The sky above Eldrath burned amber, its twin moons—Lirien and Veyra—locked in a rare alignment, their edges brushing as dusk bled into night, casting a shadow that rippled across the Loomlands like a tide of ink. Kaelith knelt on the cliff’s edge, her silver-threaded cloak snapping in the wind, the air sharp with the scent of ozone and crushed sage, her fingers tracing the runes on her staff, their glow pulsing faint against the gathering dark. She was a Threadweaver, one of the last, trained since childhood to mend the Tapestry—the unseen fabric of fate woven by the gods, its strands threading through every life, every storm, every bloom in this ancient realm. Tonight was the Eclipse of Ages, a celestial dance foretold in crumbling scrolls, when the moons’ shadow would fray the Tapestry’s edges, unleashing chaos unless a Weaver sealed the breach with a thread of their own making—a task her mentor, old Thrynn, had died attempting a century ago, his staff now hers, its wood warm with his lingering essence.
She rose, boots scuffing the moss-slick stone, and peered into the valley below—a sea of silver grass swaying under the eclipsed light, split by the Loomspire, a tower of twisted crystal that pierced the sky, its facets refracting the moons’ glow into a kaleidoscope of colors that danced across the cliffs. The breach was there, Thrynn had warned—a tear in the Tapestry, born when the moons last aligned, spilling threads of discord that birthed storms of fire, rivers that ran backward, and beasts with eyes of molten gold prowling the wilds. Kaelith’s pack clinked—spools of starlight thread, vials of duskwater, tools forged in the forges of lost Aelthar—and she began her descent, the staff tapping a rhythm against the path, its runes flaring brighter with each step, guiding her toward the spire as the wind carried whispers, faint and mournful, like the Tapestry itself weeping.
The path wound steep and treacherous, roots snaking across the stone, glistening with dew that mirrored the moons’ eerie sheen, the air growing thick, heavy with a hum that vibrated in her bones. Shadows flickered at the edges of her vision—winged shapes, too swift to catch, darting between the grass, their cries sharp and alien, echoes of the breach’s chaos. She quickened her pace, heart thudding, until the Loomspire loomed before her, its base encircled by a ring of standing stones, their surfaces etched with glyphs older than the gods, glowing faintly silver under the eclipsed sky. She stepped inside, the hum swelling into a drone, and saw it—a rift in the air above the spire’s heart, a jagged wound of black and violet, threads of light unraveling from its edges, snapping like broken harp strings, their ends trailing into the void.
Kaelith unslung her pack, hands steady despite the tremor in her chest, and drew a spool of starlight thread—fine as spider silk, shimmering with captured moonlight, forged from the breath of dying stars she’d harvested under Thrynn’s watchful eye. She looped it around her staff, whispering the incantation—“By Lirien’s grace, by Veyra’s might, bind the weave, restore the light”—and thrust the staff upward, the thread spiraling into the rift, catching its edges like a net. The air shuddered, the rift pulsing, resisting, and a gust erupted, slamming her back, her cloak tearing against a stone as the thread strained, glowing brighter, hotter, burning her palms through her gloves. She gritted her teeth, planting her boots, and poured her will into the spell, the staff trembling as the rift fought, its violet depths swirling, birthing shapes—clawed hands, eyeless faces—reaching through, their touch cold as death against her skin.
A roar split the night—not wind, not beast, but something older, deeper, a voice from the void itself, “You cannot hold us…” The rift widened, threads snapping, and a creature emerged—a wyrm of shadow, its scales glinting like oil, eyes twin voids that swallowed the moons’ light, its maw gaping with rows of teeth that shimmered like shattered glass. Kaelith dove, the staff clattering as the wyrm’s tail lashed, shattering a stone into dust, its breath a plume of frost that singed her cloak, numbing her arm where it grazed. She snatched a vial of duskwater—liquid night distilled from the Loomlands’ deepest caves—and hurled it, the glass bursting against the wyrm’s flank, black tendrils erupting, binding its limbs, slowing its thrash. She lunged for the staff, rolling as claws raked the ground, and drove it into the earth, the runes blazing, anchoring the thread as she chanted again, voice hoarse, the rift shrinking, inch by inch, the wyrm’s roars fading into snarls.
The shadow-beast broke free, duskwater hissing off its scales, and charged—Kaelith sidestepped, its jaws snapping shut on air, and leapt onto its back, gripping a jagged scale, the cold searing her hands as she climbed, staff swinging from her belt. She reached its head, the void-eyes locking onto her, and plunged the staff into its skull, the runes flaring white-hot, splitting its form into wisps that screamed as they dissolved, sucked back into the rift. The breach pulsed once, twice, then snapped shut, the thread sealing it tight, the air stilling, the hum fading to silence as Kaelith collapsed, breath ragged, the moons parting above, their light spilling gold across the valley once more.
She lay there, snow dusting her cloak, the Loomspire’s glow softening, the Tapestry’s whispers gone, replaced by the rustle of grass and the distant call of a nightbird. Her staff rested beside her, its runes dim, the thread spent, a faint shimmer lingering in the air where the rift had been. The wyrm’s essence lingered too—a chill in her bones, a shadow in her mind—but the weave held, the Eclipse of Ages passing into dawn. Kaelith stood, shouldering her pack, and turned back to the cliffs, the weight of her task settling like a mantle, knowing the Tapestry would call again, its threads forever hers to guard.