The Thread of Origin.
A book so ancient, even the stars feared its name. A relic not written, but woven—stitched from the first breath of the First Flame and the final whisper of the first death. It was said to contain the blueprints of existence, the codes of gods, and the threads that tied all of creation to its intended destiny.
Kael stood before it now, heart pounding not from fear, but from the weight of what it meant.
"You shouldn't touch it," the Librarian warned, hovering silently behind him. "Even gods were forbidden from reading it. The last who tried ceased to exist—not died, not forgotten—just… unhappened."
"I don't plan to read it," Kael said, his voice calm. "I plan to use it."
Lyra and Valen exchanged worried glances.
"Use it how?" Lyra asked slowly.
"To rewrite Tyrnex," Kael replied. "To remove his purpose from the threads of reality. If I can't destroy him, then I will make him… irrelevant."
The Librarian drifted closer, his six eyes narrowing.
"You are not the first to attempt such defiance. But you are the first who was born mortal. That may be your weakness... or your greatest strength."
Kael stepped forward.
The book floated just above a pedestal of cracked stardust. Threads of every color tangled and frayed around it, screaming silently in languages no living soul could hear. As Kael neared it, the Core within him throbbed—not in rejection, but in deep warning.
This was forbidden even to gods.
Kael raised a hand—and grasped the Thread of Origin.
The world stopped.
He saw every possibility splinter around him—alternate realities, failed worlds, forgotten timelines. In one, Tyrnex had already consumed creation. In another, Kael never returned to life. In another still, Kael was Tyrnex.
But in the center of it all was the thread he needed—a fragile, golden strand tied to a symbol older than names.
It wasn't just Tyrnex's thread.
It was the one accident the First Flame had never corrected.
Kael reached toward it, and suddenly—
He wasn't alone.
A hand—black as void, long-fingered, made of fractured memory—clasped his wrist.
"You dare," came a voice from nowhere and everywhere, ancient and vast.
Tyrnex.
Kael looked the entity in the eyes—not physically, but at a level deeper than space—and said:
"I do."
And then he cut the thread.
A scream tore through existence. Not from Tyrnex—but from reality itself.
The Library of Threads buckled. The books howled. The Celestial Core screamed within Kael's soul.
Valen grabbed him. "Kael! What have you done?!"
Kael gasped, glowing symbols racing across his skin like wildfire.
"I changed his thread. He no longer erodes reality… he anchors it."
"What?" Lyra whispered.
Kael looked at her, eyes no longer just gold—but braided with the ink of creation itself.
"I made him a pillar instead of a plague. He was purpose without direction. Now he's direction without destruction."
But the cost was immediate.
Tyrnex's prison shattered—not from rage, but from transformation.
Somewhere deep in the Hollow Deep, the once-monstrous eyes of the Hollow King blinked.
Confused.
Contained.
Changed.
The prophecy had not been broken.
It had been rewritten.
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