The Loom and the Null
Before words were carved into stone, before kings and crowns, there was the Loom.It did not weave cloth, but being itself—light and shadow, flesh and spirit, dream and waking. Every breath, every heartbeat, every star burning in the sky was a thread tied to its design.
The Loom had no voice, yet mortals heard its music in the sway of trees, in the rhythm of tides, in the laughter of children. All was balance, all was bound.
But silence is patient.From beyond the woven world, something waited, hungering for the unraveling. It came without shape, without name, a void that fed on endings. Mortals called it the Null.
When the first empire reached for eternity, the Null slipped through their greed. Threads snapped. Cities crumbled into dust. Beasts turned wild and terrible, histories were swallowed whole. Only fragments remain, whispered in song and carved in forgotten runes.
The Loom endured, but weaker, frayed at its edges. It could not call gods to its defense, for gods are bound as tightly as mortals. Instead, it whispered into dreaming hearts. Again and again, it chose hands to mend what was torn. Some succeeded, most failed. Yet the pattern always returned—until now.
Now, seven threads have begun to break at once.Now, silence stirs.Now, the Loom gathers its children.
Not gods.Not saints.But mortals—born of the weave, fated to stand where all else unravels.
And when the last thread frays, the Null will no longer wait.