The rain came sudden, drumming on rooftops and hissing against neon. Arielle huddled beneath the overhang of the Conduit Chamber's entrance, hugging her jacket tighter. The hum in her chest had been restless all night, like the weave itself was anxious.
Selene leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, silver needle glowing faintly in their hand. They didn't look at her, but Arielle could feel their attention, sharp as a blade.
"You're shaking," Selene said softly. "The predator's whispers again?"
Arielle's fingers dug into her sleeves. "He doesn't stop. It's like he's in my head, waiting for me to touch a thread. Every time I get close, I hear him — telling me I'm wasting it, that I could take it all for myself."
Selene finally looked at her, their expression unreadable. "And do you want to? Take it?"
Arielle hesitated. The truth clung to her throat like smoke. "Sometimes… yes. When I weave, when I feel what they feel, it's like I'm not alone anymore. It's addictive. And I hate that part of me likes it."
For a long moment, only the rain filled the silence. Then Selene stepped closer, so close she could see the faint scar along their jaw, a mark she'd never noticed before.
"The weave isn't just power," they murmured. "It's temptation. Every Threadweaver wrestles with it. Even me."
Arielle tilted her head, her pulse quickening. "Even you?"
Selene's lips quirked faintly. "Especially me."
Before Arielle could ask more, a sharp pulse ripped through the air. Every thread within sight shuddered violently, glowing too bright. A shrill, low hum filled her chest, so powerful it made her knees buckle.
Selene caught her before she hit the ground. "He's close," they hissed, their needle flaring with light. "And he's not whispering anymore.