He began to feel the thread inside himself.
Tugging.
Not out.
But deeper in.
It wasn't physical. It didn't press against his skin or pull on his bones. But it was there—stitched somewhere between his ribs, threaded through spaces he didn't know existed.
Like a cord woven into the hollow of his chest. Like something waiting to be grasped.
But grasped by who?
Or what?
Darian sat in silence for hours.
He didn't move.
The wind scraped against the shutters, whispering unintelligibly. The walls expanded and settled with quiet groans. The candle on his desk had burned itself out long ago, its final ember sinking into wax like a swallowed star.
Yet he remained.
Listening.
Feeling.
The thread didn't tug again.
It waited.
Watched.
Like it was testing him.
Like it wanted to see what he would do next.
When the first hint of dawn crept across the horizon, Darian finally stood.
His joints ached, stiff from stillness, but he barely noticed.
He didn't dress in his servant's tunic. Didn't go to the kitchens. Didn't report for duty. Didn't speak to anyone.
Instead, he walked.
Silent. Unseen. The air shifting around him—not like a breeze, but like something alive, something aware.
Something watching.
The corridors felt sharper today. The light colder. The walls closer.
And the space between them?
It had become thin.
A mirror caught his eye as he passed the eastern stairwell.
He wasn't alone.
A thread coiled through the frame—faint, fragile, vibrating softly in the candlelight.
It vanished before he could blink.
But it had been there.
Guiding him.
Or warning him.
He couldn't tell anymore.
His feet carried him to the chapel.
He didn't know why.
It had been years since anyone had truly prayed there.
Its saints were cracked and blind, their faces eroded by time. The stained-glass windows no longer gleamed, their colors muted with dust. Even the altar sagged slightly, as if the ground beneath it had forgotten how to hold weight.
Yet something remained.
Not sacred.
Not holy.
Something older.
He stepped inside.
The scent of wax and mildew clung to him like a second skin. The air was colder here—not the kind of cold that comes from wind, but the kind that seeps through stone.
He walked past the pews. Past the altar. Past the silent saints.
Until he reached the alcove behind the choir wall.
There—beneath a tapestry depicting a saint with her eyes sewn shut—was a door he had never noticed before.
Plain. Narrow.
He pushed.
It didn't resist.
The room beyond was small and round. No windows. No candles. Just a single chair in the center and a circle drawn on the floor in dark wax.
Symbols lined its edge. Some familiar. Most not.
And in the chair—
A man.
Still.
Unmoving.
His back to Darian.
He wore gray robes, threadbare and stained at the hem. His hands rested in his lap, motionless.
Darian froze.
The man did not turn.
Did not breathe.
Did not blink.
Darian stepped forward, each movement too loud, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
When he was five paces away, he stopped.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
No answer.
He took one more step.
The man's head tilted slightly, responding to something unspoken.
Not toward Darian.
But upward.
Darian followed his gaze.
There—etched into the ceiling above the chair—was the symbol.
The spiral.
But this one was different.
It wasn't made of thread.
Wasn't ink.
It was carved.
Deep. Jagged. Violent.
And at its center—
A needle.
Real.
Embedded in the stone.
Black. Smooth. Seamless.
And it pulsed.
Once.
Faint.
Like a heartbeat.
Darian stepped back.
The man in the chair exhaled.
Slow.
Dry.
Like air escaping a collapsed lung.
But he did not move.
Did not speak.
Did not lower his head.
Darian turned and left the room.
The door closed behind him without a sound.
He didn't remember walking back to his quarters.
When he arrived—
The candle was lit.
He hadn't lit it.
He checked the floorboard beside his cot—the one where he had hidden the parchment.
It was still there.
Untouched.
But the note inside?
Gone.
And in its place—
A new one.
Same thin, angular script.
"Some threads do not want to be pulled. Some were placed to hold the world together. Others were left as traps."
That night, Darian lay on his cot.
The glove was beside him.
Thin. Black. Seamless.
He hadn't worn it.
Not until now.
He slid it over his right hand.
It fit perfectly.
Like it had been made for him.
The moment the fabric touched his skin, a warmth spread through his palm.
Not heat.
Something closer to memory.
Or pressure.
Like something recognizing its place.
He clenched his fist.
The glove flexed like muscle.
No resistance. No seams.
He raised his hand.
And above his fingers—
A thread appeared.
Bright. Vibrating. Alive.
It curled slightly toward his palm, like it wanted to be held.
He reached for it.
Touched it.
And the room changed.
Not suddenly. Not violently.
Just… slightly.
The corners stretched deeper. The shadows thickened. The candlelight bent toward him.
Then, slowly—the thread faded.
Darian pulled the glove off.
Reality snapped back.
His hand still pulsed with that warmth.
And the glove?
It wasn't the same anymore.
A tiny mark had appeared on the back.
A circle.
Stitched in white thread.
No spiral.
Just a perfect loop.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he knew—
It meant something.