The streets of Nior blurred past as Kiro and Ara darted into the maze of back alleys. Rain had started to fall—cold, thin needles that turned the cobblestones slick. Every step splashed, every corner threatened to betray them with an echo.
Ara didn't slow, but her voice was tight. "They won't give up. Not after what you did in there."
Kiro's senses buzzed with threads—not the usual jumble of thoughts and emotions, but something more focused, more invasive.
"They're tracking us," he said. "Not physically. Through the threads."
Ara skidded around a corner into a narrow lane between two leaning buildings. "Then we need to cut the threads."
Kiro shook his head. "Not possible. They're too… anchored. Like hooks buried deep in my mind."
"Then we outrun them."
They pushed forward, ducking under laundry lines and weaving through shadowed corridors. But the pressure didn't fade—it grew.
A sudden hiss split the air. A thread—not gold, not silver, but black and oily—shot down from the rooftop, wrapping around Kiro's wrist.
He jerked back instinctively, but the moment the thread touched him, the world wavered. For a blink, he was standing ankle-deep in black water, the city gone, the sky an endless void.
From the darkness, dozens of faint shapes moved—humanoid, but hollow, their forms made entirely of those black threads.
"Kiro!" Ara's shout ripped him back to reality.
The black thread snapped away as her dagger slashed through it—though it shouldn't have been possible to cut.
"They've got hunters," Ara said grimly. "Shadow weavers. I've seen them before. They don't stop until you're dragged back."
"Great," Kiro muttered, pulling her forward again.
The hunters moved fast. He could feel them dropping into the alleys behind, their steps silent, their threads snaking along the walls like living things.
A splash echoed too close. Kiro risked a glance back—one of the hunters had already stepped into view, its face a smooth blank mask of shadow.
Ara grabbed his shoulder and shoved him through a doorway into a crumbling building. "Upstairs."
They tore up the rotting steps two at a time. Rain hammered against broken windows as they reached the second floor, ducking behind a collapsed beam.
Kiro's heart pounded. "We're boxed in."
Ara scanned the ceiling, then pointed. "Not yet."
A jagged hole led to the roof. She cupped her hands, boosting him up before pulling herself after.
The rooftop was a slick, uneven slope. Beyond, the city stretched toward the harbor, the dim outline of ships bobbing in the dark water.
"They won't follow us onto the open docks," Ara said. "Too exposed."
But Kiro's senses told a different story—the hunters were already scaling the walls, their threads anchoring them like spiders.
One crawled over the edge of the roof not twenty feet away.
Kiro didn't think—he grabbed the nearest golden thread he could feel and lashed it like a whip. The force caught the hunter square in the chest, sending it tumbling back into the alley.
Two more replaced it instantly.
Ara drew both daggers. "Go! I'll—"
"You're not staying behind." Kiro grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the next rooftop, leaping the gap.
They ran. From roof to roof, their breaths harsh in the rain, the hunters always a step behind.
Kiro's mind burned as he reached again and again for the threads—tripping a hunter here, snapping an anchor there—but every move drained him.
By the time the docks came into view, he was lightheaded, his vision fraying at the edges.
Then the hooded figure appeared ahead, standing on the last rooftop before the harbor.
Ara skidded to a stop. "You've got to be kidding me."
The figure's voice was calm, almost amused. "You run well. Let's see how you fight when the exits are gone."