The Loom doesn't halt—it spins.
Came in the silence between seconds, before the first ember birthed a flame, before flesh bore scars, or bones, memory, or spirit, sentience, or soul, permanence. Or time dared to record its own passing. Spun the Loom—bound not by a god, nor an edict, nor a fate.
Within its pupil, there are no such dots as white nor black. Only threads: spirit, matter, fate, light, dark, time, and space. Seven threads, woven by breath unknown.
Each a Turning, each an Age. Fire at dawn, ruin at dusk. What was once harmony soon shattered.
The First Thread sang of Elements, pure and wild. When flame courted stone and air swam in rivers. From their union, adepts were born. And from adepts, something never lacked—arrogance.
The Second Thread rose—Ascendancy, when mortals touched the skies and built great walls underwater. They named themselves eternal, but even stars turn coal at a certain Age.
Then the Third: Twilight's Descent. The earth bled, pillars crumbled, and from the wound, the Corrupted Stream—a poison Time itself could not heal.
By the Fourth Turning, only Fracture thrived. Kingdoms gnashed for crumbs of power, and deep within tearing, the Loom spun faster, as if bracing.
From the ruin of the Fourth, the Fifth Thread—Reclamation emerged. Those who remembered wove again, weavers in secret, archivists of dreams. But the thread this time pulled taut.
Now, we stand upon the Loom's Edge—the Sixth Thread, trembling beneath prophecy's weight.
Voices cry of Tikvas—of saviors born of special stars. Of Nexusborn, the fate-touched, who stir the Loom's threads. And of the Unmoored—those who chose the Dark and severed their tether.
But, prophecy is a cage gilded by lies.
For one comes, not named in Codex nor sung in a tongue, born of no blood, yet deters all. Forged not by light, but made by the void between stars.
The Loom strains. The Seventh Thread spins toward its end. It frays, unspools, recoils.
And when it snaps, what remains?
A name, a child, a hollow seed, or perhaps, the last flame.