The Heart Spire's inner sanctum was unlike any other place Lena had ever seen.
It was said to be the birthplace of the Loom's first whisper, the place where threads of time, emotion, and memory first wove themselves into what would become the fabric of the Isles. Even before she stepped inside, Lena could feel its pull—a subtle vibration along her spine, like being called by something ancient and alive.
Seris stood beside the tall obsidian door, her expression grave but composed.
"You must go alone," she said.
Lena hesitated. "Why?"
"Because the Loom only speaks when silence is sincere. No voices but your own. No footsteps but yours."
Aiden touched Lena's shoulder. "We'll be waiting."
She looked at him—his gaze steady, a quiet thread of worry beneath it—and nodded.
With a breath, she stepped through the door.
The chamber inside was vast and circular, its domed ceiling shimmering with constellations that shifted when she moved. The walls were etched with thread-forms—patterns of ancient weaves that pulsed faintly with light.
But it was the Loom itself that held her breath.
It floated above a stone dais at the center of the chamber: a spiraling, living construct of glowing threads, woven so tightly it looked like starlight captured in motion. Each strand shimmered with emotion—some light, some dark, others braided with colors she had no names for.
It pulsed like a heart.
She approached slowly.
The air grew heavy, not with heat or cold, but with awareness. The Loom was watching her. Not like a person watches—but like a world might.
She stopped just before the dais and dropped to her knees.
"I don't know what you want from me," she whispered. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."
The Loom pulsed once.
And then it opened.
The threads unraveled, slowly, revealing a hollow core that glowed with violet-gold light. From within, images began to rise—soft as smoke, sharp as glass.
Lena gasped.
She saw the Isles—whole and untouched—before the first spire was built, before magic had rules. Saw the First Weavers, robed in formless garments, their eyes silver with purpose, creating the framework of reality not by force, but by song.
They didn't shape the Loom.
They answered it.
"It was never meant to be controlled," a voice said—clear and close.
Lena spun around.
No one was there.
Then the threads shimmered again—and a form appeared.
A projection woven from the Loom's memory: a woman cloaked in starlight, her features soft but commanding. Her eyes… were Lena's.
Or rather, Lena's grandmother's.
"Lyra," she whispered.
The projection smiled faintly. "This is not me. But it is the part of me I left behind."
Lena's eyes burned. "Why?"
"Because the truth must be carried by blood. And because Kael has forgotten."
The image began to move, circling the dais as more projections flickered into view: Kael and Lyra standing at the edge of the rift. A ritual gone wrong. Threads unraveling.
"He wasn't always lost," the projection said. "But the shadow made him believe he was alone in his vision. And when no one listened… he forced the Loom to listen."
Lena watched the image of Kael reach for a strand of pure darkness—his hands bleeding as he wove it into the Loom.
"What did he do?" she asked.
The projection turned to her. "He created an echo. A false tether—one tied not by balance, but by will."
Lena frowned. "A false tether?"
"Yes. The Loom responded to Kael's magic, but not to his intent. It splintered under the weight of contradiction. The Isles began to drift. The threads began to fray."
"But the prophecy—"
The projection nodded. "Was never about stopping Kael. It was about restoring the Loom's trust."
Lena stepped forward. "Then what am I?"
"You are the Loom's answer."
Lena's pendant pulsed hot against her chest.
"You were born of two realms—salt and sky. Earth and starlight. The tether is not a tool. It is a choice. One made between souls."
The image faded.
The Loom shifted again.
This time, it showed her—standing beside Aiden, weaving a bridge not from light or shadow, but from both. Around them, the Isles glowed brighter, steadier. The rift pulsed once and then… began to close.
Lena dropped to her knees again, overwhelmed. "How do I do it?"
The Loom pulsed gently.
Trust.
The word wasn't spoken—but it was felt.
Not power. Not force.
Trust.
The projection of Lyra reappeared once more, softer now.
"You are not here to defeat Kael. You are here to remind him. And to heal what he forgot."
Lena rose slowly. The Loom wove its threads back into form, its heart steady once more.
She bowed her head.
"Thank you," she whispered.
And then the chamber was still.
She exited into the hall, where Seris and Aiden waited. Her eyes shone with something new—not just knowledge, but conviction.
Seris studied her for a moment. "You saw it, didn't you?"
Lena nodded. "It's not about destroying him. It never was."
Aiden stepped closer. "What do we do?"
Lena turned toward the window. The sky beyond the spire shimmered with tension. The Loom was fraying faster now. There was no more time for hesitation.
"We go to the Isle of Echoes," she said. "We find the original weave. The one before Kael changed it. It's the only way to restore the balance."
Seris hesitated. "Few have ever ventured there."
"Then we'll be the first to return."
She turned to Aiden, her hand slipping into his. Their fingers entwined without needing to be asked.
"And we'll go together."
Later that night, Lena sat alone in her chamber, the pendant resting on the table before her. It glowed with a slow, rhythmic pulse now. Less frantic. Calmer.
She pulled out her grandmother's journal—the one that had first brought her to the bridge of stars. Pages inked with half-finished thoughts, sketches of thread patterns, and poetic fragments.
She flipped to the back and found something she'd missed before.
A single sentence, underlined in fading ink:
"The Loom remembers those who remember love."
She closed the journal and looked out the window. The stars above shifted, their constellations no longer distant.
They were watching.
And somewhere across the sky, Kael stirred in shadow.
Waiting.
But this time, Lena wasn't afraid.
Because now, she understood:
The strongest thread wasn't light or shadow.
It was truth.
And she carried it in her hands.