Serythae, First of Flame, extended her arms over the battlefield.
From her fingertips unraveled a second Loom—not woven from thread, but from possibility. Silver strands spiraled in the air, glowing with the echoes of choices not made: lives not lived, kisses not stolen, blades not drawn.
The battlefield shuddered beneath it.
"This," she said, "is the ash-world. The one that could have been.
The griefs undone. The victories stolen from sorrow."
It hovered there, pulsing like a heartbeat. It was beautiful.
And utterly false.
Eren looked up at it.
He saw himself—young again, walking with his sister, laughing beneath trees that never burned. He saw Kaelen at peace, no blood on his hands. He saw Serana, alive. He saw a world without Severers.
And his knees buckled.
"How can I hold this?" he whispered. "It's too much."
Serythae's voice was soft, for once.
"Because you must."
Lira stood beside him, trembling.
Within the ash-world, she saw her mother.
Not as she'd died—in flame and thread—but sitting on a porch, telling her stories.
She saw herself with Kaelen, a child asleep between them. A world after war.
"It's not fair," she whispered. "To see it. To want it."
"That is the test," Serythae replied.
"To carry what you can never have—and ensure no one else tries to take it again."
The Flame turned to the others.
"This is your last chance. If either of them steps back, the Loom will continue to burn.
And this false world will bleed into yours."
Kaelen stepped forward.
His voice was hoarse.
"Will they survive it?"
"Their names will," Serythae said. "Their hearts will fray."
Ashrel clenched his fists.
"They shouldn't have to do this alone."
Serythae's eyes burned brighter.
"Then step forward. Add your thread.
But beware—each strand makes the burden wider.
If too many hold it, it becomes real again."
Davin looked to Lira. Her eyes were locked on his.
Not pleading. Not afraid.
Certain.
"I'll remember you," he said. "The real you."
She smiled, faint and proud.
"That's all I need."
And then it began.
Serythae pressed her hands together, and the ash-world spiraled inward.
It twisted, turned, folded in on itself—and the three of them, Lira, Eren, and the memory of what never was, collapsed into a point of blinding gold.
A name was spoken—but in a language no one remembered.
And just like that—
they were gone.
For a moment, the field was silent.
Then the air shifted.
Not with heat. With clarity.
The Severers who remained fell to their knees—not out of pain, but as if they had finally awakened from a dream centuries long.
Kaelen stared at where Lira had vanished.
There were no ashes.
No smoke.
Only a single ember, floating in the air.
He caught it in his palm.
It pulsed once, warm.
And then, it spoke:
"Live well, Kaelen. This story is yours now."