The door sealed with a hiss, plunging Kael into darkness. The air grew cold, heavy with the scent of metal and decay. Vren's flare sparked, casting green light across a vast chamber—a hollowed-out Loom, its walls pulsing with dying threads like veins in a corpse. Kael's jaw dropped. He'd scavenged Loom scraps his whole life, but this was a relic, ancient and alive.
"Welcome to the Unthreaded's den," Vren said, voice low. "Keep your mouth shut and don't touch anything."
Footsteps echoed. Figures emerged—six rebels, clad in patched leathers, their eyes hard. A girl with a shaved head and a cybernetic arm stepped forward, her glare cutting through Kael. "This the slum rat who glitched?" she snapped, tossing a wrench between her hands.
"Mira, enough," Vren said. "Kael's one of us now."
"Like hell," Mira spat. "He's a walking disaster. Look at him—barely standing."
Kael bristled, wiping blood from his nose. "I didn't ask to be here."
Mira smirked. "Keep talking, slum boy. You'll unravel us all."
Vren raised a hand, silencing her. "He's raw, but he's got the gift. Show him, Kael."
The rebels stared, skeptical. Kael's hand trembled, the shard warm in his pocket. He didn't trust Vren—or these Unthreaded—but the drones' red eyes haunted him. He needed answers. "Fine," he muttered, pulling out the shard.
Its faint glow lit the chamber, threads shimmering faintly. Vren nodded. "Focus. Feel the threads, not just the shard. Weave them."
Kael closed his eyes, the chamber fading. Threads pulsed—through the Loom's walls, the rebels, the air. He reached for one, delicate as spider silk, and pulled gently. The air rippled, a rusted gear on the floor twitching upward.
Mira snorted. "Parlor tricks."
"Again," Vren urged. "Harder."
Kael gritted his teeth, grabbing a thicker thread. He twisted, and the gear shot up, spinning midair. The rebels gasped, but the shard burned, and the thread snapped. A rift tore open—a jagged scar in reality, glowing violet. An eye blinked through, massive, its pupil a swirling void. A voice whispered, "*Kael… you wake us.*"
The rebels shouted, scrambling back. Kael froze, the rift pulsing. Vren lunged, weaving threads to seal it, but the eye lingered, staring. The rift snapped shut, leaving silence.
Mira rounded on Kael. "You idiot! That was a Voidborn!"
Kael's knees buckled, the shard cold now. "I didn't mean—"
"Enough!" Vren snapped. They turned to Kael, face grim. "Your power's tied to the Looms' origin. Something ancient, imprisoned. You could free it—or worse."
The rebels muttered, fear replacing scorn. Mira pointed her wrench. "He's a liability. Kick him out before he dooms us."
Before Vren could reply, a boy burst in, panting. "Vren! Weaver ships—three of them, circling the slums. They're hunting something. Him." He jabbed a finger at Kael.
Vren's scar twitched. "They're faster than I thought."
Kael's stomach churned. The drones had his face. The Weavers knew. And that eye—what had it seen in him? He glanced at Mira's glare, the rebels' fear. These Unthreaded were his only shot, but could they protect him? Or was he already unraveling their world?
To be continued…