Orchard's Bend had a way of holding the day's last light just a little longer than the rest of the world.The river reflected gold until the sun sank completely, and every house—whitewashed wood and patchwork cloth roofs—glowed in the lantern light. Tonight, it smelled of fire-roasted chestnuts and fried dough. The annual Loomlight Festival was in full swing.
Malik spun his yo-yo in lazy arcs as he leaned against the rail of the riverside pier, watching his older sister Naomi dance between stalls. She had a way of moving that was all precision—no wasted steps, no awkward tilts. Her hair, braided with crimson thread charms, caught the warm glow of the festival torches.
"You gonna spend all night pretending that thing makes you mysterious?" Naomi asked without turning around.
Malik smirked and flicked the yo-yo forward. The string wrapped around a pole, snapped back, and spun in his hand again. "Not mysterious. Legendary."
She shot him a sidelong glance. "Legendary people don't live with their sister and forget to wash dishes."
Before Malik could answer, the crowd erupted into cheers as the Mayor's family lit the first Loomlight lantern. Dozens followed, strings of them lifting into the sky like glowing seeds. Music swelled, drums and fiddles tangling in the air, and for a moment, Malik forgot everything except the feeling of being alive in Orchard's Bend.
Then the light went wrong.
It wasn't like night falling—it was like the world's colors being pulled out from under them. The gold turned pale, then gray. Malik's skin prickled, and his yo-yo string went slack in his hand. Above, the lanterns stopped drifting upward. They hung suspended, their glow dimming, their threads trembling as though someone had plucked them.
Naomi froze mid-step. "Do you feel—"
A sound cut her off—a snap, sharp and final, like the tearing of the sky.
The first building came apart without a sound. Its walls unraveled, boards twisting and curling into thread-like strands before evaporating. Screams rose all around as the festival scattered into chaos.
Through the unraveling smoke walked the Cutter.Draped in gray cloth stitched with silver filaments, they wore a mask of woven black thread. In each hand, they held curved blades that shimmered faintly, not with light, but with absence.
Naomi grabbed Malik's arm. "River tunnel. Now."
"What about Mom and Dad—"
"They're already moving. GO!"
They ran, ducking under a collapsing banner stand as another snap echoed behind them. Malik risked a glance back—he saw people trying to fight, threads spilling from their bodies when struck by the Cutter's blades. They didn't bleed; they came apart.
The path to the river tunnel wound behind the bakery, where the smell of burnt sugar mixed with smoke. Their parents stood there—Father gripping his loomstaff, Mother holding a defensive weave between her hands like a glowing shield.
"Down the tunnel!" Father barked. "Don't look back."
The Cutter appeared at the far end of the alley. Even at that distance, Malik felt the pressure—like someone had pinched the thread of his life between two fingers.
Mother pushed Naomi into the tunnel, then shoved Malik after her. The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed them was the Cutter stepping forward and Father raising his staff—only for it to unravel in his hands.
The river tunnel was cold and wet, water rushing around their ankles. Naomi's breath was ragged; Malik's hands shook around the yo-yo.
"What—what was that?" Malik asked, his voice cracking.
Naomi didn't answer. Instead, she gripped the tunnel wall until her knuckles whitened. "We survive first. We understand later."
But Malik, even then, knew one thing:The Cutter had seen him.And for reasons he couldn't name, it hadn't cut his thread—yet.