The East Wall district smelled of damp stone and boiled grain.
From the upper floor window of my small room, I could see crooked lanes winding between slate-roofed houses. Lanterns still burned along the streets, casting a weak orange glow that made the mist look like it was holding its breath.
The girl from earlier hadn't returned, but I heard voices downstairs — a low rumble of men's laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clink of tin mugs. Somewhere, a loom was in motion, its dull rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
When I stepped into the main hall, I saw a long table with half a dozen people eating. A pot of porridge steamed at the center, flanked by bread so dark it was almost black.
An older man sat at the head of the table, broad-shouldered with hair the color of ash and a face that looked carved from old oak. A simple tunic hung from him, but the way the others glanced his way between bites told me he was in charge.
The girl gestured me over. "Master Callen, he's the one I told you about."
Callen's gaze swept over me — sharp, measuring. "You've got your feet under you. Good. Eat."
I took a seat. The bread was coarse, the porridge thin, but I was too hungry to care.
Halfway through the meal, Callen asked, "You remember anything before the alley?"
I hesitated. Memories of the Loom lingered — the black thread, the faceless woman. But if I spoke of that now, I'd be dismissed as mad.
"Not much," I said. "Cold. Then… nothing."
His eyes lingered on me, then moved to my wrist. "You've got the mark."
I froze. "Mark?"
"The Threadmark," the girl said. "Most people never see one. You either inherit it, earn it, or… survive it."
"Survive what?"
She glanced at Callen, who gave a short nod. "The Threadbearers," she said. "Those who walk one of the Twelve Paths."
The room quieted. Even the scraping of spoons slowed.
Callen leaned back. "You'll see them in the city — Spinners, Cutters, Binders, Knotters… each Path works the Loom in their own way. Twelve in total. They serve the Guilds, the Crown, or themselves."
"And the mark?" I asked.
"It means you've been… touched," Callen said. "The Loom noticed you."
A prickle ran down my spine.
"Then… which Path am I?"
The girl snorted. "If you have to ask, you're none of them. Not yet."
After breakfast, Callen took me outside. The mist had lifted a little, revealing the outer wall of the district — a looming barrier of dark stone laced with faint silver lines that caught the morning light.
"That's Guild work," Callen said, nodding toward the silver threads. "The Weave-Ward. Keeps Threadbeasts out, most days."
"Threadbeasts?"
"You'll hear them at night. Sometimes see one if you're unlucky."
We turned down a narrow lane toward a squat building with a sign showing a spindle and knife crossed over each other. Inside, shelves were stacked with spools of thread — some ordinary, some shimmering faintly, and others that made my eyes ache to look at.
A man behind the counter looked up. His left eye was cloudy, and a thread-thin scar ran from brow to cheek.
"Another stray?" he asked Callen.
"Found him in the alley. Has a mark."
The man's gaze went to my wrist, and for a moment, his expression shifted — not quite fear, but wariness.
"That's not one of ours," he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Just reached under the counter, pulled out a small, battered book, and slid it toward me.
The cover was marked with twelve symbols — each one a knot or spindle in a different style. But in the center, faint enough to be almost invisible, was a thirteenth mark. A circle broken by a single loose thread.
My fingers brushed it, and I felt the Loom's voice stir in my skull.
"Not yet."
I pulled my hand back.
Outside, Callen looked at me for a long moment. "Stay close to the Guild for now. East Wall's safer than most places… but your kind of mark draws attention."
"My kind?"
"The kind no one talks about."
That night, as I lay in my narrow bed, the city's noises faded — the last carts on the cobbles, the shutters closing, the loom's heartbeat slowing.
In the silence, I heard it again.
Weaving.
Somewhere, unseen, threads were moving — and one of them was pulling at me.