The old man was dying.
Master Yoran, the Last Loomwright, staggered through the crumbling ruins, his once-pristine robes in tatters, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His body was unraveling—silver strands frayed at the edges of his fingers, his legs flickering between reality and nothingness.
The night was silent. Too silent.
Yoran felt them watching.
His presence in the shattered temple was a crime against the Pattern. A crime that the Tapestry Lords would not allow to exist.
A whisper rippled through the darkness, a voice that did not belong to anything human.
"You wove a thread that was not meant to be."
The words brushed against the fabric of reality itself, making the very air shudder.
Yoran did not answer. He already knew who had come for him.
High above, the air rippled like stretched cloth, and through the shifting layers of existence, they emerged—the Tapestry Lords.
Seven figures, featureless, robed in cascading strands of woven light and darkness, floating above the ruined temple. They were not mortal. They had never been mortal. They were the weavers of fate itself, the architects of destiny, and the keepers of the Loom that bound the world together.
Their voices were not spoken—they simply were, their will manifesting as absolute law.
"The Pattern is not yours to alter, Last Loomwright."
Yoran gritted his teeth, pushing forward. His body was unraveling with every step, strands of his own existence breaking apart and drifting into the void. He had minutes—maybe seconds—before he ceased to be.
But he had already chosen.
Through the fractured stone and remnants of ancient glyphs, at the heart of the ruins, a loom of golden thread stood untouched by time.
And atop it lay a child.
A newborn, wrapped in cloth, no older than a few days. His breath was soft, his tiny fingers curling in the air, reaching for something unseen.
A child born of no fate.
A thread that did not belong.
Yoran reached him, fingers trembling as he grasped the frayed edge of his own unraveling thread.
"This is the last defiance I can give you," he whispered to the silent gods above. "Let the Pattern break. Let him decide his own fate."
With the last of his strength, he wove the loose strand into the child's heart.
A forbidden stitch. A fate that should not exist.
The Loom of Fate shuddered.
The Tapestry Lords moved as one, their voices rising in chorus.
"No Weaver may defy the Pattern. You have unmade yourself, Yoran."
Their hands extended, pulling the threads of his existence apart.
Yoran did not scream.
His body disintegrated—silver strands breaking apart, drifting into the air like dust. His final breath faded into nothingness.
But as the last fragment of his soul vanished, the child's tiny fingers closed around the empty space where Yoran had been.
And in that moment, something shifted.
The Loom trembled. The threads of reality shivered.
And somewhere far beyond mortal perception, the Tapestry rippled.
15 Years Later…
The morning light painted soft golden hues across the quiet village of Eldrin Hollow.
Nestled between rolling fields and the mist-cloaked Threadspire Mountains, the village was small, unassuming. A place where nothing remarkable ever happened.
Except to Ren Hale.
Ren always saw things others couldn't.
As he walked through the village streets, the air around him glowed with strands of silver and gold.
Threads.
Some wove between people, pulsing faintly, shifting with their emotions. Others stretched through the ground and sky, connecting places, events, moments that had yet to happen.
When he focused, he could feel them—soft, delicate, humming with unseen purpose.
And if he touched them…
He passed by the town's baker, Old Man Derik, who was balancing a wooden tray stacked with loaves of steaming bread.
The man stumbled on a loose cobblestone.
Ren saw it before it happened.
A thin thread, fraying at the edges—a future of broken bread, of curses muttered under breath, of wasted food.
Before he could think, Ren reached out and grasped it.
For a fraction of a second, the world shivered.
The thread tightened.
Derik's foot landed firmly instead of slipping, the tray wobbling but holding steady.
The old man blinked, looking down. "Huh. Thought I was going to trip."
Ren let out a slow breath.
This was his secret. This was his curse.
He never spoke of it, never asked why he could see what others could not.
Because deep down, he knew.
People feared what they didn't understand.
That night, the bandits came.
Ren was jolted awake by the sound of screams.
Outside, flames crackled. Shadows moved between the burning huts. Rough voices barked orders.
The village was under attack.
Ren's heartbeat pounded in his ears. He scrambled out of bed, ducking low as his mother—not by blood, but by love—hurried into the room.
"Stay hidden, Ren!" she whispered harshly.
But something outside caught his attention.
Through the gaps in the wooden shutters, he saw them—three men, weapons drawn, dragging someone into the street.
One of them raised a blade.
Ren's eyes snapped to the air around them. Threads.
A thousand different possibilities wove together, but one shone brighter than the rest—a path where the blade never struck.
He didn't think.
He grabbed the thread.
And pulled.
For an instant, the world went wrong.
The air glitched, as if time itself had hiccupped.
The bandit who had raised his sword froze.
Not like a man hesitating. Like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
His limbs twitched, locked in an unnatural position, eyes wide in horror—before his body began to unravel into golden strands of light.
A single, agonizing scream tore through the air—then he was gone.
Silence.
The remaining bandits stared at Ren.
The villagers stared at Ren.
He had been careful all his life. Careful not to let anyone see.
But now they all knew.
He was not normal.
He was something else.
And somewhere, far beyond the mortal world, the Tapestry Lords turned their gaze upon him.