Far from the Golden Sanctuary, in a chamber carved from obsidian stone, the air pulsed with a steady rhythm like the beat of a distant drum. The Puppeteer sat in silence, fingers resting lightly on strands of silver thread stretched across a massive black loom. Each thread quivered faintly, glowing with fragments of faces and places. Some threads shimmered bright with energy, others sagged dull and lifeless—cut.
His hooded face tilted as one strand vibrated brighter than the rest. The thread's glow pulsed gold, resisting the darkness wound around it.
"The weaver…" the Puppeteer murmured, voice low, contemplative. "Stronger than expected."
He brushed a long finger against the golden strand. It burned faintly against his touch, and instead of unravelling, it held. The faintest smile touched his lips beneath the hood.
Interesting. Most threads obey. This one… resists.
He leaned back, watching the ripple spread across the loom. Where the golden strand touched, others began to tremble faintly, as though awakening.
"Hope," he whispered, almost tasting the word. "So fragile. So dangerous. And yet… so perfect to twist."
Around him, shadows shifted, taking vague shapes. Dozens of eyeless forms crouched like hounds at his feet, awaiting commands. One shadow crept forward, head bowed.
"They grow bolder, master," it rasped. "The light ones push deeper than you predicted."
The Puppeteer didn't look at it. His gaze stayed fixed on the glowing thread. "Boldness is nothing without direction. They believe they are carving their own path." His fingers tugged three other threads, causing faint ripples that spread like water disturbed by a stone. "But every choice they make… brings them closer to the centre of my web."
He rose slowly, and the shadows shrank back. The loom loomed taller now, stretching into the dark ceiling, threads disappearing into infinity. Some glowed faintly, representing lives, choices, battles.
His hand hovered over another set of strands, darker than night itself. He plucked one, and a faint echo of laughter—mocking, cruel—filled the chamber before fading.
"The true game has not yet begun," he said softly. "What they've seen so far is only the prologue."
The shadows hissed in agreement, their bodies curling tighter into the stone floor.
He turned, his silver eyes gleaming beneath the hood. "Send the whispers. Spread fear among the villages near the Sanctuary. Let them believe the children of light failed to protect them."
The shadows scattered instantly, vanishing into the walls like ink dissolving into water.
Alone again, the Puppeteer returned to the golden thread. His hand lingered over it, not tugging, not cutting—just watching it shimmer defiantly.
"You think you can weave against me, little one," he said quietly. "But all threads return to the loom. Even yours."
For a long moment, he stood in silence, silver eyes unblinking. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the hood lower over his face.
The chamber darkened further, and the loom pulsed once—like the heartbeat of something vast and ancient.
The game was moving forward. And the Puppeteer was patient.