The corpses hadn't cooled.
Kale stood in the stillness of the shattered ritual site, surrounded by the remains of the five elite Fatebinders. Their threads, once intricate and glorious, now lay frayed like snapped harp strings.
He felt nothing.
"They were elite," he said aloud, to no one. "And I barely needed to try."
Azrael's voice drifted through his mind like smoke curling through a broken cathedral.
"Because they were not the true threat."
The Glitch Begins
Kale turned to leave.
The world… twitched.
For a moment, the sun blinked out — replaced by a cracked mirror in the sky. Then it returned. Birds flew backward. His footsteps echoed before he moved.
"Azrael?"
"She's approaching. Even the Loom can't watch her directly. Time resists her presence."
"Who is she?"
"The Second Pattern. Correction. Final Edit."
Kale felt it — a cold thread coiling through the air like a noose around his soul.
Something was rewriting the world to accommodate her. Space curled tighter. Possibilities collapsed.
The Last Oracle
Far away, in a forgotten monastery of the Needle Saints, the last living threadseer convulsed violently.
"The Threadless walks," she whispered, eyes rolling back. "And now… the Editor comes."
She tore her own lips off to stay silent — and died without breath.
The monks bowed.
"The Second Pattern is in motion."
Cracks in the Vowbreaker
Back in the ritual ruins, Kale stared at his hands.
The threads around them were whining — not in pain, but protest. They began rejecting him. His left arm glitched for a moment — vanishing, then reappearing upside down.
"What is this?"
"Your nature is incomplete. You've defied fate — but not replaced it. You are… hollow at the core."
"Then fill me."
Azrael went quiet.
"...That price is not mine to decide."
A Final Warning
Then, the world stilled again.
Wind stopped. Dust froze midair.
A single thread — gold, flawless — fell from above and landed at Kale's feet. It didn't belong to him. It vibrated gently, humming with an intent he could not understand.
And it was cut.
Right in front of him. No blade. No hand.
Just a clean, absolute severing.
Azrael whispered:
"You should run."
End of Chapter 7