The ash didn't leave me.
Even after I pulled my hand away from the thread, the silver dust clung to my skin like it had claimed me. Every time I tried to brush it off, it shimmered back into place, pulsing to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
The Loom was too quiet.
Usually, the threads hummed in shifting harmonies, each life weaving its own tone into the whole. But now the sound was muted, tense — like the Loom itself was holding its breath.
The guardian kept its distance, watching me with unreadable golden eyes.
It knows something is wrong.
I stepped down onto the lower platform, the woven floor glowing faintly beneath my feet. The ash drifted after me in soft, spiraling trails. When I reached the stairs leading out of the Loom chamber, the ash shivered — almost protesting.
"Stay here," I whispered, even though I didn't know why I was talking to dust.
But it followed anyway.
The moment I crossed the threshold into the Hall of Spinners, the world responded.
The lanterns flickered in unison, dimming to a soft blue — the same pale hue as my hair. Threads on the walls trembled, sensing the foreign presence. A distant loomwheel creaked even though no one touched it.
I froze.
The ash pulsed brighter.
It's reacting to me.
A spinner stepped out from behind a tapestry, nearly dropping her spool when she saw me. "Aralen— your hair—" she whispered.
I touched it instinctively. A few strands glowed faintly, as if lit from within.
"It's nothing," I said quickly. "Just— the Loom was bright today."
She didn't believe me. No one would. Spinners were trained from childhood to recognize anomalies. Especially the kind that weren't supposed to exist.
I hurried past her before she could ask questions, heading toward the outer bridge. But the moment I stepped outside, wind spiraled unnaturally around me, swirling in a tight circle before rushing upward like it had been commanded.
I hadn't done anything.
The ash fluttered in response, drifting outward like tiny seeds cast on the air. When a few motes touched the stone railing, the stone grew colder, frosting faintly under the contact.
My breath caught.
"What are you?" I whispered.
The ash pulsed.
And the world answered.
A faint whisper brushed my ear — not from the wind, not from any person, but from the Loom itself, echoing with distant threads.
Origin.
I staggered back.
No. Not me. I wasn't a weaver of origins. I wasn't a Maker. I was an apprentice, barely allowed to mend broken destinies, let alone create anything new.
But the ash kept responding to my fear, my confusion, my heartbeat.
In the sky above the Loomspire, a thin streak of light appeared — a line of pale blue weaving itself across the clouds in a pattern I didn't understand.
When I blinked, it was gone.
But the message remained.
The ash wasn't just reacting.
It was learning.
It was growing.
And every moment it touched the world, it reached a little further — spreading patterns that weren't supposed to exist yet.
Patterns I didn't understand.
Patterns that would, one day, lead to the beginning of Ash in the world below.