The newborn world-thread pulsed again—
no longer tentative, no longer whispering.
This ti, the chamber trembled as if a heartbeat too large for reality had struck it.
The First Weaver stepped back, threads fluttering like ancient banners in a storm.
“It awakens too quickly.”
Lun felt the silver in their veins tighten.
“It’s feeding... but on what?”
The answer ca before the question finished.
A wave of pressure slamd through the chamber—
not force, not magic—
but need.
The spiral-thread reached outward, its strands unraveling like starved tendrils. It wasn’t malicious.
It wasn’t aware.
It simply hungered.
The Loomchild stumbled backward.
“If it latches onto any existing pattern, it will drain it dry! It needs a foundation—but it doesn’t know how to take gently!”
Marra’s crimson fire flared around her fists.
“Then we stop it from taking at all.”
“No,” Erian said sharply.
“We redirect it.”
Tovin grimaced. “Into what? We don’t exactly have a spare world lying around!”
But Lun’s eyes widened—silver brightening.
“We do. Ourselves.”
Marra spun toward them. “Absolutely not. It will consu you.”
“It won’t,” Lun whispered.
“If I guide it. Feed it only what it can handle. A seed, not a feast.”
The First Weaver’s voice cut through the rising chaos.
“A Weaver’s essence is not sustenance. It is fuel. Once it tastes such power, it will never stop.”
Lun faced the titanic being, trembling yet resolute.
“So you expect us to kill it instead? To unmake what we gave life?”
The First Weaver did not answer.
Because the answer was obvious.
And unacceptable.
Erian stepped beside Lun, golden thread blazing like a miniature sun.
“If Lun’s doing this, I’m anchoring them.”
Marra moved to their other side.
“And I’m burning away any excess it tries to take.”
Tovin exhaled hard, chaotic colors buzzing in his hands.
“Guess that leaves to... shape the ss into sothing that won’t devour us. Perfect.”
The Loomchild watched them—eyes wide, trembling.
“You would risk yourselves for sothing that might never understand you?”
Erian smiled weakly.
“It doesn’t need to understand us. It just needs a chance.”
The newborn spiral trembled again—the hunger swelling, raw, painful.
It reached forward—
—and Lun stepped into it.
Silver thread shot from their palms, wrapping around the newborn world.
Erian anchored the silver with gold.
Marra burned away the reaching strands that lunged too wildly.
Tovin twisted the chaotic flux into a guiding path.
For a mont—
Everything held.
The chamber filled with light, soundless and absolute.
Then—
impact.
The newborn thread latched onto Lun’s essence.
A jolt tore through their body—silver fracturing, reforming, fracturing again.
“Hold on!” Erian shouted.
“I—am—trying!” Lun choked.
The First Weaver watched, unreadable.
But beneath its expressionless vastness... a flicker of sothing.
Recognition?
Regret?
The newborn spiral pulsed—
once
twice
then slowed.
The hunger softened.
Curiosity replaced desperation.
Lun gasped, knees buckling as the world-thread finally stabilized around them, glowing gently.
Tovin collapsed backward.
“Tell ... we didn’t just feed it half of Lun’s soul.”
Marra scanned the spiral.
“No. It learned. It’s taking only what it needs.”
The First Weaver approached, its presence dimming the air.
“You have done what no Weaver—not even I—dared. You taught an unford world restraint.”
Erian helped Lun stand.
“So what happens now?”
The First Weaver looked toward the chamber’s deepest shadows—
where sothing vast was beginning to wake.
“Now,” it said softly,
“you face what cos for all newborn worlds.”
A distant rumble answered—
ancient
hungry
inevitable.
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