In the heart of the crystal mountains of Myrvhal, nestled between halls carved from obsidian and passages where even light dares not enter, stands the Court of Nhyll—where time bends under the weight of the world's oldest lies. There, mirrors line the walls, but none reflect what is placed before them. Instead, they show twisted truths, corrupted possibilities, and destinies that could have been, but never were.
In this place where the Threads of the Loom are used as ink and lies are elevated to art, lives Thorn—the Mirror Weaver.
Thorn was young, but his eyes bore the silence of ancient souls. His hair was pale, like the purest strands of the Loom, and his skin seemed carved from fine wax, almost translucent under the Court's bluish glow. His long, restless fingers were always in motion—stitching, sketching, tracing impossible geometries in the air.
That night, Thorn sat alone in the Hall of Seven Reflections, before a mirror that had never shown a reflection. Reclining on cushions of black silk, he held a spool of pure thread—white as forgetting, eternal as guilt.
Behind him, a voice whispered.
"Still trying to weave a heart?"
It was Izel, his confidante and keeper of the Pavilion of Echoes.
"Not a heart," he replied, without turning. "A question."
"A question?"
"Yes. The Loom answers questions. But what if we could craft one so flawless, so precise, that even it could not ignore it? One that would force the world to rewrite itself just to answer?"
Izel stepped closer, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"Thorn... you're going too far."
He smiled, but his smile was made of shadow and intent.
"The world has already gone too far. I'm only keeping pace."
And with a single motion, he wove the threads. The mirror before him trembled—not in glass, but in reality. And then, something new took shape. Something that never should have existed. Something profane.
Thorn's creation.
"The Question," he said with reverence. "It has no name—only purpose."
The being was androgynous, woven from pure light and shadow, the Threads of the Loom stitching its body like a sacred gospel rewritten by a heretic's hand. It did not speak. It did not breathe. Yet each step it took rewrote the ground beneath it. Reality recoiled from it.
Izel staggered back, fear in her eyes.
"Thorn, what have you done?"
"I gave form to the inevitable. The Needle is in motion. The Cutter has already severed his line. The Reader has seen the knot lie. Now, it's time to invert the order. The Question will go out into the world. And it will bring the wrong answers the Loom needs to keep spinning."
But deep within Thorn, something trembled. A shadow he dared not name. Because a part of his soul still remembered what he had been—before he became a Weaver. A boy left to die in a land forgotten by the Loom. A child of distortion. And maybe—just maybe—this creation wasn't part of a plan.
It was vengeance.
By the end of the night, Thorn loosed The Question upon the corridors of the world. Every mirror it passed through cracked. Every city it crossed lost names, memories, bonds. Reality began to bleed. And in the forgotten corners of Etherya, Weavers went mad trying to repair what had been unraveled.
Thorn watched it all from his tower, eyes fixed on one particular thread—a broken one that refused to vanish. A man without fate. A void where nothing should remain.
"Kael..." he whispered with an unreadable smile. "Let's see if you still remember what it means to die."
As Kael wanders the ruins of a city that no longer exists, he stumbles upon a name no one should remember. And from the other side of reality... a shadow watches.