Dawn bled into the tenement, thin and jaundiced as old bone.
Thud thud thud.
The Tear's pulse rumbled through Lycus's skull, each beat a warning.
Too close. Again. Not dead yet. Doesn't mean I safe.
He slammed the door shut—wood creaking under the hit. The stale air reeked of damp stone and fear.
Smells like hiding. Not safety.
A single oil lamp sputtered in the corner. Its glow trembled on cracked plaster. Lycus staggered toward the mirror above the washbasin, every step a fight against the pulse that throbbed behind his eyes.
Look now. Check what's yours before something else tries to claim it.
He braced both hands on the sink's edge, blurred reflection swimming in flame-shaped shadows.
Gods.
The gash on his temple was alive. Not merely torn flesh, but a nest of silver threads writhing beneath pale skin. And deeper still—a faint, golden glow knitting bone together with impossible precision.
The Loom's work.
No healer could do that. Not in this life. Threaded. Marked. Not mine anymore.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the vision. But before he could speak, the door exploded inward—splinters raining like glass shards.
"Containment breach! Echo signature spiking!"
Three shapes filled the doorway: hooded figures in gray robes, moving with measured urgency. Not Wardens—Scholars.
And leading them, calm as a scalpel: Theron.
Scholar by destination, Warden by Oath.
He moved like a thread drawn taut—ready to bind, or to cut.
His mercury eyes swept the room, pausing on the blood trail that led to Lycus's feet. In his hand, he cradled a silver-wired tome that seemed to breathe.
An orb on his belt hissed open, disgorging a swarm of jagged needles.
Lycus's breath caught.
No talking. No second chances. They're not here to ask. They're here to clean up.
Theron's voice was soft, clinical:
"Dual resonance… Tear corruption entwined with Loom weave. Singular. Fascinating."
He tilted his head, gaze drifting to the mirror's fractured surface, catching the golden threads refracted through drops of blood.
He saw the Flaw.
The book's wire binding uncoiled, writhing like a viper ready to strike.
"Specimen secured," Theron intoned.
Lycus's heart slammed against his ribs.
Specimen. Not a man. Just a problem to study. No way out but through.
He lunged for anything—a discarded chair leg, a broken shard—until his hand closed around the brass gear, still in his belt's pocket after their last encounter.
Clink.
Cold brass, slick with dried blood. It throbbed in his palm, as if alive.
Theron's eyes narrowed.
He's not surprised. Not scared. Just... measuring. Like I'm already on a slab.
Without hesitation, Lycus turned and threw the gear towards Theron.
ZZZZT—KRAK!
A shockwave ripped through the room. Sparks cracked. The lamp shattered. Darkness surged.
Don't wait. Don't think. Move like your blood already knows the way.
He flung himself through the broken window. Glass carved ribbons in his skin. He hit the alley stone with a brutal thud and ran.
Behind him, Theron's voice rang out—unnervingly calm:
"Let him run."
A pause.
"He carries the question now."
I don't carry questions. I survive them.
Left. Right. Pulse.
He followed the rhythm, the only compass he had.
Thud—thud… pause… THUD.
A door—a battered oak with a slot at eye level. He pounded on it.
A single milky eye peered through.
"Lycus? They're swarming—"
"Light. Five minutes," he gasped.
Through the slot, he pressed a cold, round object—the river stone. His talisman. His last "before."
The door clicked open.
No time to explain. No time to owe.
As he staggered in, pain flaring, something thudded in his pocket.
His palm ached—empty, but not.
he threw it, didn't turn back.
But his fingers closed around it anyway.
The brass gear. Warm. Humming.
It came back?
Or maybe it never left.
Harlo pulled him deeper inside. The safe room was a huddle of shadows and whispered prayers. Harlo's gaunt face flickered in the glow of a green gas lantern he shoved into Lycus's hand.
"Scholar's orders—no flame," Harlo murmured.
Lycus flexed his fingers. The lantern's sickly light revealed the silver threads etched beneath his skin.
Harlo's eyes darkened.
"Architect's teeth… you're threaded. Theron will harvest you for patterns."
"Not if I burn first or cut the pattern out."
Lycus pressed his palm to his temple, scrubbing at the wound with ash soap Harlo handed him. The grit bit into flesh; the threads writhed and receded, leaving a raw, fever-red scar.
Harlo's gaze fell to Lycus's pocket.
"You still have it?"
Lycus didn't answer.
Still warm. Still breathing.Whatever it is, it's not done.
"The symbol," he rasped.
Harlo spat.
"Scraped off the Nexus Gate yesterday. Scholar said flaws hold truths."
He tapped the side of the brazier. Black ash spiraled into the air.
"Masks your Echo song," Harlo said. "Long enough."
Lycus reached into his pocket and drew out the last of his coins—copper, worn smooth until the king's face was gone. He pressed it into Harlo's hand.
"For the light. And silence."
Harlo's fingers closed around the coin.
"If you die… let it teach him nothing."
Lycus nodded, heart hammering. He limped toward the attic ladder. Every breath was a battle.
He emptied his pockets on the floor:
—River stone: sacrificed.
—Crust of stale bread.
—Brass gear—warm and alive.
—Wrench—heavy, once gripped by a dead enforcer.
All that's left of a man. Names don't matter. Tools do.
He picked up the gear. Ran a fingertip across its teeth. They were blackened by blood, but etched deep into the brass were tiny letters:
SEEK THE THREAD SPINNER
His breath caught.
Thread Spinner.
Architect? Or worse?
Doesn't matter. Just find it before they find you.
Outside, the city groaned—sirens, distant shouts, the Tear's relentless drum.
Lycus tucked the gear into his palm.
It hummed. Not just alive—waiting.
He climbed the ladder, each rung a promise of answers—or oblivion.
Dawn waited.