Ren moved through the forest like a shadow, his steps cautious, his breath slow and measured. The sun had dipped past its peak, casting long golden rays through the gaps in the trees. His stomach ached with hunger, but he ignored it. He had something more important now—a direction.
The Loom of Ash.
The name had been whispered into his mind, carried by a thread that had no source. It was a message, a guide. He didn't know who had sent it, but something deep in his bones told him that if he wanted answers, he would find them there.
He followed the pull of instinct, his mind drifting back to what he had seen in the caravan clearing. Weavers healing wounds, farmers calling rain, traders binding their fortunes.
Magic was everywhere.
But his magic wasn't like theirs.
That fact had been growing inside him, heavy and undeniable. When the healer had woven silver threads into a wounded man's skin, she had restored the Pattern—mending what was broken. The farmers wove their fields into harmony, strengthening fate's design.
But Ren?
He undid.
The bandit he had killed had not been rewoven. He had unraveled, his thread plucked from the world like it had never existed.
That wasn't what Weaving was supposed to do.
His mother had hidden him because she had known.
But even she hadn't told him everything.
The Loom of Ash would.
The Ruins of the Exiled.
The deeper he walked, the more the forest changed. The trees twisted, their roots gnarled and stretched as if something had tried to pull them apart and failed. The air felt heavier, charged with something unseen.
Ren pushed past the underbrush and found himself at the base of a crumbling ruin.
Stone pillars jutted from the earth, cracked and broken. The remnants of a great circular structure sprawled across the clearing, its foundation half-buried beneath time and neglect. At its center, half-collapsed but still standing, was a single archway made of blackened stone.
The Loom of Ash.
Ren approached cautiously, brushing his fingers along the ancient rock. The air here hummed. Threads of faded gold wove through space, flickering like dying embers.
A place once meant for Weaving.
But unlike the grand halls of the Academy, this place was forgotten.
Ren stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dimness beneath the arch. The stone floor beneath him was cracked, but at its center lay something untouched by time—a massive, circular tapestry, woven into the ground itself.
And upon it, written in ink that shimmered like fresh-stretched thread, were the words:
The Six Paths of Weaving.
Ren knelt, tracing his fingers over the words. He had never been taught Weaving, never had a mentor, but the knowledge pulled at something inside him.
The text was old, the ink worn, but the message was clear.
Threadless. The mortals. Those who had no connection to the Loom, who moved through life unaware that their fates were written for them.
Strandbearer. The first step. Those who could see the threads, touch them, and slightly adjust fate's course. The lowest rank, but the most common.
Weaver. The true magic users. Those who could bind and restructure threads, shaping reality according to the Weaving Order's teachings. They did not alter fate—they refined it.
Master Loomwright. The creators. Those who could forge threads into permanent artifacts, binding fates together in ways that could last generations. The weavers of relics, oaths, and unbreakable bonds.
Voidspinner. The rarest of the trained. Those who could weave across multiple fates, seeing the hidden possibilities beyond a single reality. Few reached this level, for it required understanding the Loom in ways most minds could not.
Architect of Fate. The final rank. The ones who could rewrite the Loom itself. It was said that only the Tapestry Lords had ever reached this level, that no mortal Weaver had ever touched that power.
Ren's breath caught as he read the last passage.
"To reweave fate is to uphold the Pattern."
"To undo fate… is to break it."
His blood turned cold.
He didn't fit anywhere in this system.
The Loom of Ash had not been an academy or a school. It had been a place of exile. A place where Weavers who had broken fate were cast out and erased.
This place had been for people like him.
Ren stood, his pulse hammering. This was why the Order would never let him live.
His power wasn't Weaving. It was something else entirely.
It wasn't meant to exist.
A sharp crack split the air behind him.
Ren spun.
A figure stood at the entrance of the ruins. Cloaked in black, silver threads laced into his robes. His hand was raised, fingers outstretched—feeling for disturbances in the Pattern.
The Strandbearer had found him.
"You led me straight here," the Strandbearer murmured, stepping forward.
Ren took a step back. The weight of the ruins pressed against his spine. There was nowhere to run.
The Strandbearer tilted his head, as if studying him. "This place should not exist. You should not exist."
Ren's fingers twitched. The air around the Strandbearer shimmered—threads twisting, weaving.
He was preparing a binding.
Ren clenched his fists. He couldn't fight. He had no training.
But he could pull.
The Strandbearer's fingers flicked—and the threads lunged toward Ren, silver strands wrapping around him like a net.
Ren reached out.
For a moment, the world seemed to hesitate.
Then he tugged.
The silver threads snapped apart like frayed rope. The magic collapsed.
The Strandbearer stumbled back, his eyes wide in shock. "That's not—"
Ren didn't let him finish. He turned and ran deeper into the ruins.
The forest had been too open. He had been too easy to track. But down here, among the shattered remnants of the exiled, he could disappear.
Behind him, the Strandbearer cursed and gave chase.
Ren didn't know where he was going.
But he knew he couldn't be caught.