The Loom of Epochs existed outside the reach of the sun.

  It was a throat of infinite shadow, a pressurized abyss where the air tasted of unraveled souls and ancient bitterness.

  Rowan knelt.

  Beneath his palms, the floor was a gelatinous expanse of black water.

  It rippled with every erratic, thudding beat of his heart.

  Don’t look up. Don’t look up.

  The rule was a frantic mantra.

  To witness a Weaver was to invite a cold, searing strain-needles driven into the optic nerve, ending in a permanent, milky blindness.

  Even with his gaze fixed on the dark ripples, the pressure was immense.

  It felt like standing beneath a mountain held up by a single, fraying thread.

  "O great Weavers," Rowan’s voice was a brittle thing, swallowed by the silence. "The mission...that I...must fulfill?"

  The response was not a sound, but a vibration that rattled his marrow.

  The Weaver in front of him spoke, its voice a layered, dissonant choir.

  "THE TRIBE OF MAUVA HAS SPILLED A PROPHECY."

  A sharp, electric hum buzzed behind Rowan’s teeth.

  His vision blurred at the edges.

  The instinct to face the speaker nearly overrode his survival, but he anchored his chin to his chest.

  The air shimmered with a jagged, painful light that made his tear ducts sting through closed lids.

  "The... the nature of it?" Rowan stammered, his professional mask fracturing.

  "THE PROPHECY WILL SPEAK FOR ITSELF," a second Weaver replied from behind.

  The tone wasn't angry, it was..bored, heavy as a closing tomb.

  Then, the chant began. The words weren't spoken, they were carved into the silence, cold and inevitable:

  BE WARY, OKELHAVEN. A DEVIL RISES, BORN OF RAW RAGE. HE ASCENDS FROM ASHES TO BLEED THE HOUSES OF NOBLES. UNTIL THE LAND IS STRIPPED BARE. NOTHING REMAINS BUT THE SLUMS, THE PEASANTS... AND THE SILENCE OF PEACE.

  The weight of the words hung in the stagnant air.

  Rowan’s throat went dry.

  "The name?" he asked, his voice sounding small against the cosmic scale. "Who is the variable?"

  "THE PROPHECY NEVER MENTIONS THE NAME," a third Weaver hissed, a sound like dry leaves on stone. "ANOTHER VISION HAS SEARED THE BRAIN OF ZAMBAUVA."

  Rowan went still. He knew of Zambauva-the immortal parchment for these visions.

  He waited, his pulse a deafening hammer in his ears.

  "THERE IS ONE," the Weaver continued. "DALUS. HE MAY HALT THE TRAGEDY... OR CONSPIRE WITH THE FLAMES."

  "A VULGAR FATE," one shrieked.

  "DEVIANT," another added.

  "UNALIGNED."

  Suddenly, the pressure doubled.

  The transition was instantaneous.

  Rowan’s blood turned to slush.

  His circulation quit.

  Every hair stood on end; his pupils dilated into black voids as a freezing, bone-dry wind choked him.

  He was a fly trapped in the amber of an indifferent god.

  The Weaver leaned in. Its presence was a crushing weight.

  "DALUS HAS ALREADY BEEN REBORN. FIND HIM. TEST THE VARIABLE."

  "I... u-understand," Rowan managed, his jaw clicking.

  The moment the Weaver stepped back, heat flooded his body.

  His heart jump-started, sending hot pins-and-needles through his limbs.

  He collapsed, huffing, lungs desperate for the air the void had denied him.

  "DEVIATION FROM THE SCRIPT CAUSES MISHAPS," a distant voice warned.

  "BUT WE MUST TEST THE JESTER," a counter-voice droned.

  "IF HE IS WEAK, THE PROPHECY IS DISTANT."

  The final ultimatum fell like a guillotine: "IF HE RIVALS YOU, THE PROPHECY IS AT THE DOOR."

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  Rowan pressed his forehead against the cool, dark water. "I... will carry out the duty."

  The silhouettes frayed into nothingness.

  The tether snapped.

  Rowan remained in the abyss for minutes, fighting the lingering terror.

  When he finally opened his eyes, the shift was a shock.

  The Loom was gone.

  The humid breeze of the world hit his face.

  The sun biting into his skin felt like a miracle.

  He stood on the knoll, breathing the scent of grass.

  His eyes hardened.

  The Joker was out there.

  If the prophecy was close, Rowan was the only thing standing between Okelhaven and the end of the script.

  THE RUST DISTRICT:

  The shimmer of the Palace had faded into the honest, crushing reality of the camps.

  Elara walked with a jagged, purposeful stride.

  She took the main artery this time-the scorched-earth path.

  When she reached close to the camp.

  She passed an overturned water barrel.

  A shredded tent.

  A single, muddy boot lying in the dirt. She didn't need to ask,the objects told the story of the raid.

  Kaelen obstructed the path. His scarred frame was a landscape of old wars.

  He was sweating, shifting his weight to block her view of the wreckage.

  "Elara! You’re... back early," he rumbled, his cheer forced and hollow.

  Elara stopped.

  Her gaze darted past his silhouette, catching the splintered wood of the crates.

  "What happened, Kaelen?"

  "It’s nothing. A minor problem. A bit of a stir."

  "What. Problem."

  The word was a whip-crack.

  No shouting.

  Just a vibration that thinned the air.

  Kaelen’s shoulders slumped. "It happened while I was hunting. Young men. They barged in."

  "Nobles?"

  Kaelen didn't look up. "Yes."

  "FUCK!"

  The scream ripped out of her.

  Elara dropped into a violent squat, burying her face in her hands.

  The guilt of her royal lunch tasted like ash.

  She had been eating goose while the district bled.

  "Who were they?"

  "People say House Mortis," Kaelen rushed. "Valerius’s circle. Let it go, Elara. They have the Magic. You’ll just get yourself killed."

  Elara looked up.

  Her eyes were rimmed with red-not grief, but the fuel for a furnace.

  She stood up slowly.

  "You’re a damn coward, Kaelen."

  She shouldered past him.

  She marched into the center of the camp, her voice ringing with cold authority. "Who knows where they are?"

  "The pub," an elderly woman whispered from a collapsed tent.

  "They were laughing about the beer," a young boy added.

  Elara nodded once.

  A silent acknowledgement.

  "Elara, don't," Kaelen pleaded.

  "I’m getting my steel," she snapped, disappearing into her tent.

  "You haven't manifested Yet! You're just meat to them!" Kaelen’s voice boomed through the canvas.

  In the Narrative Engine, Magic was the birthright of the High Nobility-the physical manifestation of the Script.

  To challenge a Noble without it was to fight the laws of reality.

  Elara emerged.

  She had traded the shroud of the Palace for her worn leathers.

  A steel sword was cinched to her hip.

  She walked as if Kaelen were part of the scenery.

  "Where’s Mia?" she asked suddenly.

  Kaelen froze.

  His lips moved in a silent, frantic rhythm-a stutter of the soul.

  He looked at the sky.

  Elara shoved him-a violent burst of adrenaline that made the giant stumble.

  She ran to Mia’s tent.

  Inside, the air smelled...wrong.

  "One of them kicked her," Kaelen said softly from the entrance. "Caught her ribs. She’s breathing, but... they’re broken."

  Elara stared at the pale girl.

  She didn't touch her.

  She turned and walked out, her face a mask of stone.

  She ignored Kaelen’s heavy sighs as he followed her toward the nearest pub-Iron Tankard

  The pub smelled of sour mash and decades of regret.

  Elara kicked the door open.

  "Oi!"

  The room went still. Rough men turned.

  Elara stood with her chin high, hand resting on her hilt.

  "Which of you bastards touched the camp?"

  A man at a nearby table smirked. "Looking for a friend, pretty thing?"

  "Answer the question, horseface."

  The table erupted in laughter.

  Then, a voice cut through the noise.

  "We did."

  In the back corner, three men sat in the matte-grey uniforms of House Mortis.

  The mark of executioners.

  Elara walked toward them. "You lads-"

  "We were blowing off steam," the leader interrupted, taking a slow gulp of beer. "No harm meant."

  "What is your name?"

  "Fraucher Mortis."

  Elara slammed her palms onto the table.

  The mugs jumped.

  She leaned in, her face inches from his. "You kick a child and call it steam?"

  The tension snapped.

  "Take it outside!" the bartender roared. "Don't ruin my floor!"

  Fraucher stood, towering over her, his spiky hair casting a shadow across her face. "A fight, then."

  Elara stared into his eyes, searching for a man and finding only a noble. "The docks. Now."

  She turned and walked out. Fraucher watched her, a cruel glint in his eyes.

  "C'mon," he signaled to his mates. "Let's teach the goose how to bleed."