The Last Threadwalker

The Last Threadwalker

Chapter One — The Boy Who Sold His Shadow

Rain came down sideways in the city of Glassmere, which was strange, considering the sky above was perfectly clear. That’s how Glassmere worked — the weather obeyed no clouds, no wind, just the whims of the Threads.

Kairos Veylan adjusted the hood of his frayed cloak and stepped over a gutter that hissed with blue steam. His shadow, or rather what was left of it, limped behind him. It was not a figure anymore, just a smear — faint, uneven, like someone had spilled ink on the cobblestones.

“You’re walking too fast,” the shadow complained in a voice only he could hear.

“You’re lucky I let you tag along,” Kairos muttered, dodging a hawker selling bottled lightning. “Most shadows don’t get visitation rights after they’re sold.”

The market district was loud tonight — coins clinked, spells cracked like whips, and somewhere, someone’s laughter turned into a scream before fading again into the crowd noise. This was Trade Night, when bargains weren’t measured in gold but in stranger things: the taste of your first kiss, the memory of your mother’s face, or, in Kairos’s case, his shadow.

It had been a necessary trade. Shadows were worth a fortune in the Right Hands. Unfortunately, those Right Hands belonged to Lady Surn, and she didn’t give refunds.

“Remind me why we’re here?” the shadow asked, stretching across a stall of burning feathers.

“Because,” Kairos said, lowering his voice, “someone’s selling a thread from the Loom.”

That got the shadow’s attention. “You’re insane. Touching a Loom Thread is a hanging offense.”

“I’m counting on that.”

They turned into an alley where the walls bled faint golden light — an enchantment meant to keep the rats out, though it never worked. The seller was already waiting. A tall man in a porcelain mask leaned against the wall, idly spinning something between his fingers.

The thread.

It wasn’t much to look at — just a single strand, thinner than hair, shimmering between silver and blood-red in the lamplight. But Kairos could feel it from here. It hummed in the bones.

“You have the payment?” the masked man asked.

Kairos grinned. “Better. I have a favor from someone who doesn’t owe favors.”

The masked man tilted his head. “Go on.”

But before Kairos could answer, the air changed. It was subtle — a drop in temperature, the faint taste of iron on the tongue — but he knew what it meant.

“Wardens,” the shadow whispered.

And then the world itself seemed to pause, as if the Threads were holding their breath.