"Some threads fray. Some snap.
This one… might tear the whole weave."
The loom sang softly in the dark.
Three figures circled it—hooded silhouettes wrapped in robes older than stars, hands weathered by the weight of eternity. No names. No time. Only the endless rhythm of the threads.
And today, one thread had begun to burn.
"He's early," one of them murmured, tilting her head toward the strand pulsing with violent potential.
"He's loud," said another, watching sparks flick off the weave like lightning off steel. "Already trying to pull the pattern apart."
The third snorted. "He's handsome."
The others paused.
"…Really?"
"What? We watch everything and everyone. Let me enjoy something once every thousand years."
They leaned in. Images flickered through the thread—glimpses of bloodied snow, the echo of a boy's laughter buried under screams, a jagged mountain rising into the clouds. And at its base, a boy with auburn hair and fury in his bones, clutching a pair of daggers too old for his hands.
A child carved by war. Crowned by pain. Watched by gods who had stopped listening.
"He was born in Blóðfjöll," one whispered. "Odin's breath still lingers in that land."
"The old Æther still runs through their blood. Not like the others," said another. "Not like the ones who mold the world with circles and call it progress."
"Mmm," the third hummed. "Magic in muscle or magic in mind. Either way, he's going to bleed."
They stepped back as the loom pulsed again, the thread vibrating with too many futures at once. Forks. Ruin. Glory.
"He climbs the mountain soon," one said.
"And at its peak…" the other trailed off.
A silence passed.
"…That thing should not exist in Midgard."
"No," the third agreed. "But neither should he."
They peered deeper.
A monster of frost. A bear with fangs like spears. Then something worse. A figure not born of this world, standing with a hammer carved from winter and bones. Eyes glowing like stars dying slow.
And the boy—still alive. Barely.
"Will he survive?" one asked.
A pause.
"He'll try," said another. "He always tries."
The thread burned brighter.
Images rushed past—flames and frost, lovers and liars, cities falling, names forgotten, gods dying. A woman with fire behind her eyes, reaching out as the world cracked beneath them. A kiss. A crown. A war across realms.
"The girl," one whispered.
"She's not ready yet."
"She will be," another said.
More silence.
Then a flick of the wrist. The loom began to spin again.
"The threads tighten," one said softly. "Across this world and others. The weave is thinning. The war comes."
"And what of him?" the third asked. "Does he save it?"
"…We don't decide that."
The thread snapped forward.
Burning. Screaming. Alive.
And the Sisters let it go.
Let the boy climb.
Let the world tremble.
Let the thunder come.