Milo lands on something soft — a floor made of woven light. He gasps, pushing himself up.
He's standing inside the Loom.
It's not a room.Not a space.Not anything that should exist physically.
It's endless — an infinite sky of threads stretching in every direction, crossing, splitting, merging like rivers of color.
Thousands of choices suspended in silence.
Milo's chest tightens with awe and terror.
The Weavers appear beside him, drifting effortlessly over the glowing weave.
"This," the first Weaver says, "is where your existence breaks us."
Milo turns. "I didn't choose to be like this."
"But you chose to drink," the second Weaver replies."And the drink chose you."
Milo looks at his reflection on the glowing threads. He's slightly transparent — not fully tethered to reality.
"What do you want from me?" he asks quietly.
The third Weaver gestures, and a single glowing strand rises from the Loom like a cobra.
It is Milo's fate-thread — but different.Stronger.Brighter.Uncut.
"This is the thread you should have had," the Weaver says. "Predictable. Directed. Contained."
Milo touches it.It pulses — but doesn't accept him.
"Why can't I connect to it?" he whispers.
"Because," the Weaver says,"you are becoming something we did not design."
A tremor shakes the Loom.
The threads around them flicker.
The Weavers stiffen.
The first Weaver whispers:"Liora Vex… what have you done?"
Milo turns sharply.
Far away — at the very edge of the Loom — a small crack forms. Light spills out.
Then another crack.
Then another.
The Loom is breaking.
"No…" the second Weaver gasps. "The café— it's merging—"
A force slams through the Loom like a tidal wave.
Milo recognizes the magic instantly.
The Eclipse Blend.
It's leaking into the architecture of fate, bleeding possibility into structure.
The Weavers panic.
"Contain it!""Stabilize the pattern!""Before everything collapses—"
But Milo feels something different.
Not terror.Not confusion.
Recognition.
The Loom responds to him — threads rising toward him, brushing his arms, tugging gently. Like they've been waiting.
He whispers, "You're not dying. You're changing."
The Weavers turn on him.
"DO NOT TOUCH THE THREADS!"
Milo steps forward.
He places his hand on the Loom.
It glows.
Bright.
Alive.
Answering him.
The Weavers scream.
Milo doesn't.
Because for the first time…
he understands what he is.
A thread begins weaving itself from his feet upward, spiraling around him like a cloak.
A new role.
A new truth.
A new fate.
Milo Hart — Weaverborn.
And the Loom trembles as it begins rewriting itself around him.