"Don't," Etta whispered. "Jake, don't touch it."
But I was already on my knees. The crown tattoo on Alistair's chest shimmered, faint and flickering like it was dying. But it wasn't dead yet.
It wanted something, and it wanted me. Every inch of my body screamed to run. But something deeper, threaded through my bones now, stitched into the meat of me, leaned forward.
The silver needle tattoo over my heart burned.
"Take it," whispered Marcelline from deep inside my mind. "Wear it just for a moment. Just enough to open the door."
"No," I hissed. "I'm not your puppet."
"You're my hand," she said. "You're already laced. Might as well pull the thread."
Etta grabbed my shoulder. "Don't do this. Alistair's dying, but he's still wearing it. If it bonds to you..."
"Then maybe I get a little control."
"Or maybe you lose everything."
I looked at her. At the fear in her eyes. At the blood on my hands. Then at the tattoo. It pulsed again. And I made my choice. I reached out, fingers trembling, and pressed my hand against Alistair Grey's chest.
The crown burned into my skin.
White-hot pain exploded across my palm. It was like someone was carving bone with fire. My mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out.
The Weave didn't let me scream. It drank the pain instead. The tattoo peeled itself off Alistair like it was alive. The golden threads slithered up my arm like vines, curling around my bicep, sliding over my collarbone, tightening around my neck.
I couldn't breathe!
My veins turned gold. I saw sparks, visions, thousands of people on their knees. Streets filled with marked corpses. Children born with eyes like ink. I saw Marcelline, smiling, watching me from behind a curtain of red thread. And I saw something else.
Something older!
A throne, empty, made of skin, covered in screaming mouths, waiting. I collapsed. Etta caught me, shouting something. The gold threads finished their climb, and the mark stamped itself over my sternum.
The Crown!
And just like that… I felt it.
Control!
Power!
A command written in my bones!
I stood up, dizzy. But taller, stronger. The world shimmered like glass. I looked at Etta, and I knew...if I said one word, she'd kneel. I didn't want to, but I could.
"Jake," she said. "Are you still in there?"
I blinked. And for a moment, I wasn't sure. Because there was another voice now. Not Marcelline, not mine. Something malevolent, cold, royal.
"The throne is never empty. It waits. And now... you are seated."
I staggered back. "No, no. This wasn't part of it. I was just supposed to hold it..."
"You wear the mark. The mark wears you."
My knees buckled. Etta grabbed my face. "Fight it. Don't let it in. Focus on your name. On who you are."
"I… I'm Jake Carter. Ex-Marine. I don't belong to this."
"Wrong," the voice said. "You belong to the crimson weave. You are not a man. You are a tool, a needle, the stitcher of death."
The Crown pulsed, and I saw it again.
The Tapestry!
The real one, not just tattoos, but a god. A being made of skin and screams and thread, endless, ever-hungry. The true source. The ancient truth. The crimson weave… was alive, and it had just noticed me.
I fell to my knees, and laughed. I couldn't help it. Because now I understood there was no freedom. Every mark was a chain. Every soul a stitch. And I was the thread pulling them all together.
"Jake?" Etta's voice cracked. "Say something."
I looked up.
Grinned!
And said, "Long live the king."
I never thought I'd hear a voice inside my head that wasn't mine. But here it was. Louder than Marcelline, colder than the night.
The Crown!
"You are mine," it said, silk dripping like venom. "The Needle. The King. The Weaver."
I clenched my fists, feeling the gold thread pulsing beneath my skin like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
"Who the hell are you?" I whispered.
"I am the crimson weave, the first stitch, the last god. The skin that binds your fate."
The words echoed in my mind, twisting and folding like the tattoos that covered my body. I staggered, dizzy, lost in a world where everything seemed stitched together by invisible hands.
Etta's voice pulled me back.
"Jake! Focus! You're slipping."
I blinked, the room snapping into focus. Her eyes were wide, desperate.
"We need a plan," she said. "The Registry will come after you. Alistair's gone dark. Marcelline's half in you. And that thing, the Weave, is alive."
I nodded, but inside, my mind was unraveling.
"You belong to me now," the Crown whispered. "Wear the throne. Stitch the world. Or be unmade."
I clenched my jaw, the war had begun.
The crown tattoo burned under my skin like molten gold. I could feel it pulling me apart, stitching me back together, rewriting the very marrow inside my bones. It wasn't just a mark. It was a voice. A voice that never stopped talking.
"You belong to me now, Jake. The Needle. The King. The Weaver."
It whispered all day and night, never quiet, always pressing. I tried to drown it out, took whiskey, smoked too much, ran the streets of London till my legs screamed. But the voice grew louder. Like a tangled loom pulling at my sanity.
Etta didn't leave my side. Her eyes held fire, fierce and burning.
"We need to find a way to stop it before you snap," she said, voice low but steady. "You're wearing a god, Jake."
"A god? More like a monster."
She shook her head. "It's both. And it's hungry."
We moved through shadowed alleys to a forgotten pub where the Weavers sometimes gather when they don't want to be found. Inside, the air tasted like old blood and lost promises.
The room was thick with whispered secrets. At the bar sat a man no one noticed at first. Dark skin, ash-grey eyes, and tattoos curling like ancient serpents up his neck and hands. He didn't drink. Just watched.
Etta nudged me.
"That's Kwame Mensah. Ashanti priest. Skin-walker hunter."
Kwame's voice was low and rough when he spoke. "You wear the Crown. That means the Weave has chosen you as needle. But the question is, will you sew the world together… or tear it apart?"
I swallowed hard. "I'm trying not to lose myself."
He smiled, cracked like broken leather. "The Weave doesn't care about 'trying.' It wants you."
The pub door slammed open. Rain poured in like a curse. A group of men with faces like cracked porcelain and Sak Yant tattoos, men of Chatri Srisuk's Muay Thai curse, stepped inside.
Kwame tensed. "They're here for the Crown. For you."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
Etta whispered, "We have minutes. Or seconds."
Kwame stepped forward, voice booming. "You want to keep your skin? Fight me in the Weaver's way. Or run and never look back."
I looked at Etta, she nodded. The voice inside me twisted, angry.
"Choose. You are the King now."
I gripped my fists, and I said, "Let's see if the Needle can bleed."
...............