Caelen arrived at the Threadwells before midnight.
The third ring of Lirmathra's Archive District was quiet at this hour, its mosaic paths half-swallowed by the low, glowing mist of latent memory — residual fragments from nearby Spindles. Each step stirred echoes: laughter, whispered promises, fragments of arguments that had long since faded from any living tongue. Caelen ignored them. Tonight, he couldn't afford distractions.
He leaned against the iron balustrade surrounding the Threadwell, a circular pool of still water, twenty feet wide and bottomless. The Loom called it a Reflective Interface . Locals called it a wishing well. But Caelen had seen what it truly was: a convergence point, where the world's hidden rules ran thinner.
He didn't wait long.
"Caelen!"
Her voice was a lilt, like a skipped stone across still water.
Lyssira Elowen appeared around the bend, her boots kicking up mist, hair flaring like sunlight behind her. She wore the mustard-yellow robes of a junior Lightweaver, loose and patched in three places, and carried a knapsack slung over one shoulder — half unzipped, with dreamstones leaking like breadcrumbs behind her.
"You came!" she beamed.
Caelen nodded slowly. "You left a note on my pillow."
She stuck her tongue out. "Yes, well, you still could've ignored it. People do that, you know."
He gave her a look. "You mentioned the glyph."
At that, her expression changed. She bit her lip, glanced down at the Threadwell's surface, and exhaled slowly. "I didn't know who else to tell."
There was something disarming about her honesty. She didn't try to sound mysterious or cryptic, like the Scribes often did. She just was. Simple. Unvarnished.
Caelen watched her for a moment. "What did you see?"
"A spiral. Eight strands." She traced it in the air with her finger, inaccurately. "It was flickering on the wall behind the dormitory mirror. Only for a second. But it made my dreamstone flicker, too." She pulled it from her pocket. It was cracked — not damaged, but… empty. As if its memory had been pulled out.
"Everyone thinks I broke it," she muttered, then perked up. "Anyway! I thought maybe you'd know something about it. You always used to talk about the old symbols. Remember?"
Caelen hesitated. She wasn't ready for the truth. Not yet.
Instead, he changed the subject.
"Do you understand how the Threads work?" he asked.
Lyssira blinked. "Um. Ish? Kind of? Not really. They didn't cover it well in our year."
Caelen turned toward the Threadwell and crouched near the edge.
"Okay," he said. "Think of the world like a set of unbreakable rules. The Threads are not physical strings — they're principles, laws that define what's possible. The Loom uses those principles to hold reality together."
She tilted her head. "So… they're like rules written into everything?"
"Exactly," he said. "Imagine the Loom as a loom — a grand one, cosmic, eternal — weaving reality itself. But instead of thread and cloth, it uses seven core concepts. Those are the Threads. Each governs a specific kind of truth."
She sat beside him, cross-legged, chin resting on her palm. "You're not helping your case with metaphors."
Caelen smiled faintly. "Then I'll explain it like this: everything you see, feel, or remember exists because of a Thread being held in place. And when someone learns to resonate with a Thread — to align their will with its principle — they can manipulate that aspect of reality."
She perked up. "Okay, now we're getting somewhere."
He began ticking them off on his fingers.
"First Thread: Light. That's yours. It's the law that governs perception, radiance, visibility. Lightweavers learn to shift how the world sees itself. That's why your robes glow when you lie."
"Rude, but fair."
"Second Thread: Form. It's the principle behind structure and shape. Builders and Shapers don't just mold matter — they enforce the idea of 'this is what stone should be.'"
"Ah, like Gerren! He made a spoon out of a chair once."
"Third: Breath. Not air exactly, but the *idea* of space, pressure, motion-through-void. It's the Thread that keeps sound from vanishing into silence."
"So basically farts?"
He gave her a *look*. She grinned wider.
"Fourth: Tides. The law of cycles, flow, liquidity. It governs water and blood — things that move in rhythm with emotion."
Lyssira looked intrigued. "Romantic."
"Fifth: Ember. Motion, heat, momentum. A spark becoming flame — a body in motion staying that way. Pyrethanes love this one, until something catches fire."
"Whoops."
"Sixth: Memory. It's not about thoughts, but continuity. Cause and effect. If a rock forgets it was thrown, it stops flying. Scribes use it to alter sequences. Dangerous if overused — change too much, and the world forgets how to be real."
She shivered. "I hate that one."
"Seventh: Binding. It's the law of connection. Promises. Oaths. Identity. It's subtle — like gravity for relationships."
She leaned back, thoughtful. "So each Thread is like a fundamental law of existence. You're not pulling on something real — you're convincing the world to *follow its own rule* a bit differently."
"Exactly," Caelen said. "The Loom is what enforces those rules. That's what keeps the world from falling apart."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then what's the eighth?"
He hesitated. "An error. Or a truth not meant to be."
She squinted. "You're being cryptic again."
He didn't answer. Not directly.
Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a tiny, delicate shard of obsidian — what remained of his cracked lens.
Lyssira leaned in. "What's that?"
"Proof." He closed his fist. "That forgetting something doesn't make it any less real."
They sat in silence for a while. A soft breeze curled around them. Mist swirled.
Then Lyssira stood up and dusted off her robes.
"Well," she said brightly, "this has been extremely ominous. I'm probably going to have weird dreams now. Thanks."
Caelen gave a soft laugh.
"You're welcome."
She smiled, radiant in the dark. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Maybe," he said, already knowing he would.
She began to walk away, then turned back.
"Oh — by the way. If you ever do figure out what that eighth spiral means, tell me. I want to know. Even if it's terrible."
Her voice was light. But her eyes held something deeper.
Curiosity. Trust. A thread being pulled.
Then she vanished into the mist, leaving Caelen alone with the well — and the memory of a name she hadn't yet heard.
Velkareth.
Caelen closed his eyes.
Truth, it seemed, was beginning to fray.
End of Chapter 3