The Asylum's slums stank of sour mud and bad deals. Nytherion crouched in a busted doorway, amber eyes slicing the market's gloom. Torches flickered, light skittering like rats dodging a boot. His fingers carved a Dusk rune into his obsidian shard—three jagged lines, a slum charm he swore was garbage. Scrape. Scrape. The rhythm kept his hands from shaking, his mind from Lir.
Skov's stall was a mess of bones and rusted junk, one gem pulsing soft: a Loom Thread, silver and faint, like a dying star. A Frayed Thread, enough to trade for bread or a patched cloak. Skov, a weasel with a twitchy eye, muttered to his guard—a slab with arms like twisted rope, bone club carved with Scuttler claws. Nytherion's lips twitched. Skov was sloppy, the guard dumber than mud. Easy
He didn't risk his neck for kicks. Every move had to pay, or he was just another slum corpse. At 10, he'd sold Lir to a gang for a crust, her lullaby—soft, hopeful—drowned by Scuttler claws. Her scream still woke him, raw and high. Nytherion hummed it now, low, hating the ache it brought. Guilt was for fools. Spoolhaven, the Tear-free myth, was his god.
Scrape. Scrape. Nytherion, weaver of dusk. Veyr's name, spat by a dying Strandbound who thought dodging Shades meant destiny. It meant shit. Nytherion was a rat with a shard and a lie, chasing a slum tale of Spoolhaven where the Loom couldn't touch him.
He was about to move when the air soured, like a brewer's bad batch. A pulse thumped, sharp as a creditor's knock. Torches dimmed, shadows slinking like rats under a crate. Nytherion's shard stilled, breath caught. Every slum dog knew that sound.
A Tear.
Screams tore the market. Traders kicked crates, scavengers bolted, a woman fell, her kid clinging to her cloak, eyes blank as stone. Nytherion's gut screamed to dive into a sewer, wait it out. But the Thread glowed, Skov and his slab gone. One Thread. One step to Spoolhaven.
He froze. Tears were death, Shades ripping rats to ribbons. But hunger was a Shade, and winter didn't bargain. "Dusk eat you," he muttered, humming Lir's tune, slipping through the chaos. He dodged a flailing elbow, shard tucked, eyes locked on the Thread.
The pulse kicked harder, rattling bones underfoot. A Tear ripped open, violet and black, Loom Vapors spilling like oil from a broken jug, stinging his eyes, tasting like rust and ruin. Slum rats called it the Loom's breath, warping flesh to monstrosity. Nytherion's skin crawled, but he lunged for the stall.
Shades swarmed out. Beetle-like Scuttlers, eyes like cracked glass, claws clicking like dice. Dregs, but a swarm could gut him. One pounced on the woman, tearing her arm. She screamed, blood pooling, kid dragging her cloak.
Nytherion's fingers grazed the Thread. Take it. Run. He was the rat who left Lir, her lullaby fading as he clutched stolen bread. But the kid's blank stare hit like a blade, Lir's eyes all over again. His Betrayer's Mark stirred, a cold itch: Take the Thread. Let them die. Profit. Nytherion snarled, shaking it off, and sprinted to them.
He slashed a Scuttler's leg, shard biting. It screeched, skittering back. "Run!" he barked, yanking the woman up. She stumbled, kid in tow, toward an alley. Nytherion saw her cloak vanish, torn but not bloody—maybe they'd make it. A Scuttler lunged, eyes flaring. Nytherion stepped in, shard raised, heart hammering. He wasn't a hero. He was a damn fool.
The Scuttler leaped. Nytherion swung, nicking its hide. Its claws raked his arm, pain like hot nails, blood dripping, glowing faintly—Vapors, marking him already. He staggered, shard slipping. The Scuttler reared, maw wide. Nytherion braced, Thread gone, alley empty. All for nothing.
A red flash. A Weaving blade split the Scuttler, ash bursting. A Strandbound landed, black armor gleaming, sword pulsing like a slum fire. He carved Scuttlers with flicks, clean as a thief's cut. More Strandbound arrived, Weavings glowing, pushing the Tear back, Vapors swirling.
Nytherion sank against a crate, blood glowing, arm screaming. A weight burrowed in his chest, cold and alive, like a needle threading his ribs. The Loom. It had seen him defy his Mark, save instead of steal. It whispered: Weave Dusk, close the Tear, or die. His eyes glowed now, Vapors' curse, a beacon for Shades. The Mark itched, urging him to snatch the Strandbound's blade, to profit.
The Strandbound turned, visor blank. "Unbound," he growled. "Loom's got you. Dusk Strand, shadow-weaver, but that Mark's a bastard. Unspun die fast in the Asylum. Weave, or you're fodder."
Nytherion's throat tightened. His blood pulsed with the Tear, feeding it. "I'm nobody," he said, voice cracked, Lir's lullaby looping in his head. "Wrong rat."
"Loom don't pick wrong," the Strandbound said. "Asylum's your cage. Move."
Nytherion stood, arm dripping, market a kicked-over slum heap, ash and blood like a deal gone sour. The Tear was closing, Vapors fading. He'd lost the Thread, gained a curse. Typical. The Strandbound led him toward the Asylum's spires, but the Mark whispered: Steal. Run. Nytherion fought it, humming Lir's tune, hating the loom.
The ground split. A new Tear yawned, violet and black, Vapors burning like rotgut. The Strandbound's shout faded as Nytherion fell, reality fraying into cold, jagged dark.
He hit stone, palms splitting like bad deals. The Fissure Tear reeked of rot, Vapors burning his throat like slum brew gone bad. His blood glowed, a beacon for Scuttlers chittering—bigger, Bonegnasher-sized, maybe a Reaver. A Fissure, survivable for Unbound, but not a rat with no Strand. The Tear's glow winked out, sealing him in.
Nytherion hummed Lir's tune, carving a Dusk rune. Scrape. Scrape. The Loom whispered: Weave, or fray. The Betrayer's Mark stung, urging him to profit, to survive alone. "I'm not your weaver," he muttered, smirking. "But I'm not your meat."
A Glass-Eyed Reaver watched, its face too human, hissing "Nytherion," like it knew him.