In this vast multi-universe, fate is a thread—literal and unseen to all but the two it binds. When a person turns eighteen, the String of Fate materialises, looped securely around their finger. No one knows how or why it began, only that it exists. The thread connects soulmates and reveals the nature of the bond through its hue: crimson for romantic love, amber for platonic affection, and azure for familial ties. Its tautness speaks of distance, its glow of connection. Some chase the thread’s end with fervour. Others wait, letting destiny draw near in its own time.

In the bleak heart of the Realm of Negativity, beneath towering arches and flickering chandeliers of soul-light, Nightmare sat slouched on his thorned obsidian throne. Shadows curled thick around his skeletal frame, black goop slinking down his limbs and pooling at his feet like sentient tar. Four grotesque tendrils shifted lazily from his back. One hollow eye socket glowered beneath his jagged crown—his other, masked in writhing darkness. Then it appeared.

A faint shimmer pulsed at his finger. A thread, pale as moonlight, gleamed against his bony hand. It glowed softly in the ambient gloom, humming with strange promise. Nightmare stilled. His lone eye widened—not in fear, but astonishment.

'Impossible,' he thought. 'This was never meant for me...'

Yet there it was. Real... Binding.

A crooked smirk unfurled across his skeletal face. He leaned back into the dark velvet of his throne, the eerie glow reflecting off the sharp ridges of his jaw. The next day, the string remained.

Unyielding... Calling...

He rose from the shadows of his keep, his tendrils stirring with purpose. With grim curiosity thrumming in his bones, Nightmare followed the thread toward the one fate had chosen for him.