The chasm did not fall; it gaped. From the lip of the cliff, slick with mineral moss, the world seemed to choke on a bottomless hollow. Hanging there, like a breath held far too long, stretched a bridge of silk—pale threads woven tight, glimmering in the green-blue glow of the giant mushroom forest that ringed it. They called it Webspire. A faint hum trembled through its fibers, like the slow pluck of a zither string; the note rose and fell whenever the wind from the depths swept upward, the breath of some sleeping giant.
The caravan halted several paces from the anchor tower. A dozen small lamps—not flame, but candle mushrooms—were fixed to a woven guardrail, their scent sharp, like seaweed salted and left to dry. Behind the caravan, a line of bone-wheeled carts creaked under their loads: rolls of logistical silk wrapped in gauze, sealed metal chests, and wicker baskets filled with ore that glimmered with a soft violet deep in its veins.
Heat from the depths rose in warm breaths, colliding with the cool vapor from the umbrella-cap mushrooms above, wrapping the ground in a thin mist that brushed against ankles like water that had yet to decide whether it should run or stay still.
Rae stood near the rear, boots sinking slightly into the cool, springy earth. A light throb rose through the soles of his feet—a subtle vibration carried from the bridge's anchor into the ground, up into bone. He had felt something like it before, above ground, near an excavator crawling the slope of a sump: the wordless speech of machinery. Here, it was not steel or hydraulics that spoke, but fibers and knots. Yet the language, he thought, was the same: tension, load, rhythm.
A hanging market swayed over the void, tethered to secondary silk cables. Small stalls—cloth pouches, light wooden crates, fine nets—rocked gently, spilling scents of charred spice, heated metal, and sticky mushroom confections. Merchants were strapped by waist-harnesses, standing half-suspended as if gravity were merely a rumor told by the fearful. Laughter drifted softly, quickly swallowed by the groan of threads.
Above them moved something fast: creatures shoulder-high to a man, slender-bodied, with a second pair of smaller arms beneath the ribs. Their fingers were long, jointed with quick precision. Fine, gleaming hair covered their skin, and their eyes caught and threw back the glow of the mushrooms. Arachneans—the weavers of Webspire—slid along the lines, inspecting knots, straightening tangled strands, adding resin, and singing softly in a language of clicks and scrapes not entirely unfamiliar to Rae's ear.
Brug stepped forward, his shoulders as broad as a barracks door, his leather coat heavy with layers of mineral dust. His gaze fixed on a small tent at the base of the bridge—its layered silk curtains marked with a black wax seal bearing a sigil Rae had seen only once: three overlapping circles, like the iris of an eye—the Overlord's mark.
"Stay behind me," Brug said without looking back, his voice low, like stone being dragged. "And don't speak when the one talking starts counting."
"Counting what?" Rae asked under his breath.
"The price."
The silk curtain parted. A tall figure emerged, moving with a slow, liquid grace, like water unhurried by gravity. She wore a woven robe patterned in waves and thorns, her hair braided with strands of shining silk, each tip weighted with black beads. Her skin was pale, her eyes glowing faintly green, like moss on a cave wall. In her left hand she held a flat staff of mushroom bone, its hooked head made for lifting, catching, or holding—the tool of a weaving overseer.
"Matron Sythri," someone murmured behind Rae.
The Matron regarded the caravan as one might a length of weaving: strand by strand, human and cargo alike, knots of intent among the fibers. When she spoke, her voice was soft, but edged with a fine wire of sharpness.
"Brug. You've come with many threads."
"We've brought what was ordered," Brug replied. "Twelve rolls of logistical silk. Three crates of soft obsidian. Four baskets of class-three lumina seeds. Two labor logs. And three transit passes stamped by Glasswarden last week."
Sythri inclined her head once. "You've forgotten one thing."
"What?"
"The Webspire toll."
Brug exhaled through his nose. "The toll was paid at the turn of the month."
"Last month's turn," Sythri corrected. She lifted her staff toward the cave's vaulted sky—a dark patch where mushroom-light formed faint rings, like a calendar that did not quite understand time. "Last night, the western span was bitten by hot wind from the depths. We patched thirty knots. Resin, labor, life. The bridge's price has risen."
The market hushed. The creak of fiber was suddenly distinct, like teeth grinding together.
Brug's jaw tensed. "How much?"
The Matron smiled faintly. "Three rolls of logistical silk. One basket of lumina seeds. And one mark."
"What kind of mark?"
Sythri tapped her staff against the anchor post. From behind the curtain, a courier emerged, carrying a small board of mushroom bone layered in skin. Upon it sat a black wax seal, the same triple-iris emblem. "Proof the Overlord has inspected your caravan. A mere formality. But you know… formality here always has a price."
The scent of hot metal sharpened in Rae's nose. He looked to the bridge, to the murmuring threads that seemed alive. The price of a bridge, he thought, was never just numbers.
⸻
II
Negotiation in the underworld was not merely words; it was the subtle tug on the right thread so the whole weave shifted without snapping. Brug—blunt, short, practical—pulled at the thread he knew was strongest: need.
"My people must cross today," he said. "If not, Glassveil will close our unloading slot. You don't want your warehouses full while your market hangs over empty wind."
Sythri examined her nails—sharp but cared for. "We forbid no one. We only remind: to cross is to owe the ones who keep the weave from breaking."
"Two rolls. Half a basket," Brug bargained.
"Four rolls," Sythri countered, "and you may sing across the bridge without my weavers cutting your harness."
A few Arachneans chuckled softly; the sound was a gentle clicking.
Rae watched from the side. Warm vapor from the chasm brushed his face, tasting of salt and metal, drying his lips. Beneath the blanket of mist, his skin prickled at the warring temperatures—heat from below, chill from the mushrooms. In the distance, a breath of wind shimmered the mushroom glow, making the world appear to move though it stood still. Webspire was not merely suspended; it was alive.
"Two rolls, one basket, and you stamp the pass today without the black seal," Brug pressed, voice steady.
"One full basket," Sythri replied lightly, "three rolls, and the seal stays. The Overlord likes order. So do you, if I recall. You wouldn't want him remembering you for the wrong reasons."
Brug pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him, one of the cart-haulers coughed on spice dust; the scent of aged cinnamon mixed with sulfur struck the air. Stalls swayed. A young Arachnean moved along a side cable, resin bottle in hand, glancing briefly at Rae—his round eyes reflecting the caravan as pinpricks of light.
"If it's resin you need," Brug said quietly, "I'll pay in labor. Two of my people help with patching until midnight."
Matron Sythri smiled, but her eyes stayed cool. "Midnight is relative here, Brug. And your people's hands don't bind like ours. I need something that holds."
"Then take me as bond," Brug said darkly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Unfortunately, you—" Sythri's gaze shifted to Rae, "—are too heavy."
Brug turned sharply. "He's new. He doesn't count."
"No one is truly 'new' in Noctarion," Sythri murmured, as if reciting an old lesson. "Some just arrive slower. Some arrive sooner."
Something in her tone cooled Rae's nape, like a fine needle touching a pulse—not to harm, but to measure.
"Fine," Brug said at last. "Three rolls. Half a basket. You can put your seal on the pass. But no item-by-item inspection. We don't have the time."
"Two-thirds of a basket," Sythri answered, "and I want to see one roll opened. Now."
Brug gritted his teeth. But before he could answer, the bridge made a different sound—a high-pitched hitch from the western span. Rae turned with an instinct that belonged to no words. The note was faint but clear, like the hairline crack in a pane of glass that one day would shatter it.
An Arachnean worker on the western span slipped. Resin spilled from his fingers, his body tipping—one foot kicking air, one arm flung free of its safety knot.
The world seemed to draw a collective breath.
⸻
III
Rae ran before his mind could frame a reason. He passed Brug's short shout, vaulted a crate of soft obsidian, and ducked through the guardrail. Warm vapor from the chasm struck his face—salty, sharp—while cold mushroom air slapped the back of his neck. His heart pounded, but another sound guided him: the rising whine of stressed fibers, climbing in pitch, demanding a number.
He couldn't fly. He wasn't insane. But the bridge ahead stretched like the patient tongue of some great beast. Rae leapt to a thicker side strand, knees bending, hands seizing a dangling safety rope like a root. His left foot found a hold, his right searched for the note. Around him, Arachneans turned in unison, their eyes catching light like wet beads.
"Don't—!" someone shouted.
Too late. Rae was already halfway there.
The dangling worker hung by one arm, his breath ragged, teeth clenched against pain. The waist-safety rope had tightened, shifting the load so a secondary knot behind him—already saturated with resin—was stiffening unevenly. If it locked at the wrong angle, the strand would sing that high note Rae had heard… right before something broke.
"Don't pull him up!" Rae barked at the two weavers gripping the rope. "Lower the load first—three sight-eyes!" He pointed toward the secondary knot. "Release and reset position—two spans left!"
Arachneans didn't take orders from outsiders. But the language Rae used was the language of structure—they knew it as well as they knew their own pulse.
"Two spans?" one repeated, hesitant.
"Two spans!" Rae snapped. "Now!"
They moved. Quick fingers released, tucked, shifted. Rae pressed his back to the thick strand, shifting his weight to ease the pull while pushing the secondary knot back toward its proper angle. The fibers beneath him responded like muscle—tense, then softening slightly. The high note in the air dipped half a tone, then another. Rae knew that feel: like a great machine finding its oil pressure after a cold start.
"Now pull," he said more calmly. "Slow. Together."
Three pairs of hands worked as one. The dangling worker rose, trembling, feet finding the strand again. A new safety line was tied at his waist. The collective breath, once held, finally escaped—warm with resin's sweet-burn scent.
Rae noticed only then that his palms burned from the coarse fibers. He looked at the red lines, still thinking about the note that had just dropped. It had asked him: Where did you learn?
And another voice had answered: Somewhere that didn't use thread.
"An… interesting instinct," Matron Sythri said, appearing without sound at the anchor. She regarded Rae, her eyes softened at the edges, sharp at the center. "You knew which sight-eyes to move. You guessed the knot's angle from a hum."
"I didn't guess," Rae said, still catching his breath. "I heard it. Back at our camp, if a winch cable screamed like that, it meant the angle was wrong or the load was snagged where you couldn't see. One fix mended it, the other made it worse. Things about to break usually sing first."
"Machines sing, threads sing," Sythri murmured. "You hear both."
Brug arrived, gripping Rae's shoulder, checking his hands before glaring at the Matron. "See? We didn't come empty-handed."
"No," Sythri said softly. "You came with a pair of ears that do not laze."
A young weaver approached and touched Rae's arm briefly—a restrained gesture of thanks—before returning to harden the resin with a small heater that smelled of sweet char.
"Very well," the Matron sighed. "Three rolls. Half a basket. And… a note in the transit log." She gestured. Her courier brought the bone board. Sythri dipped the black seal into molten wax—its scent like soft asphalt—then pressed it to skin parchment. The triple iris stared back in glossy black.
"What note?" Brug asked.
Sythri looked out over the chasm, listening to something far away. "A special order," she said at last. "From the Overlord. He likes… things that listen."
Rae swallowed. The words were too light to be harmless.
IV
The tribute was moved: three rolls of logistical silk lifted from the carts, their fibers glinting like fish skin in green water. The basket of lumina seeds—small gems that drank mushroom light and returned it as a gentle violet—was counted down to half. An Arachnean scribe jotted quickly, fingers stained with ink. Brug watched sharply, making sure the measure didn't change in the turning.
"Webspire will stay open for you until the air-bell rings twice," Sythri said. "Cross in order, don't run. These strands can hold weight, but they dislike arrogance."
"And inspection?" Brug asked.
"The seal is there," the Matron replied. "I won't spoil your day by pawing through every roll. Not because you asked—because I'd rather not see that western knot throw another fit."
Rae glanced toward the knot he'd shifted earlier. The resin gleamed, hardened into a pattern that to his eye resembled the map of a small river. Strange, how quickly the body learned a new language when it had once loved another with devotion.
Sythri stepped closer. "What do they call you?"
"Rae."
"Rae." She tasted the name briefly. "Some are born with eyes for color, ears for tone, tongues for lies. You—ears for structure. Machines, weaves, perhaps even the bones of a city." She looked to the ledger board. "The Overlord has commissioned something from the Glasswrights of Glassveil. Something… large. To lift or to lower. They'll need people who can hear when a load whispers fear before it breaks. If you want to survive, listen to that fear."
"We're only passing through," Brug cut in, his voice flatter than before. "To Glassveil. Deliver the goods. Nothing more."
"No one only passes," Sythri said softly. "A bridge is never neutral. Step on it, you owe it. Ignore it, you owe the chasm."
Brug started to reply, but the hanging market erupted in small commotion. A spice vendor struck a thin mushroom-bone bell; its sound sparked like hot water poured over metal. Several Lumendel—tiny fae trailing ribbons of light—spiraled above the stalls, their wings like wet glass sheets. They chased glittering specks of glowing spice tossed into the air to draw buyers. Arachnean children cheered in clicks.
Rae watched the Lumendel, remembering the whispered songs in a mine mouth that had once held back the scream of stone. Every spiral gives direction, the old saying went. He looked at Webspire, its vast strands twisting into a spiral unseen, offering direction above the void.
Sythri adjusted the fringe of her robe, plucking a loose thread. "You saved one of my weavers. In return, a piece of advice: in Glassveil, don't look straight into the singing glass screens. You'll hear truths not meant for your ears. Someone with ears like yours… can get lost in songs that never meant to guide."
"Thank you," Rae said.
"Don't thank a bridge you haven't crossed," she replied with a half-smile. "Step first."
She signaled to the weaver in the anchor tower. The air-bell rang once—a long, resonant note that shivered the cool air, lifting the hairs on Rae's arms. The main span of Webspire stiffened briefly, then softened into a new key. The mesh gate at its base opened. The caravan—this one—was allowed through.
⸻
V
They crossed one by one, at measured intervals. Brug led, two cart-haulers behind him, Rae fourth, the rest following. The woven guardrails flexed under touch—not truly to hold, but to remind that trust in unseen knots was what carried them. Every step sent messages through the fibers into Rae's bones. The bridge's notes were uneven; it had a personality that disliked haste.
Wind from the chasm carried salt, metal, and a sweetness like roasted mushroom flesh. Mid-span, the mist rose to their knees; within it spun small spirals woven by Lumendel, dancing in silence, their trails of light vanishing as quickly as breath. Behind them, the market looked like a hive of green stars. Ahead, the gates of Glassveil were only hinted at—a faint blue-white peak of light, pulsing.
Some Arachneans passed on parallel strands, moving with a grace that made human grips look clumsy. One passed close to Rae, greeting with two fingers to the heart—the weaver's salute. Rae returned the gesture awkwardly. A bead of cold sweat slid behind his ear, not from fear, but from the bridge's insistence that every sense be present at once.
"I hate heights," muttered one hauler behind him, voice shaking. "But I hate being stuck in the market with spice vendors who triple their prices more."
"Quiet," Brug said, not unkindly. "Hold the rail. Don't look down unless you want to write your goodbye letter in mid-air."
Rae looked down. Not to defy Brug, but because the note under his boots had shifted again—dropping slightly, then leveling. He saw the secondary strands fanned beneath the main span, moving like gills. There was logic there: weight distributed not just in width, but in the bridge's own breath. He smiled faintly. Machine, thread, or city—they all wanted to breathe.
At the center, the mist parted like a curtain. Across the chasm, on the far side, stood towers of glass as thin as mushroom filaments turned to stone, reflecting green glow into pale blue. If the rumors were right, this was Glassveil: a city built of mineral sheets that sang when touched, their voices guiding or deceiving, depending on the hand.
The air-bell rang a second time, echoing in their chests. Their pace slowed without instruction. Webspire lowered its tone, as if escorting its guests to the threshold. Brug exhaled as his boots met the far stone; some of the tension left his face.
"See?" he said, half to his crew, half to himself. "This bridge is old, but it knows its manners."
Rae glanced back. In the far anchor tower, Matron Sythri stood, her robe moving slow as water curtains. She lifted a hand—neither greeting nor threat—more a mark that something had begun and would not end just because their feet touched the ground.
They passed through the first glass gate. The air changed: a dry, deliberate chill, like a room learning to counterfeit seasons. The floor reflected light so every shadow seemed to have another shadow. On the walls, sheets of glass framed in resin-bound silk quivered gently, producing a low choir of notes like the ebb and flow of a tide. Merchants, artisans, couriers moved like pieces of light that had forgotten the way home.
"Everyone who enters is recorded," said a Glassveil guard, face hidden behind a thin glass veil. "Seal?"
Brug showed the transit pass. The black seal stared from the parchment, triple irises. The guard nodded, pressed their own glass stamp atop it—a symbol of stacked sand grains.
"You're the one who helped the western span?" the guard asked Rae, voice like the rubbing of two goblets.
"Yes," Brug answered quickly. "My crew. Why?"
"No reason," the guard said. "Just want to remember the face of ears that hear."
Rae said nothing. The words sounded too much like Sythri's. As if bridge and city shared a language, and he—by accident—was learning its alphabet.
In the unloading bay, the caravan stopped. Laborers unstrapped loads, rolled shoulders, drank chilled moss water—mineral-rich, bitter on the tongue, leaving a faint metallic ghost. Rae sat on an empty crate, looking at the rolls of silk that had been part of the toll. He imagined those strands returning to Webspire, woven into new veins, part of something that kept hundreds of lives from falling into dark.
Brug sat beside him, handing over a dense piece of mushroom bread. "You alright?"
"Fine," Rae said, taking a bite. "I… hear too much. But it helped."
"Don't make a habit of helping too much," Brug muttered, teeth clicking—not in anger, but from experience. "Here, every help is written down. Every note has a number. And numbers are always—always—collected."
Rae nodded. Beneath the noise of loading and unloading, he heard the distant song of glass—high, then dropping into a hum that seemed to call his name not as a name, but as a frequency. He looked at the wall. His reflection was layered, each image moving a fraction behind the other, as if he was preceded by a thinner version of himself.
Brug slapped his knee and stood. "We sleep at the Resik Seven inn. Morning—whatever that means here—we go to the Glasswright workshop. Deliver the order. Take the receipt. Back through Webspire."
"If the Matron raises the price again?"
"Then we pay again," Brug snorted. "Or we find another way around. But you already know the bridge's answer: there's no free detour. Least of all a safe one."
Rae chuckled—not from humor, but from truth. He glanced at the basket of lumina seeds, now half-empty. Their gentle violet pulsed, like the lazy blink of a giant eye.
Just then, a glass courier arrived. His robe made a faint tinkling with each step, as though walking over shards waiting to be made whole.
"Brug of the southern caravan?" the courier asked.
"What?" Brug turned sharply.
"The Glasswright workshop has moved your schedule forward. You're to come now, not tomorrow. There's an addition to the order: a tone brace. The instruction says, whoever hears—bring them as well."
The courier's gaze landed on Rae.
Brug drew a long breath, as if hearing another rope added to an already heavy load. "You hear that?" he muttered.
"I hear," Rae replied—and for the first time that day, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
Outside, the song of Glassveil climbed half a step. The air-bell at Webspire's base might already be preparing to change its key again. Somewhere above or below, someone with triple-iris eyes might be smiling.
Night—or something like its underground substitute—fell slowly, like wet cloth from the cave sky. Mushroom lamps glowed quieter. The hanging market pulled its nets tight. In the transit log, the Overlord's black seal still looked wet, waiting for the next page to close the day's account.
The price of a bridge, Rae remembered, was not only rolls, not only baskets, not only numbers. Sometimes, the price was direction.
And theirs, without his noticing, had already shifted toward a word colder than glass and more fragile than thread: Glassveil.
⸻
Hook to the Next Chapter:
The Glasswright workshop doors swung open, multiplying Rae's reflection into three—one whole, one cracked, one voiceless—while from within came the chime of a rain that fell not from the sky, but from glass that had learned to speak.