overriding the suppression!"
Emotion surged. Unchecked. Unfiltered.
A surge of anguish, of pure wrath, ignited around the Wrathborn like a funeral pyre.
And then—
The air screamed.
Reality split like canvas.
From the inked blood a form began to rise — bulbous, twitching, its limbs too long, too jagged. Bone extruded like spears from its arms. A maw opened in its chest like a howling gate.
The Shadow Fiend.
Aki's vision blurred. The memory slammed into him like a hammer.
Reya.
Her scream.
Her body fell like a broken doll.
Her head—
Missing.
"No…" he whispered. His voice broke.
The Wrathborn dropped to his knees, his own blood boiling from the glyphs. Still smiling. Still gazing at Aki with shaking devotion.
"You came back for us… oh divine one… our God returns…"
"STAND BACK!" Aurelia yelled, shoving Aki behind her. "Everyone—blades and glyphs, now!"
The Shadow Fiend finished emerging, its shrieking form slamming into the stone ceiling as it unfurled. Bone scraped metal. Tendrils split from its back, writhing with ink-stained hunger.
Aki's chest felt like it would burst open from fear, and fury.
The Wrathborn wept, bleeding from every pore, screaming toward the ceiling like a mad prophet.
"TRUE AUTHOR!! I HAVE PROVEN MY LOVE!! TAKE THIS GIFT! DO NOT TURN FROM ME!"
And lunged.
Chapter 5 End