Solin walked through the streets of Althmire, his mind tangled in the threads of his thoughts, the cold air pressing against his skin. The city felt wrong tonight, even more so than usual. The Weave was thin, like a brittle sheet of glass just waiting to shatter. The dying man's final words echoed in his mind. Don't let them unmake us. The weight of it sat heavily on his chest, gnawing at him.
He wasn't sure where to go next, but he couldn't stand still. The Weave pulled at him, urging him onward, though he didn't know what he was walking toward. As a Tearbringer, Solin had learned to listen to the invisible pulse of the world around him. But tonight, the pulse was erratic, unpredictable. The Weave was in chaos, and every step he took seemed to unravel something deeper, something darker.
Turning a corner, Solin entered a quieter part of the city. This was where the Threadbinders gathered, away from the glimmering spires of the elite. The buildings here were old, their stonework chipped and faded, but the air was alive with quiet whispers of power. The Threadbinders were the healers and the builders, the ones who understood the Weave and used it to shape the world around them.
But the more Solin thought about it, the more certain it became that he wasn't here for them. Threadbinders were skilled with the Weave, but they weren't the ones causing the distortions he had witnessed. The ones who ripped at the fabric of reality were the Thread-thieves, the ones who stole the Threads of others for their own gain.
As Solin reached a narrow alley, a voice cut through his thoughts.
"Did you think you could walk away from this?"
Solin spun around, hand instinctively moving to the dagger at his belt. A figure emerged from the shadows, a tall man with dark, unkempt hair and eyes that glinted with a strange, unsettling light. He wore no sigil, no cloak, nothing to identify him as a member of any known order. But Solin felt the pull of the Weave around him, thin and flickering, like a candle on the edge of a storm.
"I thought you were dead," Solin said, narrowing his eyes.
The man grinned, though there was no warmth in it. "Most people think that. But death is just another thread, Solin. Just another knot to tie or unravel."
Solin's pulse quickened. He had heard of this man, or rather, his name had been whispered in hushed tones. Drevin Korr, a rogue Threadbinder who had once been part of the Order. But something had gone wrong, something had snapped in him, and he had vanished years ago, leaving nothing but rumors and the occasional hint of his existence.
"You're not supposed to be here," Solin said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Drevin chuckled, his eyes flicking to the alley behind Solin. "And yet, here I am."
The air around them shifted. Solin could feel it—the tug of the Weave, thin and delicate, pulling at them both. Drevin was manipulating it, stretching it, bending it to his will.
"What do you want?" Solin demanded, taking a step back. He had no idea how strong Drevin had become, but the way the Weave hummed in the air suggested he was far more than just a rogue.
"I'm here to give you a choice, Solin," Drevin said, his voice low, almost a purr. "You can walk away, let the Weave fall apart as it will, or you can help me fix it. Help me rebuild it."
Solin's heart pounded in his chest. Rebuild the Weave? There was no rebuilding it—not without consequences. The Weave was delicate, too fragile to be tampered with. Even the slightest mistake could cause irreparable damage.
"I'm not going to help you destroy everything," Solin said, his voice harder now.
Drevin's smile faltered, but he didn't seem angry. Instead, he looked almost disappointed. "Destroy? You think I'm trying to destroy the Weave? No, Solin. I'm trying to save it. There's a power here, a power that could make the Weave whole again. But I need someone with your… unique talents."
Solin's hand tightened around the dagger at his belt. He didn't trust Drevin. He had seen the kind of damage someone like Drevin could cause. But there was something in his words that made Solin hesitate. The Weave was fraying, and it wasn't just the Thread-thieves causing it. Someone, or something, was tearing at the fabric from within.
"I'm not your pawn, Drevin," Solin said, though doubt gnawed at him. "And I'm not helping you break the Weave."
Drevin's eyes hardened, the light within them flickering dangerously. "You don't understand, Solin. You think you can walk away from this, but the Weave is already beyond saving. The only question is whether you're going to be a part of it when everything falls apart."
Before Solin could respond, Drevin stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. The air around him hummed with tension, and Solin could feel the weight of his words settling in his mind.
The Weave was beyond saving? Was that true? Or was Drevin just playing some twisted game, trying to get inside his head?
Solin turned and walked away, his steps slow and deliberate. He had to find answers, but there was something in the pit of his stomach that told him Drevin was right. The Weave was coming apart, and it wasn't just the Thread-thieves. There were deeper forces at work, forces that Solin couldn't yet understand.
As he left the alley and entered the main street again, Solin looked up at the dark sky. The city of Althmire stretched before him, its spires reaching into the heavens like twisted fingers. The Weave held it all together, but for how much longer?
He had no answers. Only a sense of urgency.
The Weave was unraveling, and it wasn't going to stop on its own.