The city had no morning. No sun. Only an ever-present twilight that made time meaningless. For Cael, it was unsettling—but for the one who lived here, it was home.
She watched him from the bell tower.
Hidden in strands of darkness, she sat barefoot on cracked stone, legs swinging over the edge. Her eyes glowed faintly—violet with flecks of starlight. A blade rested across her lap, chipped but humming softly. It whispered his name long before she did.
"Cael."
A Meeting Destined, Yet Unwritten
He didn't see her at first. Only felt it—the cold grip of another Thread awakening. His vision split again: one side seeing the ruined city, the other a field of obsidian lilies beneath twin moons.
Then came her voice, clear and piercing.
"You brought time with you. I hate time."
He spun around. She stood behind him, barefoot, wrapped in a cloak of shadowstuff. Her hair floated slightly, like ink in water. No footsteps. No breath. And yet—her presence was crushing.
"Who are you?" Cael asked.
"You'll call me Vyn."
"And why are you here?"
She tilted her head, smiling faintly.
"To stop you. Or to save you. Haven't decided."
Vyn, Bearer of the Third Thread
She circled him, gaze burning into his chest, where the Threads pulsed beneath skin and bone.
"You've bound two," she whispered. "Time and Truth. But not Memory. Not the one that can break the world."
Cael tensed. "You're the third?"
She nodded.
"I've worn this Thread since before I was born. Since before my mother's bones cracked from dreaming too deeply. Since the Weavers exiled me into this broken city and called it mercy."
Her smile vanished.
"Mercy is just a slow death."
The Rules of the Threads
She traced a circle in the air. Symbols flared, glowing with ancient power.
"Each Thread bends the Pattern in one way," Vyn said. "But when three are joined... the Pattern becomes vulnerable. Rewriteable."
"And you want to rewrite it?"
"I want to erase it."
"Why?"
Vyn stepped closer.
"Because the Pattern never gave me a choice."
Enemies in the Shadows
At that moment, the ground trembled. Bells that hadn't rung in centuries began to toll—one, two, three.
Vyn's expression darkened.
"They're here."
From the far edge of the city, Threadhunters emerged, but not through the gates. They bled through the cracks of reality itself, skipping moments, bypassing space.
Lady Mourn walked among them, arms outstretched like a grieving priestess.
"Vyn. Cael. Threadbearers. Surrender yourselves. The Pattern must endure."
Vyn raised her blade, eyes narrowing.
"Let's make it bleed first."