They chose the westernmost door.
Not because it was the brightest, or quietest, or most welcoming.
But because it shimmered oddly—uncertain of its own shape—like a story still being told.
"I like it," said the girl with ink-stained fingers, running her hand across the arch of the door. "It's… twitchy."
The stranger laughed. "A twitchy door. Sounds like the right one to me."
One by one, they passed through.
And found themselves in the middle of a river.
Not beside it.
Not above it.
In it.
The water was shallow—up to their knees—but swift and ice-cold. Rocks beneath their feet made every step a choice. The current tugged with the urgency of a story late to its own plot.
The boy with no name grinned. "Well. That's one way to arrive."
The healer shivered and stumbled. "Is this normal?"
"Nope," said the rogue, catching her arm. "But I think that's the point."
On the far bank stood a ruined stone bridge, mostly collapsed. On the other side: a forest that bent toward them like it had been waiting years to whisper something.
"We have a path," said the ink-fingered girl. "Sort of."
They reached the bank together. Wet, unbalanced, a little breathless.
And then, for the first time since the Loom had chosen them, they hesitated.
There was no one left to guide them now.
No Mary with her calm wisdom.
No Callan with his quiet strength.
No Loosie to bark at them to get moving.
No Lela with her careful riddles.
No Friend to remind them the story would carry even when they doubted.
Just them.
The girl looked down at the page Mary had given her. Still blank.
But not empty.
"Do we… do we lead together?" the healer asked, drying her hands on her tunic.
The boy with no name kicked at a stone. "Someone's gotta go first."
"Why?" asked the stranger. "Maybe we just go together. A circle doesn't have a front."
"Maybe not," said the rogue, "but in a storm, someone still holds the torch."
The argument didn't grow sharp. It didn't become bitter. But it sat between them like a thread stretched too tight, humming with tension.
They all felt it.
The story needed a shape.
And no one had chosen one yet.
So the forest did it for them.
A wind swept from the treeline, bringing with it voices. Not loud. Not real. But familiar.
A child crying. A scream cut short. The echo of a blade. The chime of bells.
The boy's expression changed first. His eyes went distant.
The rogue's hand moved toward her blade.
The healer clutched her chest, gasping.
"Wait—" the ink-fingered girl started, stepping between them.
But too late.
The forest shifted.
Branches twisted downward like claws.
A figure stepped forward.
It was cloaked in red and shadow.
Its face was a mask—no eyes, no mouth, only threadlines woven into a spiral.
The stranger blinked. "That… that's not a story. That's a scar."
The figure spoke without a voice.
But they all heard it.
"You are the next Circle. Prove you are more than the last."
The rogue raised her chin. "And if we don't?"
The figure's form flickered. Behind it, a dozen doors appeared—echoes of their Loom, but warped. Twisted.
"Then I will offer the Loom's power to those who ask with less patience."
The boy's brow furrowed. "You're not part of the Loom."
"I am what was left behind."
Mary had said the Loom remembered.
This… thing… was proof it remembered everything.
Even what should have been forgotten.
The healer's voice shook. "Is this… the Unwritten?"
"No," the stranger whispered. "It's what the Unwritten warned us about."
The girl looked again at the page in her hand.
Still blank.
But no longer light.
It waited.
For ink.
For choice.
The figure advanced.
"Lead, or fall. The pattern does not wait."
The rogue's grip tightened on her blade. The boy clenched his fists. The healer was pale.
It was the girl who stepped forward.
"I will lead," she said.
Her voice didn't boom.
But the forest paused.
"I don't know the right path," she continued. "I don't even know where we are. But I know what a blank page means."
She raised it high.
"It means this story is ours. Not yours."
She pressed her palm to the page.
Ink bloomed from her fingertips.
Not letters.
Not images.
But a shape.
A spiral within a circle.
The figure hissed.
The trees breathed.
And the others stepped forward behind her.
"We lead as a circle," said the healer.
"No front," said the stranger. "No crown."
"But when the story needs it," added the boy, "we step forward. One at a time."
"And together," said the rogue, "we stand behind them."
The circle formed.
Not in words.
But in action.
The masked figure paused, threadlines unraveling slightly.
"So be it. But remember—every pattern is also a knot."
Then it vanished.
And the doors it had summoned crumbled into dust.
The forest lightened.
The tension faded.
And the five stood in silence.
Not victorious.
But beginning.
The ink-fingered girl looked at the page again.
This time, a single word had appeared.
Trust.
She passed it around the circle.
Each of them pressed a thumb to the ink.
The word deepened.
Then shimmered.
And then the forest opened a path.
Wide.
Winding.
Waiting.
The stranger looked to the others. "What do we call ourselves?"
The boy grinned. "We're not ready to name anything yet."
But the rogue shrugged. "We're the Circle. That's enough."
And it was.
They walked.
Together.
The story had begun.
Again.