Whispers in the Loom
The days after the first demonstrations unfolded with a rhythm of lessons, meals, and endless chatter.
The Grand Loomspire Academy was alive in ways Eryndor had never imagined—lecture halls where threads of light hung in the air like living diagrams, libraries that breathed as tomes rearranged themselves, sparring rings where students clashed in controlled bursts of fire, song, and steel.
To most, it was dazzling.To him, it was suffocating.
Everywhere he went, the heirs of the Seven Courts dominated the air.
Ardent Valen had already gathered a following, his fiery temper matched by genuine charisma. Kael Rhoric intimidated half the Threadlings simply by walking past them with his direbeast at his side. Sylvi Quinn drew crowds whenever she played her harp-bow, her sharp tongue sparking as much rivalry as admiration.
Liora was quieter, more unsettling—her blindfolded gaze turning suddenly toward people who swore she shouldn't have known they were there. Elenya scribbled endlessly in her tome, recording every rumor, every word spoken, while Darius remained a wall of judgment, disapproving of everything frivolous. Coren, at least, earned respect by helping younger students in training, calm as stone.
Rumors spread like wildfire."Did you hear? The heirs are being groomed for the Trials.""They say one of them has already defeated a Warden.""No, no—the girl with the harp cheated in her demonstration, I swear."
And always:"Did you see the boy who barely lit a candle? What's he even doing here?"
Eryndor heard it all, though he kept his head down. Let them think him weak. The less attention, the safer he was.
But at night, while others slept or whispered in dormitories, he searched.
He walked the outer walls of the Academy, following faint trails of silence only he could sense. Threads frayed at the edges of wards, flickering weakly before mending. Once, in the gardens, he found a patch of earth where no birds sang, the flowers bowed as though pressed down by invisible hands.
The Null was creeping, testing, nibbling at the edges of Loomspire like moths chewing cloth.
He pressed his palm to the soil. The Loom shuddered in warning. He clenched his jaw.If I tell anyone, they'll ask how I know. And then…
He couldn't risk it.
The subtle fracture came during a morning sparring class.
Threadlings paired off while heirs sparred separately, their displays drawing most of the attention. Ardent's blows thundered against Kael's claws, sparks flying, while Sylvi strummed her bowstrings in a mocking tune.
Eryndor's partner was a nervous boy with shaky hands. They traded slow strikes, careful and clumsy, until suddenly—
Snap.
The sound was faint, but Eryndor froze. His Loom shuddered violently.
At the far end of the ring, the wardlines flickered. A shadow seeped through the crack, pooling on the ground like spilled ink. It rose—forming a half-shape, not beast nor man, but something in-between, writhing as if it could not decide what it was meant to be.
The boy beside him gasped. "What—what is that?"
No one else saw. The heirs were too busy, the masters too focused on their duels.
The shadow lunged.
Eryndor moved before he could think. He shoved his partner aside and thrust out his hand. A faint thread of light flashed, too weak to be noticed by anyone glancing. But woven within was something more—something only the Null recognized.
The shadow screeched soundlessly and unraveled, threads snapping into nothing. The ward sealed behind it with a shiver.
The boy scrambled up, pale. "D-did you see that? There was something—"
But when he turned, the floor was empty, nothing but runes glowing faintly.
Eryndor forced a weak smile. "Probably just the wards adjusting. They do that sometimes."
The boy blinked, then nodded slowly, half-believing, half-doubting.
By the time class ended, no one remembered the moment. No one spoke of it.
But Eryndor couldn't shake the feeling of the Null's presence still clinging to his skin. It had slipped inside again. And this time, it had tried to touch him directly.
The Loom pulsed within him, urgent, insistent. The weave was tightening.
And his secret would not stay hidden forever.