Levan kept running, Beso stumbling behind him, a frantic rhythm of desperate footsteps against rusty grates. The air in the maintenance shafts grew thicker, heavy with the scent of stagnant water and mineral dust. They navigated a labyrinth of corroded pipes and sparking junction boxes, the shouts from above fading to a distant hum. Levan didn’t slow until his lungs burned, his side a raw ache. He plunged through a gap in a bent sheet of dur-steel, pulling Beso in after him, and slammed it shut with a resounding clang. They stood hunched in the sudden, absolute dark of a disused pipe-chute, the only light a faint crimson glow from Levan’s hand, where the needle pulsed against his skin. Levan leaned against a cold metal wall, gasping, trying to draw enough oxygen into his starved lungs. Beso slid down to sit on the greasy floor, knees drawn up to his chin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Th-that was… insane, Levan,” Beso managed, his voice a reedy whisper. “You really… you stitched him to the floor.” He let out a shaky, almost hysterical laugh. “I thought we were dead. I really did.” Levan pushed away from the wall, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, leaving behind a cold, hollow fear. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the lingering heat of his fury. “We’re not dead yet,” he said, the words flat. “But we’re close.” He clenched his hand, the crimson needle biting into his palm. “This whole thing… Anais. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone off.” Beso flinched. “No. No, it’s not yours. Not really.” He hesitated, picking at a loose thread on his tunic. “I… I knew she was looking into the Silver Shears. For weeks. She said they were doing something bad, something with… with curses. But she made me promise not to tell you. She said you’d just go charging in, get yourself hurt.” His voice cracked. “She was right, wasn’t she?” Levan stared at him, the admission a sharp pain in his chest, worse than any physical blow. Anais had worried about his reckless temper, and that reality hung between them in the stale air. He saw the genuine fear etched on Beso’s face, the deep guilt in his eyes. He wanted to rage, to lash out at the unfairness, at his own perceived inadequacy. But the thought of Anais, somewhere out there, probably because of his past self’s secrets, choked the anger before it could ignite. “She wasn’t wrong,” Levan admitted, the words tasting like ash. “I do. I always have. And it usually works out, somehow. But this… this is different. It’s not just me anymore. If I get myself killed, then Anais…” He trailed off, unable to voice the thought. The image of the Acolyte, stumbling, the sheer humiliation of it, had been satisfying in the moment. But it hadn’t freed Anais. It had only bought them seconds. “What now?” Beso asked, his voice barely audible. Levan pulled out the grimy, leather-bound journal. The sliver of red steel thrummed faster, humming against the leather. “This. He left it for a reason.” He flipped through the faded pages, the script his own, yet alien. He found a crudely drawn map, annotated with cryptic symbols and coordinates that seemed to refer to old Bastion schematics. The markings pointed toward a specific section of the Underspin, deep beneath the Spindle’s roots. “A hidden workshop,” Levan murmured, tracing a finger over a faded diagram of intertwined conduits. “He knew something like this would happen. That’s why he stored all these.” He pointed to a small, almost invisible cross marked on the map. “This way.” They moved with renewed purpose, following the convoluted path outlined in the journal. They descended through crumbling maintenance tunnels, the air growing colder, until they reached a section where the official Bastion schematics simply showed a solid rock wall. Levan pressed his hand against the rough-hewn stone, the crimson needle vibrating, then pulled out a small, blunted chisel from his utility belt. He worked quickly, guided by a barely perceptible seam in the rock, until a section of the wall swung inward with a faint grinding sound, revealing a narrow, dust-choked chamber. Inside, the air was still and cold, heavy with the scent of cured hide and something metallic. The workshop was small, crammed with half-finished works and strange tools. A workbench dominated the space, littered with arcane implements and parchment sketches, glowing faintly with intricate curse-lines. In the center, draped over a wooden mannequin, was a half-finished garment, thick and dark, stitched from what Levan instantly recognized as Scourge-hide – the toughened, magically resilient skin of a Blight-Hound. He touched the hide. It was stiff, almost rigid, but yielded slightly to his touch, absorbing the ambient light. This wasn't just armor; it was intricately patterned, the stitching forming complex geometries that mirrored the diagrams on the workbench. It felt… wrong, like wearing a piece of reality that had been twisted. His eye caught a stack of detailed drafts beneath the hide garment: drawings for a device labeled the 'Dispersion Frame.' It showed a complex array of spinning gears, focused lenses, and an ominous, circular aperture at its heart, all designed to channel and disrupt curse energies. His fingers brushed against a draft of the frame, and a strike of remembrance shook him from within his own mind. A fragmented memory, vivid and sudden, hit him like a physical blow. *“Levan, you have to stop. It’s consuming you.” Anais’s voice, sharp with concern, cut through the buzzing calculations in his head. He looked up from the glowing console, his eyes red-rimmed, the scent of burnt circuitry thick in the air of their tiny, pre-Sundering apartment. “Initiative Weaver, that’s all you talk about. You’re not sleeping, you’re not eating. What even is it, truly?”* *He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a frustrated sigh escaping him. “It’s everything, Anais! It’s the answer to… to the unraveling. The patterns. It’s what connects everything, what holds it all together. The universe itself is woven matter, and I can see the strands. I can almost… almost touch them.” He gestured wildly at the complex models dancing across the screen. “If I can just manipulate this last array, I can prove it. I can prove the Loom isn’t just a myth. It’s real. It’s central. And if it awakens, it will be the end.”* *Anais walked over, her expression softening, but her gaze was still worried. She gently took the half-eaten, forgotten toast from his hand. “You’re talking nonsense. The Loom of Affliction? It’s an old folktale, Levan. You’re creating problems where there are none.” She looked at the screen, then back at him, her eyes filled with a desperate plea. “Come to bed. We can talk about whatever decay this is in the morning.”* *He pulled away, his voice rising in exasperation. “You don’t understand! This is bigger than us, bigger than anything. If the Weaver… if the Loom awakens, it’ll be too late. Everything will be Frayed. Everyone will be Frayed.”* Levan gasped, slamming a hand against the workbench, the memory dissolving like smoke. He blinked, disoriented, staring at the half-finished Scourge-hide garment, then at the design drafts. The Weaver. The Loom of Affliction. He knew those names now, but the urgency, the knowledge, the *obsession* of his past self felt like a foreign entity. He had been so close, so consumed by it, yet the Sundering had wiped it all clean. He had been trying to prevent the very thing that now threatened to consume Vaskarr. And Anais, his Anais, had been there, trying to pull him back. “Levan? What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Beso’s voice was filled with concern. “What’s that thing?” He pointed to the Scourge-hide armor. Before Levan could answer, a low rumble vibrated through the rock, growing rapidly into a deafening roar. Dust sifted from the ceiling. A blinding flash erupted from the entry point, followed by a shockwave that threw them both off their feet. The narrow gap they’d used to enter the workshop collapsed inwards, rock and metal exploding into the chamber, sealing their escape. The sound of heavy, armored boots echoed in the now-shrunken space, accompanied by a familiar, chilling voice. “Thought you could escape the Silver Shears, Stitcher?” The commander's voice, cold and precise, cut through the dust and rubble. “You should have known. The Bastion remembers its own.”

Echoes in the Rust