The Loomless Thread
The gates of the Grand Loomspire Academy rose higher than any fortress wall, runes of silver etched into their surface. Seven hues shimmered faintly in the light—red for flame, blue for stars, green for beasts, gold for fate, black for balance, violet for memory, white for shields. The marks of the Seven Courts.
Students gathered in waves at the entrance, some in polished uniforms that gleamed with wealth, others in simple cloth patched by travel. Their chatter rolled like the sea—boasting, laughter, anxious whispers.
To most, this was the start of their lives.To him, it was the beginning of a lie.
Eryndor stood at the edge of the crowd, pale hair catching the morning sun. He looked ordinary—satchel slung across his shoulder, uniform crisp but plain, expression unreadable. Yet beneath his skin, light and void pulsed together in constant struggle. Threads that should never have existed.
Eight shall rise though seven are sung.
The words of the prophecy echoed with every heartbeat. He was the unspoken line, the hidden danger.
He adjusted his satchel, feeling the weight of silence pressing at his ribs. The Seven had raised him with patience and love, each teaching him fragments of their Looms. Yet they had left him one command above all others: Hide what you are. The world is not ready.
A roar of cheers broke his thoughts.
The chosen heirs were arriving.
Ardent Valen, his gauntlets strapped at his side, shoulders square and fiery presence impossible to ignore. Liora Deyra, staff glimmering like captured starlight, her blindfold gone, eyes burning with constellations unseen. Kael Rhoric, wolf-fur cloak draped over one shoulder, a direbeast's shadow padding at his heel. Sylvi Quinn, strings of silver glinting as she twirled her harp-bow like a toy. Darius Kaelen, grave and tall, halberd resting across his back with the solemnity of judgment itself. Elenya Veyra, clutching her living tome close, violet eyes already scanning the world like she was writing it down. Coren Aegros, towering, steady, his Bastion Blade folded at his hip but his aura protective enough that even strangers walked taller beside him.
The crowd parted for them instinctively, awe mingled with fear. These were not ordinary Loomers. These were heirs of nations, walking embodiments of the Pillars themselves.
Eryndor felt the pull of their presence. Threads vibrating, humming in resonance with his own. The Loom inside him trembled as though recognizing its siblings. He clenched his fist to steady it.
He could not reveal himself. Not here. Not yet.
The bells of Loomspire tolled, deep and resonant. Their sound rippled through Concordia, carrying across the Mirror Sea, echoing like the heartbeat of the world.
Dong… Dong…
Seven times.
And then an eighth.
The crowd hushed at the extra toll, confusion rippling through the courtyard. No one spoke it aloud, but all had heard.
Eryndor's chest tightened. The Loom was reminding him: he was not just one of many. He was the one no one would name.
The students surged forward as the gates opened, a tide of voices and footsteps rushing into the Academy. The arch above them bore words carved in light:
All threads are equal in the weave of existence.
Equal. That was the promise. Yet as Eryndor passed beneath, he wondered if it was truly possible.
He stepped through the gates with the others. For the first time, he was not hidden in sanctums or trained in shadows. For the first time, he walked among those he might one day save—or destroy.
The halls beyond unfolded like a city of wonders. The Loom Spire pierced the sky, its seven lights coiling upward in an eternal spiral. Courts branched out in all directions, their banners snapping in the wind. Students scattered, drawn to their dormitories and assigned Courts.
But Eryndor had no Court. He would be placed with the Threadlings—ordinary students who had yet to prove themselves.
He moved with the tide, silent, unremarkable. Yet his gaze flickered to the Seven again. Ardent laughing as he slapped Kael's back. Liora's eyes tilting toward him briefly, unblinking, as though she saw far more than she should. Sylvi smirking at Darius, who ignored her entirely. Coren steady as stone, Elenya already writing in her tome even as she walked.
Threads of destiny pulling tighter.
Above them, unseen by most, a star in the sky dimmed—its light unraveling until only silence remained.
Eryndor felt it in his bones. The Null was stirring.
And he wondered, not for the first time, whether he had been born to stop it… or to finish what it had begun.