Thud-thud-thud-thud—
The Tear's pulse was relentless. A war drum pounding in Lycus's skull, beating in time with something deeper—an alien rhythm, older than his name.
Still there. Still hunting. It won't stop.
Dawn spilled like wine across Caldareth's horizon. Not gold, not light—just another bruise.
Lycus moved through the fractured streets, the brass gear like a burning coal in his pocket. Each step brought him closer to the wound in the city. Closer to the Nexus Gate.
It wants me. Or what's inside me. Either way, this ends ugly.
Not a gate. A rip. A tear in the skin of this place. Reality's weak spot.
Flesh wound on the world. I'm the infection?
Where the river once ran clean, reality now bent. Twisted. Buildings hung rootless above the water, weeping black tar from stone veins. Streets curled into impossible loops. Windows stared back with mirrored eyes. Smoke draped everything like mourning cloth.
This place used to breathe. Now it just leaks.
The symbol was everywhere.
ϟ
Etched into floating bricks. Carved into lamppost ruins. Branded into the ribcage of a rotting draft horse.
Mocking me. Or warning me.
No way this is a coincidence.
Lycus's temple ached. The scar beneath his skin buzzed with static. The Echo-Sense in him stirred:
…converge… converge…
Too loud to be nothing. Too clear to ignore.
The air rippled. And then—They came. From the distortion—they congealed. Shard Lords.
Armor fused with crystal.
Tear-corruption bleeding from their joints. Eyes like cracked lenses.
Their leader stepped forward: Merikh.
His face was not a face—only a shifting mosaic of glass shards reflecting different versions of himself.
"Anomaly," his voice grated like shattered mirrors. "Flay him. Let the Loom sing."
Lycus ducked behind a hovering fish cart. The stench of rot clung to his hair, clung to his skin. Mackerel floated around him like dead moons.
Cover's shit. But it'll hold a breath or two.
No time. No hesitation.
He clutched the gear.
Blood—his own, from reopened wounds—smeared across the symbol.
ϟ
ZZZT—A pulse. A scream with no sound. It echoed in bone.
Good. Bleed, you glass freaks.
One of the Shard Lords spasmed. Its mirrored cheek cracked. Glass fell like tears.
Merikh's voices—multiple now, layered—snarled:
"Echo-scum. There!"
Too late.
Run.
He didn't think—he moved.
Not toward the gate. Away from their eyes.
Not toward the gate, but under it.
Down's always better. Rats survive for a reason.
A sewer grate, bent sideways in midair, floated above a dead lamppost. He leapt——Gravity failed. Lycus fell up. Or down. Or sideways.
Fuck. Just fall. Just land.
He hit the ceiling. Which became the floor. Sewage rained upward. Or downward. He crawled through a pipe twisted like a dead serpent. Every breath tasted like rust and rot.
Don't breathe. Just keep crawling. Think later.
Keep moving. Don't stop. Not yet.
Light.
Ahead—a vast chamber, carved into space where space didn't belong. Its walls were not stone, but sound. Echoes pulsed in them.A lullaby, warping into static.
His own voice, distorted:
"Why not just die?"
Because I haven't killed enough things yet.
And in the center:
A pedestal of gears, nested like clockwork lungs.
Upon it—Another
ϟ
Not carved. Not painted. Alive .Pulsing gold.
Like it's waiting. Or watching.
Lycus stepped closer, heart in his throat.
Every step heavier than the last. No room for doubt.
It wants something. So do I.
He reached—"Cease, variable." Theron emerged from a ripple in the air. As if reality had made room for him. Gray robes. Immaculate. Eyes like mercury. His book floated beside him, its silver wires writhing like leashed snakes.
Always shows up when things make the least sense. Like mold.
"You're evolving," he murmured to the tome. "Tear-corruption integrating with Loom-weave. Spontaneous symbiosis?"
A page turned. Wire slithered. Fast—too fast.
Snap.
Lycus threw himself aside. The wire lashed his leg—burned deep. The stench of seared flesh filled the chamber.
Pain's good. Means I'm still in it.
Theron's steps were slow. Almost reverent.
This man still thinks like a scholar while the city burns.
"They'd destroy you," he said softly. "I would document you. Flaws illuminate the system."
"You're calling that mercy?"
Lycus swung his wrench.
CLANG!
Steel met silver. Sparks flew.
"Why me?" Lycus spat. "The city's rotting. You're chasing shadows while everything else dies."
Theron tilted his head, smiling like a surgeon admiring a tumor.
"Precisely. You are the anomaly. The equation's beautiful flaw."
Fuck this Psychopath.
He raised the book. Crimson ink bloomed on its open pages. Symbols ignited like fire.
—THUD.
The Tear's rhythm stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Silence.
Then—The chamber dissolved.
Stone faded. Gear-pedestals vanished.
Behind it all:
A tapestry woven from gold threads. Stars. Shadow. Silence. It stretched beyond comprehension.
The Loom.
And at its center—A figure.
Cloaked in starlight. Eyes ancient. Hand outstretched, a single silver thread trailing from their fingers into the void.
The Architect.
Their gaze met his.
Heavy. Knowing. Not kind. But not cruel.
A flicker of something in their eyes.
Pride?
You see me. So what now?
CRACK!
The Loom shivered.
Reality shattered.
Theron's wire lashed——through empty air.
Lycus was no longer there.
Only his voice lingered.
"He's watching, Scholar. You're just… noise."
—Lycus burst from the underworld into violet dawn.
Bleeding.
Breathing.
And not running.
Just… moving forward.
Survived again. Keep going.
In his fist:
The gear.
But no longer cracked. No longer alone.
Two symbols. Entwined.
ϟ ϟ
Between them, a message. Burned into brass like divine law.
THE VAULT AWAITS.