The Riftborn did not walk.
They slid.
Their feet left no mark. Their bodies flickered with the unstable logic of broken dreams—fragmented limbs, reversed faces, impossible geometry. One moved like a film in reverse. Another walked upside-down along an invisible ceiling of air.
Haraza couldn't breathe.
There were at least a dozen.
("Back away," Lyssira said, stepping in front of him. Her sword hummed again, glyphs flashing along its edge. "They hunt Threadwalkers. You're fresh—they'll try to bind you before you learn too much.")
The Riftborn raised their arms in unison.
Chains of light coiled from their hands—liquid, burning, faster than sound.
Haraza shouted. He held up the wrench without thinking.
The chains struck him—
And shattered.
The world paused.
Time dilated.
Haraza's body remained still—but inside, his mind was moving.
Faster.
Deeper.
He was somewhere else. Not in the forest. Not in the world.
A room.
Made of gears.
Of light.
Of thought.
Floating before him was a wheel, vast and eternal—its spokes stretching out into infinity, each etched with a possibility.
A voice spoke. His voice. And yet not.
("Choice defines power. Power defines pattern. Pattern defines the Loom.")
("Choose your Thread.")
Before him hovered three images:
A lantern made from bone and starlight.
A forge beating like a heart.
A compass with no needle, spinning in silence.
Haraza reached out—
Heat surged into his chest. Not pain—purpose.
He wasn't watching anymore.
He was the forge.
Metal, memory, flame.
Creation.
When he opened his eyes again, the wrench had changed.
No longer rusted.
Now—it pulsed with molten lines, veins of gold and red. It was alive. And it was his.
The Riftborn paused, uncertain.
Lyssira turned her head slightly.( "...What did you just do?")
Haraza stepped forward.
And swung.
The impact turned the nearest Riftborn into shards of mirror and flame. The air cracked. Space folded.
Another leapt at him—its hands becoming blades mid-flight.
He ducked, spun, and struck upward.
The Forge-Wrench howled, splitting the creature in half, leaving a wake of burning script in the air.
They tried to swarm him.
It didn't matter.
Each movement felt practiced. Natural. As though he had lived this before. The wrench shifted shape in his hands—becoming a hammer, then a chisel, then a whip of heated chain. His mind bent tools into being faster than he could name them.
Lyssira held the perimeter, her blade dancing like moonlight.
But it was Haraza they wanted.
And now—he wasn't running.
When the last Riftborn fell, disintegrating into ash and whispers, the silence returned like a held breath.
Haraza stood in the center of a circle of scorched moss. The wrench-turned-forge-tool slowly cooled in his hand, returning to its dormant form.
Lyssira approached slowly.
("Threadwalkers usually take weeks to forge their first Willcraft shift. You did it in minutes.")
("I didn't think. I just… knew.")
She nodded, grim.("That's not just instinct. That's legacy.")
("What does that mean?")
Before she could answer, the wind stopped.
No. Was taken.
And from it stepped a man.
Clad in robes made from torn pages and clockwork. No face. Just a smooth surface, like a closed book.
The trees recoiled.
Lyssira went white. ("Tetherless.")
Haraza stepped back. ("What's a Tetherless?")
She raised her blade. ("A man who cut himself out of the Loom. A heretic. A god-eater.")
The Tetherless tilted its head.
And spoke.
("You are not ready,") the faceless voice intoned, like bells falling underwater.
("But you are here.")
Haraza gripped the wrench. ("Who are you?")
("An answer.")
("To what?")
("To the question you haven't asked yet.)
The Tetherless stepped forward. ("The Loom must not be repaired. Its patterns are chains. You are born outside it. You are freedom, Haraza Genso.")
The name stung. Too real. Too exposed.
("I don't know what you want.")
("I want nothing," )said the Tetherless. ("I offer. When the time comes, remember this:)
(You can forge the Loom anew.)
(Or you can shatter it forever.")
And then, the Tetherless turned.
And walked into the forest.
Without sound.
Without trace.
Lyssira dropped her blade.
("That was a warning,") she said.( "Or a test.")
("I didn't ask for any of this.")
("You don't have to ask," )she replied. ("The Rift answers to no one.")
Haraza sat down, exhausted.
His heart raced—but his thoughts were calm.
He looked at the forge-wrench.
And he whispered: ("I'm not just a handyman anymore.")