The Hall of Threads was quiet for the first time in days. The echoes of battle still lingered in its stone, faint memories carved into the walls, but the fighting had stopped—for now.
Elara sat at the edge of the reflecting pool, her legs drawn up, staring into the water's rippling surface. The first rays of dawn poured through the high windows, gilding her golden hair and catching on the thin threads of magic that hovered in the air, like smoke from a dying fire.
Behind her, footsteps broke the silence.
Caelum approached slowly. "You should rest."
Elara didn't turn. "I can't. Not yet."
He settled beside her. "Terenna's funeral pyre is ready. We'll light it at sunset."
Her fingers tightened against her knee. "She believed in us. In this path. And she died for it."
"She died protecting what she loved," Caelum said gently. "That's not a failure, Elara."
Elara's voice dropped. "But I might be."
Caelum turned toward her. "Don't. Not now."
She finally looked at him. "Vireon nearly destroyed us. Iros would've burned the Hall to ash. And Serai… she was meant to be dead. I didn't know she was alive. I left her."
"You didn't leave her," Caelum said. "They took her. Twisted her."
"But she still listened to me," Elara whispered. "For a moment, she remembered. That means there's something left of who she was."
Caelum nodded slowly. "Then that's where we begin."
—
By midday, the Hall was stirring again. Repairs had begun. Divine wards were being reforged, and the walls cleansed of the lingering poison of Vireon's unraveling magic.
Elara moved through the corridors with a purpose that felt borrowed—something she wore like armor. Every nod from the others, every glance filled with gratitude or fear, added weight to her shoulders.
She found Idran alone in the garden of crystal thorns, kneeling before a twisted shard of light, once a living tree.
He didn't rise when she approached.
"I expected you sooner," he said quietly.
"I needed time," Elara replied.
He stood and turned, his eyes haunted. "To decide if I should live?"
Her face hardened. "To decide if I could forgive you."
Idran nodded, shame rippling through him. "I didn't mean for Terenna to die. I didn't think they would strike so ruthlessly."
"You trusted them," she said. "Even after everything."
"I wanted to believe there was still reason in them. That they weren't beyond reaching."
"And now?" she asked.
He met her eyes. "Now I know better."
There was a long pause before Elara said, "I'm not excusing what you did. But we need every ally we have."
Idran's shoulders sagged with relief. "Then let me earn back your trust."
"You'll have to." She turned to leave but added, "Start by helping rebuild the Loom chamber. We begin work tonight."
—
As dusk fell, the gods gathered around the flame.
Terenna's body lay on a raised platform, wrapped in silver thread and star-cloth, her staff crossed over her chest. The fire, once kindled, danced with colors unseen in the mortal world—shades of memory and dream, crackling softly as if whispering her name.
Elara stood silent beside the pyre. When the flames reached her face, tears slipped quietly down her cheeks.
"She wove hope into everything she touched," Nessa whispered, lighting a sprig of glimmerleaf. "Even her silence was a blessing."
"She was the voice of reason among us," Aurelien added, his flames dimmed in mourning. "And the only one I ever feared disappointing."
"She knew the risks," Caelum said. "And chose to fight anyway."
When it was Elara's turn, she stepped forward and held out a length of golden thread.
"I am still here because of you," she whispered. "You taught me that the tapestry doesn't just bind us—it reflects us. And through you, I saw what it meant to believe in something greater."
She released the thread, and the flames took it.
A single burst of gold rose into the sky, and the Hall fell into solemn silence.
—
Later that night, Elara found herself in the sanctuary of the Loom once more. The chamber had been mostly repaired—cracked walls sealed, ancient glyphs re-inscribed with divine ink. But the First Loom itself had changed.
It pulsed softly, alive in a way it hadn't been before.
Serai stood before it.
She didn't turn as Elara entered. "It sings louder now. Do you feel it?"
Elara stopped a few paces away. "I do."
"I remember… dreams. Songs we used to make up. Our mother's lullaby."
Elara's heart twisted. "I never forgot it."
"I thought I did," Serai said softly. "But when you touched me, it came back. For a moment, I was… me."
"I don't know what they did to you," Elara said gently. "But I will undo it."
Serai's voice trembled. "I want to believe you."
"Then let me help."
She turned finally, her expression conflicted. "If I let you in—into my thread—it could kill us both."
"Or it could heal us," Elara said.
They stood in silence, the Loom between them, glowing brighter.
Finally, Serai nodded.
And Elara stepped forward.
Their hands touched. Magic surged between them—hot and cold, sharp and soft, a collision of broken timelines and buried memories.
Elara gasped as Serai's thread opened to her.
Pain. Darkness. Years of isolation, twisted whispers, remaking over and over until identity blurred. But beneath it—Elara saw something else.
A spark. A light buried deep.
Love.
"I never stopped loving you," Elara whispered.
Serai's eyes brimmed. "Help me come back."
With a trembling breath, Elara pulled the threads closer, weaving carefully, gently reinforcing the fractured parts of her sister's soul.
The Loom responded—vibrating, glowing, reshaping.
A thread mended.
A bond reforged.
When it ended, they collapsed together, breathless and crying.
"You're still you," Elara whispered.
Serai clutched her tightly. "So are you."
—
By morning, Serai stood before the others.
Some flinched. Others raised defenses.
But Elara stepped beside her.
"She's not our enemy anymore," Elara said. "She was a prisoner of the tapestry's oldest lies. But she's free now."
Aurelien looked unconvinced. "How do we know this isn't another illusion?"
"Because she let me inside her thread," Elara said. "And because the Loom accepted her again."
Nessa stepped forward. "Then we must accept her too. If we are to build the new weave, it must begin with forgiveness."
Reluctantly, one by one, they nodded.
Caelum was last. He stepped forward and offered Serai his hand.
"You tried to kill us," he said.
Serai grimaced. "I know."
"But you saved Elara. That's enough for me."
She took his hand.
—
The following days were filled with labor.
Together, they began to craft a new loom—a Second Weave, designed not to bind fate, but to allow freedom. Each god contributed a piece of their domain: Nessa brought memory, Aurelien fire, Serai the remnant of illusion now forged into truth.
Elara wove unity.
They stood at the center as the final thread was placed.
"What now?" Aurelien asked.
Elara looked at the new loom, its shape fluid and alive. "Now we offer it to the world."
"And if the other gods refuse to see its worth?" Serai asked.
Elara's eyes sparked with purpose. "Then we show them."
—
But peace would not last.
That night, as stars bloomed across the sky, a rift opened just beyond the Hall.
Caelum was first to sense it—his magic pulling like a tide.
Elara joined him at the western wall. "What is it?"
He frowned. "A breach. Something is… unspooling the tapestry."
They ran.
Outside, the world seemed to twist. The stars spun in circles, and threads unraveled like smoke. Standing at the heart of the breach was a figure none of them expected.
Lysara.
But she was not alone.
Behind her stood another—cloaked, face hidden, power radiating like a supernova.
"Elara," Lysara said, her voice unnaturally calm. "We warned you. The weave resists your changes."
"Then the weave is afraid," Elara replied.
"The One-Who-Binds has awoken," Lysara said.
Caelum paled. "That's a myth."
"No," Lysara said. "He is the architect of the first thread. And he has come to reclaim it."
The cloaked figure raised a hand.
The ground cracked.
The Hall shuddered.
And Elara understood, with a sick twist in her stomach—
This was only the beginning.
—
End of Chapter 9