The next day, the coven found her.
It wasn't subtle. Arielle was walking home through the east district when the crowd thinned unnaturally, the noise of traffic dulling until it felt like she was underwater. A single thread — thick, violet, glowing like molten glass — stretched across the street, blocking her path.
And then they appeared.
Five figures, cloaked and hooded, their faces obscured by masks marked with glowing runes. Each held a weaving tool — not needles, but thin, flexible rods that sparked faintly with captured light. The air around them hummed with static, threads bending away as if in fear.
The tallest figure spoke, their voice low and clipped. "Arielle Torres. The weave does not permit wild Threadbinders. You will come with us."
Arielle took a step back, her camera strap digging into her neck. "I'm not a Threadbinder. I didn't ask for any of this. I don't even know what the hell I'm doing."
Another stepped forward, their mask tilting slightly. "Exactly why you are dangerous. Bonds break when touched by untrained hands. You will be contained until the tether is dealt with."
Before Arielle could respond, Selene dropped from the rooftop above, landing between her and the coven with a grace that made the air itself seem to bend. Their silver needle glowed fiercely.
"She's under my protection," Selene said, their voice calm but sharp. "You want her, you'll have to unravel me first."
The five figures didn't flinch, but the threads around them trembled violently, like a storm waiting to break.