They had to hop from square to square as the ground slid beneath them, avoiding mismatched patches that sparked with static. At one point, a square flipped entirely, revealing a dark underside crawling with loose threads that tried to grab her shoes.
By the time they reached the far edge, the Plains had rearranged into a completely different landscape behind them — as if trying to trap them inside forever.
To cross the Thread River, they had to use the Bobbin Bridge — a long, swaying structure made of stacked bobbins tied together with fraying twine.
Halfway across, the twine snapped.
The bridge lurched violently, bobbins clattering like panicked teeth. Puddles flapped his stubby wings uselessly.
“Don’t look down!” he squeaked.
She looked down.
The Thread River churned below, a swirling current of tangled Fibers that could pull anything under and knot it beyond recognition.
Thinking fast, she used her crochet hook to loop and tighten the broken twine, stitching a temporary repair while the bridge swayed dangerously. The moment she tied the final knot, the bridge steadied — but the river hissed, as if disappointed.
Just as the city’s distant spires came into view, a group of rag cloaked figures leapt from behind a pile of fabric scraps. Each one carried a gleaming seam ripper like a dagger.
“Hand over your thread,” their leader snarled, pointing at her glowing crochet hook. “Or we’ll unpick you down to your stuffing.”
Puddles stepped in front of her; magnifying glass raised like a shield. “Back off! She’s under my protection!”
The bandits laughed — until her crochet hook flared with warm light. The glow reflected in their metal blades, causing them to recoil.
“It’s a Maker’s Tool,” one whispered. “We can’t touch that.”
They fled into the scrap piles, leaving behind only the echo of their threat.
Puddles eyed her hook. “That tool of yours is attracting attention. The wrong kind.”
Just outside the city gates, the sky darkened. Felt clouds twisted into spirals, shedding stuffing like hail. A Fray storm was forming — a violent whirlwind of loose threads, broken needles, and fabric scraps.
Puddles grabbed her hand. “Run!”
They sprinted toward the city as the storm roared behind them. Threads lashed like whips, snagging her backpack. A needle struck the ground inches from her foot.
She swung her crochet hook, and the storm’s threads bent away from her, parting just long enough for them to slip through the city gates before they slammed shut.
Inside, the city was eerily quiet.