I. The City of Masked Truths
Primoria's Lower Quarter had always been a contradiction.
Gilded arches framed crumbling stone. Market stalls overflowed with illusion-charms that promised beauty, truth, and fortune—but delivered only fleeting lies. It was a place built to distract, to distort.
Tonight, it felt honest.
Ashardio moved through the throng like a shadow. Every face was masked—porcelain smiles, silver-laced visages, wooden grins carved too wide. Yet it wasn't a festival. It was tradition.
A masquerade of necessity.
For in the Lower Quarter, names and faces were commodities.
And someone had been buying.
Lilim's words echoed in his mind:
"The Artisan doesn't kill directly. He unwinds people from the inside out."
Ash could feel the threads of falsehood vibrating. Lies were being spun tonight, and somewhere beneath them, truth was suffocating.
II. The Puppetmaster's Invitation
A slip of parchment appeared between Ash's fingers, though he hadn't seen who delivered it.
No glyphs.
No magic.
Just a phrase:
"To unmake, one must first see the weave."
—A.
Beneath it, coordinates. An old amphitheater long abandoned after the Fold's breach. A perfect stage.
Ashardio's pulse quickened—not with fear, but with grim anticipation.
He pocketed the note and vanished into the labyrinth of masked faces.
III. The Amphitheater of Echoes
The amphitheater was a wound upon the city—stone steps eroded by time, the central dais cracked like a shattered mirror.
And there, upon the stage, stood the Artisan.
No mask.
No glamour.
Only the flawed man-made-god whose smile was an exercise in restraint.
"Ashardio," he greeted, voice like silk pulled taut. "You've come to see the weave beneath your skin."
Ash's light flared in his palm, threads coiling, ready to strike.
But the Artisan raised a hand—not in defense, but in offering.
"This isn't a duel. Not yet. Tonight is a lesson. Watch."
With a subtle gesture, the amphitheater breathed.
The air rippled, and the masked faces of the Lower Quarter appeared—not as people, but as weaves of light and thread. Every lie they had ever told glowed like infected veins.
"I mend what the Loom refuses to correct," the Artisan said, voice soft but merciless.
"I unmake their lies, thread by thread."
As Ash watched, one figure unraveled—her body disintegrating into strands of memory and deceit. No scream. Just silence.
It was horrifying.
It was beautiful.
And somewhere deep within, a part of Ash understood.
IV. The Cost of Weaving
"You fear becoming me," the Artisan continued, circling Ash slowly. "Yet your light already knows the truth. It doesn't heal. It sears. It consumes falsehood until only raw thread remains."
Ash's grip faltered. The weight of that truth pressed down, suffocating.
"What would you have me do?" he asked.
The Artisan's smile widened, and it was not kind.
"Choose. Mend the Loom as it is, with all its fractures, all its lies…
Or unmake the flawed weave and craft something worthy of the light you wield."
Behind his words was a challenge.
Not a threat.
A mirror.
Lilim's voice echoed in his mind again:
"The sheath before the blade…"
Tonight, Ash realized—he was the blade.
V. The Masquerade Cracks
A tremor rippled through the amphitheater. The vision of threads wavered.
Far above, the Academy's great bells tolled—not for time, but for warning.
The Unraveling had begun.
The Artisan stepped back into the shadows, his parting words a whisper in Ashardio's ear:
"Unmake to remake, Weaver.
Next, we pull the golden thread."
As the amphitheater dissolved into the chaos of fraying reality, Ashardio was left with a choice.
Mend.
Unmake.
Or create anew.
And in that moment, beneath the cracked sky, Ash felt the Loom waiting.
VI. Threads of the Forgotten
The moment stretched, breathless.
Ashardio remained still as the amphitheater's illusions peeled away. Yet even as reality reclaimed the space, something lingered—a faint glow in the cracks, like threads beneath stone skin.
He knelt, brushing his fingers across the shattered dais.
For a breath, the world shifted.
A vision bled through.
He stood in the same amphitheater—but younger, naïve, wrapped in Academy robes. Beside him, Masters whispered of destiny, of duty. They spoke of the Fold's corruption, of the Weaver's role as a guardian of truth.
But even then, even in memory, Ashardio noticed it.
The Artisan stood in the shadows, watching.
He had always been there.
This wasn't the Artisan's first masquerade.
It was Ash's first unveiling.
The amphitheater pulsed, and the vision snapped like a frayed thread. Ashardio staggered back, breath ragged.
"How many of my choices were ever mine?" he wondered.
The Artisan's game was deeper than unmaking lies. He was weaving a new narrative, and Ash was both audience and actor.
VII. The Golden Thread
From the far edge of the amphitheater, something shimmered.
A single thread—thin, golden, vibrating with a frequency Ashardio could feel in his bones. It tugged at him, subtle yet relentless.
The golden thread.
The Artisan's parting words resurfaced:
"Next, we pull the golden thread."
Cautiously, Ash reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the thread, a pulse of memories surged through him—not his own, but woven from stolen truths.
He saw faces:
– A masked woman with violet eyes, weaving deception as easily as breathing.
– A councilman, speaking of justice while hiding bloodstains beneath his robes.
– The Artisan, sitting before an ancient Loom, reshaping the city's history with hands that knew no guilt.
It was overwhelming.
Ashardio's light flared, instinctively severing the connection.
But the golden thread remained—unbroken, patient.
It wasn't meant to be cut.
It was meant to be followed.
VIII. A Choice Without Choice
As the last echoes faded, footsteps approached.
Lilim emerged, her face pale, eyes burning with restrained fury.
"You touched it, didn't you?" she said, voice low. "You followed the Artisan's invitation."
Ash didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"The golden thread binds more than lies, Ash," she warned. "It leads to the heart of the Fold itself. Follow it… and you may not come back."
He met her gaze. There was no anger in his eyes—only resolve.
"I need to see the weave, Lilim. Not the one they taught me. The real one."
A tense silence. Then, with a resigned sigh, she offered him a slender blade of light—a Weaver's Fang.
"For when truth cuts deeper than lies," she said.
IX. Curtain Falls
Above them, the sky fractured.
Not visibly, not yet—but Ashardio could feel it. Threads tugged, reality strained, the Loom's tension reaching its crescendo.
The Artisan's masquerade was never just an illusion.
It was prelude to unraveling.
As Ashardio stepped from the amphitheater, golden thread in hand, he understood.
This wasn't a battle of power.
It was a battle of narrative.
And the Artisan had written the first act.
But the Weaver's pen was still in Ash's hand.
For now.
The city awaited its next chapter.