The streets were emptier than they had any right to be.
Corin Vale followed Vermielle through the twisting alleys of Graymire like a stray shadow trailing a ghost. Her crimson cloak didn't rustle, didn't snag on jagged iron or broken cobblestone. It just flowed, always slightly ahead of him, as if pulled forward by something unseen. Even her boots didn't echo.
The same couldn't be said for Corin.
Every step felt like thunder, like he was stepping into a world that wanted to spit him out.
They hadn't spoken since leaving the workshop.
Nella hadn't tried to stop him, either. She'd just vanished, like she always did, her last glance unreadable.
"You knew my name," Corin finally said, trying to keep his voice level.
"I know a great many names."
He frowned. "But not from me."
Vermielle didn't slow or turn. "Names are the most valuable Thread of all, boy. Yours is wrapped in Memory, pulled taut with potential. That makes you interesting. That makes you dangerous."
The word lingered like frostbite.
They passed a flickering gaslamp. Its flame dimmed as Vermielle approached, then reignited after she passed. Corin noticed now that even the rats scurried away from her.
The city around them was changing. Not literally—but perceptually.
Everything seemed heavier. The shadows longer. The air—thicker.
"Where are we going?"
"To someone who can unpick your bindings. Before they strangle you."
Not cryptic at all, Corin thought bitterly. But something inside him—the same feeling that had made him pick up the book, the same feeling that had made him stare at that glowing thread near the constable's throat—told him to keep going.
They passed under an old viaduct, its arches lined with rusted rivets and moss-draped beams. A beggar lay slumped in one corner, unmoving. As they drew near, Corin reached instinctively for his coat, pulling out a crust of leftover bread.
Vermielle paused.
"You'd give to one whose Thread has already snapped?"
Corin glanced at her, confused. Then looked down.
The man wasn't breathing. His eyes were glassy, his mouth open, and around his neck—
A faint silver line hovered in the air, frayed and pulsing with slow, ghostly light.
"Death," Vermielle said quietly, "leaves the last thread behind. Sometimes, it sings."
Corin stared as the silver thread twitched, then dissolved into the air like smoke in wind.
"How long has he been here?"
"Longer than you think. But the Threads wait. Sometimes, they linger to be seen."
Corin swallowed hard and forced himself to move on.
They reached the Old Spindle District near midnight.
The buildings here were remnants of an older Graymire—quieter, more ornate, less practical. Arched windows sealed shut with wax. Balconies that bowed under rot. Doors that hadn't opened in years. And above it all, the air buzzed faintly—like a loom at work behind the walls.
Vermielle stopped before a crooked townhouse at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac. The sign above the door had faded long ago, leaving only impressions: perhaps a name, or a crest. Whatever it had been, time had unraveled it completely.
She knocked once. Just once.
The door opened on its own.
Inside, the light was dim and greenish. Not candlelight. Not gas. Something else entirely.
Corin hesitated. "Who—"
"Enter," Vermielle said. "He won't wait long."
Corin stepped inside.
The house was impossibly quiet. No creaks. No wind. Even the dust seemed to float slower here.
The foyer led to a sitting room lined with hundreds of thread spools suspended in glass cases. Each one spun gently on its own, no hand turning them, and each glowed faintly—some red, some violet, others a cold shade of blue.
A man sat in a high-backed chair by the hearth, though the fire was made of twisting golden lines instead of flame.
He was old. Not in the way that meant age, but in the way stone was old. His skin looked like parchment soaked in tea, his eyes clouded with cataracts—yet they followed Corin with piercing precision.
"Sit," the man said.
Corin sat.
"Name?"
"Corin Vale."
"Thread Affinity?"
"I—I don't know. I saw one thread. Silver. Then a man died."
The old man hummed. "You're an observer. That's rare."
Corin blinked. "An observer?"
"Most see Threads after they learn to touch them. You saw them before." He leaned forward, his breath thin as lace. "That book... it didn't awaken you. It only revealed you."
Corin's skin prickled. "Revealed me to what?"
"To the world beneath the world. To the Loom." The man reached into his robe and pulled out a thin stick made of bone. With it, he tapped the space just above Corin's chest.
Corin felt a jolt—like cold water over his heart.
The man traced something invisible. Corin couldn't see it, but he felt it: patterns being drawn in the air, lines curling and looping like script from a forgotten tongue.
"You are bound by Thread of Memory," the man finally said. "Primary. Strong. Your secondary Threads are quiet, but present."
"Secondary?"
"All humans are woven of many threads," the man said. "But only a few awaken. Yours whisper of Echo and Emotion."
Corin's mind reeled.
"Can you—can you show me?"
The old man smiled faintly. "No. But I can give you the means to see for yourself."
He reached into a side drawer and pulled out a small object: a lens—no larger than a coin—made of glass so clear it seemed to vanish when tilted.
"This is a Thread-Lens. You will see the world as it is. Not always, not perfectly—but truth is not a fixed thing."
Corin took it with shaking hands. The lens was warm. Lighter than it should have been.
"Take care," the man said. "The more you see, the less you can forget. Memory is a blessing... and a chain."
He gestured toward the door. "Vermielle will take you to the Loomguard's interim hall. There you will choose: bind your Thread in service, or let it spiral wild."
Corin stood slowly.
Before he left, he turned. "What's your name?"
The old man chuckled.
"I am the Threadcaller. Names, boy, are not for free."
Outside, Vermielle waited silently.
"You carry the lens," she said. "Then he has accepted your thread."
"I don't understand any of this."
"You will."
They walked in silence again, though something was different. Now Corin noticed more.
The mist curled unnaturally around gutters. Gaslamps blinked in rhythm—not just flickering, but pulsing. People they passed wore threads like halos or nooses—some golden and rich, others brittle and dark. He blinked, and the lens tucked in his palm glowed faintly.
"I can see more now," he whispered.
"Not more," Vermielle corrected. "Just what's always been."
Corin looked up. The moon was gone now, swallowed by clouds. But the city still glowed—not with light, but with threads. Interwoven, complex, vibrating like a vast, invisible machine.
"How many Threadweavers are there?"
"Fewer than you think. More than you'd hope."
Corin turned the lens over in his hand. It shimmered, catching light that wasn't there.
He felt like he was standing on the edge of something vast. A loom stretched across eternity. And he, a single knot—loosened for the first time.
Somewhere inside his coat, the silk-bound book pulsed once. Not light. Not sound. Just a pulse.
A heartbeat.