A guttural roar ripped through the haze. Zev’s eyes snapped open, a blinding white quickly fading to the flickering orange of crude torches. Air, thick with woodsmoke and damp earth, clawed at his throat. He gagged, the taste of ash on his tongue. His head throbbed, a dull bass drum against his temples. What in the blazes? One moment, the Final Filament pulsed, the next, a supernova swallowed him whole. Now this. He scanned his surroundings, analytical mind overriding the primal fear. Packed dirt beneath him, not the cold metal of his bunker. Rough-hewn wooden posts, not the clean lines of salvaged tech. Muscular forms, half-naked, their skin painted with crude spirals and jagged lines, ringed him. Their faces were grim, reverent, illuminated by the leaping flames. Not a simulation. Not anymore. “Young ones! Embrace the Loom’s first trial!” A voice like grinding stone boomed from the center of the ring. An elder, clearly. His frame was immense, shoulders like felled tree trunks, a mane of salt-and-pepper hair braided with bone fragments. A scar, deep and angry, bisected his face. Zev blinked. The language. It wasn't the broken Old Earth tongues he knew, nor the rhythmic chirps of the Weavers. Yet, every syllable resonated, its meaning crystal clear, an unwelcome download direct to his cortex. *Ur-Tongue*. The lingua franca of *Echoes of the Old World*. This was not Aethelgard. This was the game. He forced himself to breathe, focusing on the details. He was seated among others, youths with similar wild eyes and powerful builds. They murmured, shifting, a nervous energy rippling through the circle. A coming-of-age ritual, then. A warrior initiation. A strange weight settled over him. Not fear, not entirely. More a profound, cynical irritation. He’d beaten the game. He’d reached the ending. This wasn’t a reward; it was a re-spawn, a glitch in his hard-won victory. His own hands, resting on his knees, drew his attention. Massive. Calloused. Not the scarred, wiry hands he knew. He flexed his fingers. They obeyed, surprisingly agile despite their bulk. His biceps, swelling under the firelight, were like knots of braided rope. Crude tattoos, mirroring those on the others, snaked across his forearms and chest. A Crag-Son. One of the barbarian-like races he’d often played in *Echoes*. The physical translation was complete, disturbingly so. “Come forth, Daggar, son of Kelmar!” Elder Kael gestured to a pile of weaponry: rough-hewn axes, spears tipped with chert, blunted swords. Daggar, a lanky youth, strode forward, chest puffed, snatching a short spear. A cheer, low and rumbling, erupted. Kael raised a hand, silencing them. “The Loom-Singer guides your path, Daggar. Now, you are a warrior.” *The Loom-Singer.* Another detail. That was the deity worshipped by the Crag-Sons in *Echoes*. The confirmation was complete. Zev wasn’t just in a game world; he was in *his* game world. The world of *Echoes of the Old World*. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the implications sink in. Years spent mastering its mechanics, predicting its cruel patterns, finding its hidden exploits. Now, all that knowledge was no longer theoretical. It was his only chance. Someone nearby stirred. A lean man, eyes wide, breathing ragged. Not quite as muscular as the others. He looked… out of place. His lips moved, barely a whisper. “This… this isn’t right. *Echoes of the Old World*? Is this… an event?” Zev’s blood ran cold. The man had spoken in Ur-Tongue, but the proper noun, *Echoes of the Old World*, rang clear as a chime, utterly foreign to this setting. He was like Zev. A Glitch. Another player, drawn into the same nightmare. Elder Kael’s gaze snapped to the speaker. The cavernous murmur died. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the torches. Kael’s expression, previously stern, hardened into something ancient and terrifying. “Who spoke just now?” His voice was low, dangerous. It wasn’t a question of curiosity. It was a pronouncement. The man, Gorok, still dazed, seemed to swell with misguided bravado. “Me! I did! Is this part of the tutorial? I recognized the setting, the Crag-Sons…” Kael moved with a speed that defied his bulk. One moment, he stood by the weapons. The next, a blur of motion, he was before Gorok. A glint of polished stone, a blur of movement. A sound like wet fabric tearing. *Thwack.* Gorok’s head, severed with brutal efficiency, tumbled from his shoulders. It bounced twice on the packed earth, rolling to a stop near Zev’s knee. The eyes, wide and unseeing, stared up at nothing. A fountain of crimson spurted from the neck, painting the ground, the crude loincloths, even Zev’s own face, with hot, sticky spray. It was fast. Shockingly fast. Too quick for nausea, too surreal for true panic. Zev’s mind, ever analytical, registered the arterial spray, the sudden cessation of life. A game mechanic, brutally applied. “A Glitch spirit possessed this one,” Kael’s voice cut through the stunned silence, flat and chilling. “The Loom-Singer rejected his taint. Forget his words, young warriors. Such thoughts are poison.” Zev felt a cold dread bloom in his gut, spreading through his new, massive frame. A Glitch. An evil spirit. That’s what he was. And if he spoke out, if he showed any inkling of his true origin, his head would join Gorok’s on the blood-soaked earth. This was not a game for players. This was a game for avatars. And the player controlling Zev was now *in* the avatar. “Volkan, cleanse this place! Take the husk to the Maw-Pit!” Kael commanded, his voice returning to its resonant tone. A figure detached from the crowd, dragging the headless body away. The ritual, impossibly, continued. No one flinched. Not the warriors, not the youths. Death was swift, brutal, and apparently, common. Zev locked his facial muscles, forcing his breathing even, his eyes flat and impassive, mirroring those around him. Every muscle screamed with suppressed terror, but he showed nothing. He was Roric now. Or whatever name was assigned to this body. “Next! Jorun, son of Eldrin!” A lanky youth rose, picked up an axe. Another cheer. Zev’s internal clock started. The cadence of the naming, the pause between calls. He had to know his name. This was a critical flaw. Stand still when called, and suspicion would bloom. Speak up at the wrong time, and he was dead. “Next! Lena, daughter of Braek!” A young woman, fierce-eyed, chose a spear. Her movements were fluid. He counted the seconds between calls. Two, sometimes three. Kael’s gaze swept the circle, pausing on each youth before calling the next name. Zev observed the subtle shift in focus, the miniscule hitch in Kael’s rhythm when he landed on a new person. “Next! Bran, son of Theron!” Another, stocky and broad, chose a heavy stone club. Zev calculated the probability. The tribal elders rarely called names out of order. They moved systematically. He was on the far side of the circle from where they started. The next few names would pass him by. He had to assume he was one of the last. “Next! Anya, daughter of Lokt!” His palms, rough as bark, sweated. His heart hammered against his ribs. *Survival*. That was the primary objective now. All other parameters secondary. “Next! Torvin, son of Kael!” Kael called, a rare hint of pride in his voice. A younger, smaller version of the Elder himself stepped forward, choosing a short sword. Zev tracked the Elder’s eyes. They moved clockwise. Two more young warriors stood between Torvin and Zev’s current position. One, then another. The sequence was consistent. Kael never skipped or reversed. “Next! Elara, daughter of Jorn!” A young woman, hesitant but firm, chose a hunting knife. This was it. The next name was his. The pause. The look. He had to gamble. His life depended on this one, unprovable assumption. No luck. Only probability. Kael’s gaze drifted past Elara. It landed on the youth next to her. A moment, then… “Next! Joric, son of Fendril!” No one moved. Joric? Was that it? The youth next to Elara remained still, staring blankly ahead. Confusion flickered across Kael’s face, then sharpened into irritation. He repeated the name. Still, nothing. The youth clearly hadn't heard, or perhaps wasn’t Joric. His window. A split-second decision. Before Kael could narrow his eyes further, before he could utter a single word of suspicion, Zev surged forward. A practiced movement, smooth, almost instinctual. He walked with purpose, shoulders back, eyes locked on the Elder. *Roric*. That was his name. He was certain. No. He was *acting* certain. The difference might save his life. Kael’s gaze met his, searching, probing. Zev held it, an unwavering mask of primal determination. No fear. No confusion. Only the resolute focus of a warrior ready for his trial. “Young Roric,” Kael said, the words a question at first, then a statement, a slow nod of approval. “Son of Fendril. Choose your weapon.” Relief, sharp and sudden, almost buckled his knees. He fought it down, transforming it into a surge of adrenaline. Kael was satisfied. The gamble paid off. He reached for the pile. His eyes landed on a heavy, double-headed axe, crudely forged but balanced, its edge surprisingly keen. It felt right. Weighted. Brutal. A fitting tool for a Crag-Son. He hefted it, testing the grip, the swing. The solid impact of wood and stone against his massive hands felt… natural. As if he’d been wielding one his whole life. “Good, Roric,” Kael grunted, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “May the Loom-Singer guide your path.” Zev, now Roric, nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He had survived the first few minutes. The game had truly begun. And he was playing for keeps. He had to become this barbarian. Every instinct, every memory, every 'mechanic' of *Echoes* had to be repurposed. He had to live, and perhaps, eventually, find a way home. Or, at the very least, win. This was not a simulation. This was the Loom, raw and unforgiving. And he was just another thread in its brutal weave.

Unraveling the Loom