The spire loomed larger with every step.
Not because they were getting closer—though they were—but because it was waking up.
With each footfall along the thread-path, the structure shimmered. Lines unspooled from its base like hair unbraiding. Towers rose and lowered with the rhythm of breath. Its windows blinked open, revealing not glass, but moments—flickering scenes playing like memories on loop.
The healer touched the threads beneath them. "It's alive," she said again.
"No," the ink-fingered girl corrected. "It's remembering."
They reached the threshold of the tower's base as the sky dimmed—though no sun hung overhead. The atmosphere itself had shifted. The trees around the spire bent backward slightly, as if in reverence or fear.
"It's bigger on the inside, isn't it?" the boy said, staring up into the impossible height of the structure.
"Always is," muttered the rogue.
The stranger said nothing.
Instead, they stepped forward and placed one hand against the wall of the spire. Threadlines rippled outward. For a heartbeat, a series of runes flared to life, then faded.
"It's waiting for us," the stranger said. "But only if we go in together."
They didn't hesitate this time.
Together, they crossed the threshold.
The tower did not greet them with stairs, nor with halls or rooms.
It greeted them with a circle.
Five seats, woven from the same thread that had led them here, stood in the center of a chamber vast enough to hold a city. Above them, spirals of memory drifted like constellations.
And in the center of the five seats: a loom.
Not The Loom.
Smaller.
Personal.
Broken.
The ink-fingered girl approached it slowly. Its threads were frayed, tangled. Some had burned away entirely, leaving blackened stubs where story should have bloomed.
She reached out to touch it—but stopped when the loom shivered.
A voice spoke.
Not aloud.
Not in the air.
In their bones.
"Who speaks for the Circle?"
The rogue raised an eyebrow. "We all do."
"Who chooses?"
"No crowns," said the boy.
"Who listens?"
The healer stepped forward. "All of us."
A pause.
A hum.
The loom sighed.
"Then remember."
The chamber shifted.
The seats dissolved.
The floor faded.
And the five were not alone.
Around them stood others.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Circles past.
Some proud.
Some broken.
Some wearing crowns they'd never asked for.
Some bearing wounds that would never fully heal.
The ink-fingered girl clutched her page, which now pulsed with three words: Trust. Listen. Remember.
The images solidified into a scene.
One Circle—ten generations past—stood arguing before the loom.
One demanded fire.
One demanded silence.
One demanded exile.
One simply wept.
A decision was made.
And it shattered them.
Another Circle—this one smaller, fewer than five—stood before a mirror made of light. They chose to rewrite a section of the Pattern to protect a single child. That rewrite twisted. The child grew. And frayed the world around them without ever meaning to.
Another Circle—
"No more," the healer whispered.
But the tower continued.
Each echo of a Circle, each choice, each regret. One after another.
All here.
All preserved.
The ink-fingered girl staggered back.
"They kept it all."
"Of course they did," the stranger said softly. "The Loom remembers."
"But why?" the boy asked. "Why show us?"
"Because we're the next thread," said the rogue.
And then—
One last memory.
But different.
Because this one wasn't finished.
A Circle stood at the loom. Five again.
But only four were clear.
The fifth was… blurred.
As if undecided.
Unwritten.
"We're in this one," the boy whispered.
"No," said the stranger. "Not yet. But we could be."
The loom sparked.
And spoke again.
"You have seen what came before. What do you choose to carry?"
The ink-fingered girl stepped forward first.
She placed her page—no longer blank—on the loom.
"I carry memory. But I will not let it define us."
The healer added a thread of her own, drawn from the ribbon tied at her wrist.
"I carry care. But I won't let it become control."
The rogue drew her blade and nicked her thumb. A single drop of blood fell onto the loom.
"I carry defense. But I won't use it to isolate."
The boy smiled sadly and dropped a small coin, which shimmered and vanished.
"I carry chance. But I won't pretend it replaces choice."
The stranger stood last.
They reached into their coat and withdrew nothing.
Just emptiness.
And placed it on the loom.
"I carry silence. Because sometimes it says more than words."
The loom absorbed all five offerings.
And sang.
Not loudly.
But deeply.
Like an instrument strung across centuries, vibrating with the weight of every story ever told.
The tower responded.
Its walls flared with light.
The constellations above realigned.
And the broken loom before them rewove itself—not whole, not perfect, but ready.
"Then lead."
The five seats reformed.
The ink-fingered girl hesitated.
Then sat.
One by one, the others followed.
And as the fifth took their seat—
The center of the loom opened.
Not to a new world.
But to choice.
A path did not emerge.
A question did.
Not written.
Not spoken.
Just felt.
And they all understood it at once:
What kind of Circle will you be?