The wind had teeth.
It bit through cloaks and armor, through spells and sigils, through the warmth of memory and the fire in Elara's chest. The farther north they traveled, the more the world seemed to unravel—threads of reality fraying at the edges.
They reached the valley Lysandra had spoken of: a basin of black stone and ancient ice, where the sky hung low and the stars blinked like dying embers.
At its center stood a monolith.
Not carved.
Not built.
*Grown.*
It pulsed with a rhythm older than time.
Elara approached, the others close behind.
"This is it," she whispered. "The Loom's Edge."
***
The monolith responded to her touch.
Threads of light—gold, silver, crimson, and blue—unspooled from its surface, weaving patterns in the air.
A voice echoed, not in sound, but in sensation.
**"Bearer of Flame and Thread, the Weave awaits."**
Elara turned to her companions.
"We need to enter."
Maeron frowned. "Enter *what*? There's no door."
Aelis stepped forward, eyes wide. "There is. But it's not a door of stone."
She reached out, fingers brushing the threads of light.
The world shifted.
***
They stood in a chamber of endless mirrors.
Each reflected a different version of themselves—some older, some younger, some twisted by choices never made.
Elara saw herself as a child, clutching her mother's hand.
As a warrior, bloodied and broken.
As a queen, crowned in flame.
As a shadow, consumed by darkness.
The mirrors spoke.
**"Every choice is a thread. Every thread, a path. Every path, a world."**
Tovan snarled. "I hate riddles."
Kael chuckled. "Then you're going to *love* this place."
Elara stepped forward.
"I choose to weave."
The mirrors shattered.
***
They found themselves in a hall of looms.
Each loom wove a tapestry of light and shadow, depicting moments from their lives.
Ryssa's tapestry showed her training under her father's stern gaze.
Maeron's depicted the forging of his first blade.
Aelis's shimmered with scenes of her wandering the wilds, listening to the wind.
Kael's was blank.
He stared at it, frowning.
"I don't understand."
Elara placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Perhaps your story is still being written."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
***
At the hall's end stood a final loom.
Its threads were tangled, knotted, frayed.
Elara approached, heart pounding.
This was the Loom of Fate.
The source of the Weave.
The heart of the world.
She reached out.
The threads responded, wrapping around her fingers.
Visions flooded her mind.
Wars fought and lost.
Loves found and broken.
Worlds born and destroyed.
She saw the Harrower's rise.
The Cradle's fall.
The Thread That Waits.
And beyond it all, a darkness.
A void.
A hunger.
The Unmaker.
She gasped, pulling back.
The threads resisted.
"Let go!" Kael shouted, grabbing her arm.
With a final tug, she broke free.
The loom stilled.
The visions faded.
Elara collapsed, trembling.
"We have to stop it," she whispered.
"The Unmaker is coming."
***
They left the Loom's Edge changed.
Each bore a mark—a thread of light woven into their skin.
A gift.
A curse.
A promise.
They traveled south, back toward Emberlin.
Back toward the world.
Back toward the fight.
The threads of fate tightened around them.
The Weave watched.
And waited.