The bunker faded.
Not completely. Leo could still feel the cold stone under his palms, the damp fabric of Elara's dress against his arm, the thunderous boom of another distant impact. But it was like listening to a storm from inside a thick glass jar. Muffled. Distant.
Before him, unbound by the cellar's darkness, was the loom.
It hung in a space of quiet nothingness, a tapestry of living light. Silver threads pulsed with soft energy, weaving and unweaving in patterns too complex to follow. In the center, three empty silhouettes glowed—human-shaped voids waiting to be filled.
"Welcome to the Persona Weave."
The voice was in his head. It was not a sound, but the idea of a sound. Neutral. Calm. It made the chaos in his bones feel small.
"What is this?" Leo's thought formed, and the loom shimmered in response.
"Your instrument. The world is a tapestry of cause and effect, of influence and fate. These are the Threads. You may now weave Personas—Avatars—to pull upon them."
A section of the loom brightened. A counter appeared, glowing with a soft blue numeral: Fate Threads: 100.
"Threads are the currency of change. They are gathered from significant manipulations, resolved conflicts, and altered destinies. The current turmoil has generated your initial reserve. You must spend to create."
Panic, sharp and familiar, tried to climb his throat. Spend? On what? The monsters were at the door! He could feel the real world, the primary vessel, teetering on the edge of oblivion.
Focus. You wanted control. This is the control panel.
He forced his mind to the three silhouettes. As he focused on the first, information streamed into him.
Persona Crafting:
Race: [Select]
Class: [Select]
Background: [Define]
Skill Weave: [Allocate Threads]
The needs of the moment were brutally clear. They were blind in the bunker. They didn't know what was out there, only that it was breaking through. He needed eyes. He needed a scalpel, not a hammer.
His choice was instinctive.
Race: Elf (Woodland Variant). Ageless features, grey eyes that could see in near-darkness, ears tuned to the fall of a leaf.
Class: Ranger. A hunter. A tracker. A killer from the shadows.
Background: Wandering Hunter of the Whispering Woods. A solitary soul with no allegiance, drawn by the disturbance in the natural order. It was vague enough to fit, specific enough to feel real.
The silhouette began to take form. Tall, lean, clad in worn but functional leathers. A face that was neither young nor old, etched with the quiet patience of a predator. A longbow of darkwood materialized across its back.
Now, the skills. His Thread count glowed: 100.
- Archery (Precision): 35 Threads
- Stealth (Woodland): 30 Threads
- Tracking (Beast Lore): 25 Threads
- Rune-Sight (Basic): 10 Threads
He allocated the last of his Threads. Fate Threads: 0.
"Persona defined. Finalize weave?"
No time for second guesses. No time for fear.
Yes.
The light of the loom exploded. It didn't hurt. It was a flood of pure sensation rushing into the empty silhouette. Memories that weren't his—of endless forests, of tracking deer, of the feel of wind guiding an arrow—flashed and settled. Knowledge became instinct.
And then, the split.
It was like being torn in two, but without pain. One part of his consciousness slammed back into the bunker with a gasping breath. Elara was shaking him. "Leo! You zoned out!"
He blinked, his own eyes—human, young, scared—seeing the dusty cellar. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
Simultaneously, another part of him… opened different eyes.
Cold rain on his face.
The scent of pine and wet earth.
The solid, familiar weight of the bow in his hands.
He was crouched in the dripping branches of an ancient oak, a league from Frosthold's shattered western wall. The cacophony of battle was a distant roar here. The wind carried the stench of blood and dark magic.
Leo—Silvan—breathed in.
The fear was gone. In this body, there was only a cool, focused calm. The panic of the boy in the cellar was a distant echo, a muted concern. Here, now, his purpose was clear: Find the source. Cut the thread.
He moved. His elven body flowed from the branch to the forest floor without a sound. The rain masked his passage. The skills he had woven were not just known; they were true. He saw the broken underbrush not as a mess, but as a story—the chaotic, heavy passage of many large beasts, driven by panic, not hunger.
And then, he saw the Threads.
At the edge of his new vision, visible only when he focused, faint luminous lines streaked through the air. They pulsed with a sickly yellow light, streaming from deeper in the woods and connecting to distant, raging heartbeats of red that could only be the monsters. The web of influence.
He followed the trail. It led him to a clearing that had been blasted free of life.
In the center stood a man, if he could be called that. He was massive, swathed in furs and leathers crusted with dark mud. In his hands, he whirled a complex fetish of bones and rune-carved stones on a length of chain. With each whirl, a pulse of ugly energy shot down the visible Threads, and a fresh wave of bestial rage echoed from the town.
A Beast-Caller.
But this was no wild shaman. The runes on the stones were sharp, precise. Imperial script, twisted to a foul purpose. This was calculation. This was an attack.
Silvan's hand drew an arrow from the quiver. The fletching brushed his cheek as he nocked it. The world narrowed to the point of his arrowhead, the rise and fall of the caller's heaving chest, the pulsing knot of yellow light where the Threads converged at the fetish.
In the bunker, Leo squeezed his sister's hand, his human body trembling.
In the rain-soaked woods, Silvan's breath stilled. The hunter found his mark.
Two sets of eyes saw the same truth: the horror was not an act of nature. It was a deliberate, orchestrated breach.
And one of them was now in a position to do something about it.