The sky did not bleed like rain.
It tore.
On the eve of the new solstice, as the Loom pulsed in steady rhythm across the Hollow, a crack appeared across the heavens—thin, jagged, and glowing blue fire.
Morya felt it in her bones before anyone saw it.
"Something's wrong," she whispered.
Not just a thread snapping.
Not just an echo fading.
But a skyglyph breaking open—a remnant of the forgotten era when weavers carved spells into the stars themselves.
Erielle burst into the room clutching a scroll so hot it had nearly burned her fingers.
"The glyphs are waking," she panted. "And one of them—it's calling your name."
Far beyond the Hollow, in the desolate spires of the Sky Wound—where no weaver had dared tread in centuries—a child stood barefoot on the ruins of a temple. His eyes glowed with swirling constellations. His hands held a single phrase etched in fire:
"The unthreading has begun."