The transition from the "Foundry Veins" to the boundary of the High Spires was a journey through a brutal, vertical caste system. As Silas ascended through the "Transit Pipes," the air began to change. The thick, charcoal-colored smog of the Low-Stitch gave way to a thin, silver-blue haze that tasted of ozone and expensive perfume.
The "Grey Gate" loomed ahead—a massive, circular portal made of reinforced ivory and gold-filigree. It was surrounded by a phalanx of Wardens in shimmering silver plate, their spears humming with a constant, lethal resonance. This was the "Filter."
Silas crouched in the shadows of a massive Aetheric pump, his "Infiltrator's Garment" blending with the damp stone. He watched the "Thread-Gala" from his vantage point. It was a grotesque display of wealth: nobles in glowing garments that trailed like liquid light, their servants holding orbs of pure Aether to illuminate the night.
There he is, Kaelen's voice whispered, the memory-fragment vibrating with recognition.
Corvin, the Master-Tailor of House Valerius, was a man who looked more like a piece of art than a human. His skin was unnaturally pale, etched with golden runes that glowed with a soft, aristocratic light. He was surrounded by a group of minor nobles, his fingers moving in a hypnotic rhythm as he adjusted the soul-garments they wore.
"A Tier-Four Weaver," Kaelen warned. "He doesn't just sew clothes; he sews destinies. If he feels your Void, he'll unweave you before you can draw a dagger."
Wait for the shift, Drax suggested. He's a perfectionist. He'll want to check the resonance of the Gate's filters before the gala begins. He'll move away from the crowd. That's when we strike.
Silas waited. He was a creature of the Void, and patience was a vacuum he knew how to fill. He watched as the nobles laughed and drank Aether-wine, their lives so far removed from the soot of the Low-Stitch that they might as well have been from a different planet.
Finally, Corvin excused himself from the group, heading toward a private maintenance terminal near the Gate's base. He was followed by two guards, their armor glowing with the same golden light as their master's skin.
Silas moved.
He didn't use the tunnels this time. He used the "Refined Void." He projected a series of dark filaments, anchoring them to the brass pipes above. He swung through the air, a silent, charcoal-colored bird of prey.
He dropped behind the guards with a soundless grace. Before they could react, Silas triggered a "Silent Stitch." He didn't unspool them; he simply "Grounded" their armor. The dark filaments wrapped around their Aether-cores, drawing the energy away instantly. The guards collapsed, not dead, but paralyzed as their reinforced plate became a heavy, lifeless cage.
Corvin spun around, his fingers already glowing with a sharp, golden light. "Who goes—"
Silas was already there. He didn't use his daggers. He used the Siphon-Needle.
He slammed the silver needle into Corvin's shoulder, right at the juncture of the golden runes. The Master-Tailor let out a choked gasp, his violet eyes widening in shock.
The Siphon-Needle roared to life, drinking the high-grade Aetheric signature of House Valerius. Silas felt the power—it was refined, arrogant, and incredibly stable. It was the "Unbroken Thread."
"You... you're the Void-Soul," Corvin wheezed, his golden skin beginning to gray as the signature was drained. "Lord Valerius said... you were just a scavenger."
"Lord Valerius was wrong," Silas said, his double-toned voice sounding like the cracking of ice.
He withdrew the needle, which was now glowing with a brilliant, golden light. He didn't kill the tailor; he didn't need to. He had what he came for.
He touched the needle to his "Infiltrator's Garment," and the golden signature flowed into the charcoal fabric. The cloak shimmered, its color shifting from black to a deep, royal gray, shot through with golden threads. To any Aetheric scanner, Silas now looked like a high-level servant of the House of Valerius.
"Thank you for the invitation," Silas whispered.
He stepped toward the Grey Gate. The Wardens at the entrance raised their spears, their Aetheric sensors scanning his form. Silas felt the "Filter" pass through him—a cold, invasive pulse that searched for any sign of corruption.
The golden signature held. The Gate hummed in approval, the ivory doors slowly swinging open.
Silas walked through the portal, leaving the Low-Stitch and the gray ash behind.
He was in the High Spires. The air was crisp, the light was golden, and the world was beautiful. He saw floating gardens, crystal towers, and streets paved with crushed mana-stones. It was a paradise built on a foundation of stolen souls.
But as he walked, he felt the Void-Soul in his chest throb with a new, intense hunger. The "Blue Heaven" refinement was no longer enough. He wanted the pure Aether of the Spires. He wanted the source.
We're in, kid, Drax said, his voice filled with a grim satisfaction. Now, where's the big man?
The estate is at the North Apex, Kaelen said. The 'Spire of the Loom'. That's where Valerius keeps his secrets. And that's where the war truly begins.
Silas pulled his royal-gray hood over his head, disappearing into the golden light. He was a thief in a house of gods. And he was about to show them that even the most beautiful tapestry could be unraveled with a single, dark thread.