Capítulo 1790: Story 1790: The Fractured Weave
The new path ford beneath them like a wound stitching itself in real ti. Threads rushed together, weaving a bridge through empty space—twisting, groaning, struggling to exist at all.
Each step they took sent ripples through the unfinished fabric of reality, as though the Weave itself flinched at their presence.
Tovin stared at the shifting ground. “Is it just , or does this place feel like it’s… in pain?”
Lun nodded slowly. “Because it is. The Weave isn’t ant to change this fast.”
Marra kicked a loose thread. It recoiled like a frightened animal.
“Great. So if we walk too hard, the universe might cry.”
Ahead of them, the bridge split into three directions—none stable, all flickering.
Erian frowned. “Which path is real?”
The Loomchild answered without hesitation.
“None. Or all. The Weaver ant it literally—we are walking a line no thread has ever walked before.”
As if summoned by their words, the Weave shuddered.
A fissure tore open across the sky—revealing a horrific sight beyond.
A tangled mass of severed threads drifted in the darkness, twisting like dying serpents. So sparked with old power. Others bled colors that had no place in living cloth.
Lun stiffened. “The Dead Patterns…”
Erian’s pulse spiked. “I thought the Weaver destroyed those.”
The Loomchild shook their head. “They return when the Weave fractures. They seek anything warm… anything alive.”
The severed threads twitched—
Then surged toward them.
Marra drew her blades instinctively. “Okay, now this feels familiar! Everyone get behind—”
But before she could finish, the threads struck.
They hit like silent lightning—no sound, just cold force.
Tovin was thrown backward, tumbling across the unstable path until Erian caught him. “You okay?”
“No! And also absolutely not!”
More dead threads sward, snapping like skeletal vines. They wrapped around Marra’s arms, burning through her armor.
She hissed. “They’re trying to latch onto my thread—get them OFF!”
Lun thrust out both hands, silver light bursting from their palms. But the light flickered—unstable, strained.
The Loomchild’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Do not fight them. We must reweave them.”
Erian blinked. “Reweave? They’re trying to kill us!”
“Because they’re lost,” the Loomchild said, floating upward. “Help . All of you.”
They raised their hands—and the air trembled.
Erian felt sothing pull inside his chest. His golden thread shimred. Marra’s crimson thread pulsed. Tovin’s chaotic colors sparked wildly. Lun’s silver strand flared—and fractured again, just slightly.
Together, their threads braided themselves around the Loomchild’s radiant core.
A burst of color surged outward.
The dead patterns scread—not with sound, but with the sensation of decay recoiling from life.
The tangled mass unraveled, dissolving into harmless dust that scattered across the bridge like fallen snow.
Silence returned.
Marra breathed hard. “So… we’re healers now? That’s new.”
The Loomchild floated back down, visibly drained. “The Weave is splintering everywhere. If we don’t reach the heart of the Loom soon… the entire fabric of existence will collapse.”
Tovin raised his hand. “Just checking—does anyone know where that is?”
The bridge shifted again—its three unstable paths fusing into one.
A single thread-road stretched forward, glowing faintly.
Erian stepped onto it. “Looks like the Weave made the choice for us.”
The path trembled.
Far ahead, sothing massive stirred.
A heartbeat.
A pulse.
A warning.
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