The world didn't explode.
It rewove.
Kael and Elira were no longer standing on floor—therefore, they existed in a nothingness threaded through with glowing strings, some radiant with life and possibility, some disintegrating with decay. The Loom was no longer a location. It was an existence—state of mind, state of magic, state of memory.
Every step they took spun new strands beneath their feet.
Elira's eyes widened. "We're inside the pattern."
Kael reached out to touch a thread. It pulsed and split into three colors—gold for light, violet for void, crimson for blood. Each strand carried a memory, a consequence.
He saw his mother's final breath.
He saw Elira at age seven, alone in the Hall of Seers, reading forbidden prophecy.
He caught a glimpse of himself—a tyrant king, his crown made of wailing souls.
He pulled his hand back.
