And someone's about to tug.
Darian didn't move.
The words weren't spoken aloud, yet they echoed as if the walls themselves had whispered them. His breath was shallow, each exhale blending with the quiet around him. He sat in the cot, eyes unfocused, as if waiting for the world to shift—just slightly—just enough to prove he hadn't imagined it.
And then—
It did.
A thread appeared.
Not in the corner. Not on the wall.Above his chest.Hanging, trembling, bright as ever.
But this one moved first.
Without waiting for him.Without asking.
It jerked downward.
He gasped.
Not in pain—but in the sheer wrongness of it.
The thread had pulled something in him. Not his body. Not his flesh.
Something beneath that.
A memory? A thought? A layer of perception?
He reached instinctively for the glove—found it beneath the floorboard—and slipped it on with trembling fingers.
The moment it clasped his skin, five more threads appeared.
Five.
All in a ring around him, quivering.
Each one angled toward him, not like they were being pulled—but like they were ready to pull back.
He stood slowly.
The threads followed his movement, tightening slightly. Not enough to restrain—yet. Just enough to remind him they could.
He reached out to the nearest—blue-tinged, shimmering at the edge.
The moment his gloved hand neared it—
It snapped.
Not like the others.This one snapped with sound.
A crack like tearing paper and glass all at once.
And in that second—
A whisper.
Not words. Just intent.
A voice made of thought that wasn't his:
"Do not pull what binds others.You are not the only design being stitched."
He stumbled back, heart hammering. The threads vanished instantly, evaporating into the dim air like breath into fog.
He didn't know if they'd been warning him…
…or threatening him.
That day, the manor didn't feel real.
Rooms were wider than they had been.
Doors opened before he touched them.
Mirrors turned dim when he walked past.
The threads were still there, but less visible.
He began to notice something worse:
Places where they used to be.
Spaces where a thread had once hovered, danced, responded.
Now empty.Unwritten.
And those spots felt dead.
Not abandoned.Erased.
He tried to test one.
In the west corridor—an old tapestry chamber he'd visited days ago—he remembered exactly where a thread had once hovered near the crest of an unknown house.
Now, there was nothing.
He knelt.
Reached into the space.
No warmth. No pull.
But as his gloved hand moved forward, it passed through something—
and came out cold.
Frost slicked his fingers.
Inside the glove.
He yanked it off.
Flesh unharmed.
But shaking.
That room had no threads left.
It had been… cut.
Later, in the lower hall by the kitchens, he saw them.
Two figures.
Not servants.
Not nobles.
Not human, exactly.
They moved like cloth in wind—too fluid, too quiet.
Their faces were covered, stitched shut by long ribbons. Their hands were gloved like his, but dark—wet-looking, shimmering like silk underwater.
Each carried a satchel of black needles.
And where they walked, threads behind them dimmed.
Not snapped.
Dimmed.
They were removing something from the weave.
Not violently.
Surgically.
Darian pressed himself into a side passage and watched.
Neither figure turned.
But one paused.
Tilted its head.
Just slightly.
As if listening.
Then—
It cut a thread with a single touch.
And in that instant, Darian felt a cold pulse in his chest.
Not pain.
Just… loss.
That night, he found the mirror cracked wider.
Not broken.
Just split.
Hairline fissures running like tiny lightning bolts from the corners.
In the reflection, he saw nothing unusual.
But his hand reached up.
And touched his own face.
Only…
…in the reflection, his hand touched nothing.
There was no face in the mirror.
Only thread.
Woven where features should be.
He didn't scream.
Didn't run.
He stepped back.
Bowed his head.
And whispered:
"I see you."
And the reflection whispered back:
"We always did."
He wore the glove constantly now.
It was no longer a choice.
Not protection.
Not power.
It was the only thing holding his perception together.
When he took it off, threads moved too fast.
When he wore it, they slowed.
Not because of obedience.
Because they had to see him clearly.
Three days later, he returned to the loom room.
The door appeared before he reached for it.
Opened before he knocked.
Inside, the threads were twisted—tangled.
A sign of panic. Or conflict.
Two spools had fallen.
A rip had opened along the far wall.
He crossed the room and found a single phrase stitched into the mirror, where fog usually gathered:
"You are not being watched.You are being weighed."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he knelt.
Reached for a tangled thread.
And began to untwist it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he knew how.
Behind him, the loom gave a low, humming groan.
Not anger.
Not warning.
Recognition.
Later, he would wonder how long he stayed.
Whether he truly returned to his cot that night.
Whether he slept.
Or if sleep had become just another stitch in someone else's cloth.
"Maybe I'm not unraveling.Maybe I'm being measured.And maybe—I'm not the only thread left hanging."