“The Bastion remembers its own.”
The commander's voice sliced through the settling dust. Levan pushed himself upright, his spine grating against the rough rock wall. Beso coughed, sputtering, staring in terror at the gaping hole where the tunnel entrance had been. Through the swirling debris, Levan saw them: six figures in the sleek, ash-trimmed uniforms of the perimeter patrol, shock-troopers among them, their swords drawn and humming with a faint, blue charge.
“Stitcher,” the officer continued, stepping forward, his expression hard. “You were foolish to believe you could outrun us. Anais has… unique talents we require. And your own… curious abilities interest us now, too. Surrender, and we can discuss terms.”
Levan gripped the ruby awl in his palm. Terms? They had taken Anais, ransacked his shop, and caved in his only route out. His gaze swept over the workshop – the half-finished beast-hide garment, the scattered schematics for the Unraveling Loom, and his tattered, oil-stained coat flung over a workbench. The awl pulsed against his skin, carrying the trapped frequency of the Shrieker’s ‘Unavoidable Cacophony’ from the Scrap-Tangle.
An idea, wild and desperate, ignited in his mind. He hadn’t destroyed the curse that day. He’d absorbed it. What if… what if he could *re-weave* it? Not into the air, but into something tangible? A garment, perhaps. A tailor’s skill, after all, was about turning flat cloth into structured form, about imbuing material with purpose.
“No terms,” Levan snarled, his voice rough. “You won’t lay another hand on Anais.”
He grabbed his canvas coat. It was threadbare, patched in places, but sturdy. He plunged the sharp tip into the heavy weave near the collar, a quick, precise jab. The tool thrummed, and a faint, shimmering red strand, visible only to him, extended from the metal point into the fibers. He worked with frantic speed, his hands a blur. The stored affliction in the spike drained into the cloth, a strange, resonant vibration passing through his fingers like drawing a pattern with a burning coal.
[System Notification: ‘Unavoidable Cacophony’ curse transferred. Object ‘Tattered Canvas Coat’ imbued with temporary curse properties. New Skill Acquired: [Curse Imbuement (Rank F)]]
[System Notification: Object ‘Tattered Canvas Coat’ has evolved into ‘Mantle of Shrieking (Temporary)’.]
The officer gave a short laugh. “Fool. You think a tailor’s trinket can stop us?” He gestured to his vanguard. “Take them. Bring me the girl, unharmed. The Stitcher… subdue him. Gently, if possible. I want to know how he did that trick with the Acolyte.”
The swordsmen moved, steel raised. Levan threw the humming coat over his shoulders. He felt the latent resonance inside the cloth, a coiled spring of distorted pitch. With a desperate surge of will, he pushed his meager mana into the lining, sparking the red filament.
“Let’s see how gentle you are,” Levan whispered, and then he *pulled*.
The air warped. From the very cloth, an invisible shockwave of concentrated oscillation erupted. It was not a noise heard with ears, but a concussive blast vibrating through marrow and muscle. The charging swordsmen staggered as if striking stone. Their shouts collapsed into choked gasps. They clutched their ears, faces contorting. One dropped his weapon, crashing to his knees with both palms clamped against his temples.
Beso let out a muffled wheeze, though the blow struck him only as a dull ringing. Levan felt the rebound channeled down his sleeves, safe behind his own needlework. The coat pulsed, the scarlet strands flashing as they vented the trapped hex.
The leader, shielded by some high-tier ward, merely winced, though his mouth twitched in fury. “What in the name of the Weaver was *that*?” he bellowed through the lingering hum. He pointed at Levan. “That rot… it’s from a Shrieker! How did you…?”
“Doesn’t matter how,” Levan retorted, his voice strained. “It matters that you can’t reach us.” He felt the charge in the cloth draining like sand through an hourglass. The barrier would not hold.
“You think this changes anything, Stitcher?” the officer snarled, stepping past his disabled guards. A desperate frenzy flickered across his face. “The Loom of Affliction is waking! Faster than the High Council admits! Soon, the blights will knit into reality, and every beast will become invincible! Your parlor tricks won't save humanity when Vaskarr turns completely!”
Levan stiffened, breath turning thin in his throat. “What are you talking about? The Loom is dormant!”
“Dormant?!” The man sneered. “It’s *twitching*, Stitcher! Trembling on the edge of full awakening! My order has a plan. We will not destroy the Loom; we will *control* it! We will master the blights and turn them against the beasts! Anais is vital—her sight for curse-filaments, her ability to map the Loom's stirs! Your Project Weaver was meant to stop this, but you’re too late! We will harness it all!”
Control the Loom? Anais mapping its awakening? Rescuing her was no longer just a jailbreak. If the garrison sought to leash that colossal core, they would tear the continent apart. His past self’s notes, the sealed trunk, the diagrams—every scrap clicked into place.
“Beso! Get ready to run!” Levan roared, forcing every scrap of mana into the seams. The coat flashed bright red, the sonic pressure peaking and throwing the enemy commander off balance.
“You won’t escape!” the commander shouted, drawing a broad curved saber as its internal power cell flared.
Levan didn't aim at the man. He directed the dying sonic burst upward at the fractured bedrock and steel struts above the entrance. The shockwave shattered the remaining supports. Rock slabs sheared away with a deafening screech, bringing down tons of debris. The blast hole choked shut under falling boulders, sealing off the squad behind a wall of dust and stone.
“This way!” Levan yanked Beso toward a narrow service chute plunging deeper into the mountain. Behind the wall of rock, muffled curses echoed through the cracks. The imbued coat died down, its red fibers dulling to lifeless twine. An agonizing drain struck Levan’s legs, leaving his vision swimming.
[System Notification: Critical Quest Failed: ‘Submit to the Silver Shears.’]
[System Notification: Warning! You have been marked as ‘Frayed’.]
[System Notification: All Scourge-Beasts will now actively hunt you. Your chance of encountering elite Scourge-Beasts has significantly increased.]
Levan stumbled, half-dragging Beso into the cramped chute. He was marked for slaughter by the wilderness. Yet the commander's manic conviction rang louder than the warning bells: the Loom was waking, and the fortress leadership intended to harness the apocalypse. Anais was their key. Project Weaver had to be completed.
He dragged himself into the dark vent as tremors rattled the stone. The world was fraying at its seams, and a fugitive tailor with a scrap of needlecraft would have to sew it shut.