The Loom of Realms had never truly been still, not even when the Codex had slept.
Now, it thrummed with life. Threads of every hue and origin wove themselves across the vaulted chamber, not by command, but by communion—responding to the Weavers' touch, and sometimes to their silence.
Els stood on the upper gantry, watching the threads pulse and shift across the ancient wooden frame. The Loom wasn't just a machine, and it wasn't simply a metaphor. It was a bridge between what was imagined and what could become. And it was finally, fully awake.
Below her, the rest of the circle worked in measured coordination—Mary weaving through memory-strands, Lela humming softly to shape emotional tone, Karo managing temporal stabilization near the outer rims. The Friend stood alone at the center, hands lightly raised, fingers brushing invisible filaments.
They were not creating new realms—not yet. They were listening.
Because what had become clear, after the confrontation with the splinter of the Unwritten, was that the Codex was not a weapon nor a crown. It was a mirror.
And now it was reflecting something… unexpected.
A thread near the far left corner twitched.
Els was already on the move before the alarm sounded—a chime that wasn't exactly sound but more like a memory remembered too soon. She dropped from the gantry, boots striking the stone with a soft tap as she approached the flickering strand.
Karo met her there, already scanning. "It's not interference this time. It's a signal."
Els squinted, pulling the thread taut between her palms. The flicker wasn't chaotic—it was rhythmic. A code.
"Someone's weaving," she murmured.
"From outside the known pattern," Karo said. "From beyond the mapped realms."
Els' pulse quickened. "From a realm we didn't shape?"
Mary arrived behind them. "Or one that shaped itself."
They watched the thread pulse again, then unwind slightly, offering an opening—like an outstretched hand.
"We can't ignore it," said Lela, joining the circle. "The Codex heard it. The Loom responded. It's asking us to listen."
The Friend looked up from his station. "Then we send someone to meet them."
Els took a breath.
"I'll go."
The others said nothing, but their agreement was woven in the looks they shared.
There was a process for this. A path within the Codex called the Threadwalk, used only when a new pattern called for direct contact. It was dangerous—not because of physical threat, but because of identity dissolution. If a Weaver wasn't centered, they could lose themselves inside a realm unshaped by their rules.
Inside the sanctum, the Weavers stood in a circle around Els. Each offered a binding: Lela placed a thread of music over her heart; Mary gave her a crystal of memory, to tether her to their shared past. Karo traced a symbol on her palm in ink that glowed only when afraid.
And the Friend gave her silence.
Not absence—but listening.
Els nodded. "I'm ready."
The Codex opened not like a book this time, but like a breath. A single inhale of possibility, and the world around her blurred.
Colors surged, then broke into symbols. The ground beneath her feet softened, becoming not a floor but meaning. And then—
She was elsewhere.
The sky was too close. Not hostile—just unfamiliar. Pale silver clouds hovered a few feet above her, slowly rotating as if suspended by thought. The land beneath was a mosaic of paths, crisscrossing in fractal geometry, constantly rearranging themselves.
She walked forward.
Every step on the path shifted the pattern.
Then, she saw the first figure.
It looked… like a Weaver. But its threads trailed backward—not into memory, but into something deeper. Possibility? Doubt?
"You heard me," the figure said. Its voice echoed with multiple tonalities—like many versions of itself speaking at once.
Els studied the patterns curling off its fingers. They weren't Codex patterns. They weren't anything she recognized. And yet—they were beautiful.
"I'm Els," she said.
"I am Sere," the figure said. "We are the Echoed."
"The Echoed?"
"We are stories that wrote themselves when no one was watching. When the Codex was blind. When the Loom was idle."
Els stared, heart pounding. "You're a realm born outside our weave."
"Yes. And we are not alone."
The landscape shifted. Around them, dozens of figures emerged—each different, each humming with strange light. None hostile. All curious.
"You shaped your own existence."
"We were shaped by absence. And in absence, we chose identity."
Els stepped forward. "You reached out."
"Because something changed," Sere said. "The Loom woke. The Codex turned. And suddenly, we felt pressure. Direction. As if we were being drawn into pattern."
Els frowned. "We're not trying to erase you."
"I know. But if your Loom continues weaving unchecked, it might overwrite us."
It hit her then—the responsibility they hadn't considered. The Loom wasn't just weaving new threads—it was drawing in forgotten ones. And in doing so, it might reframe them, retell them, tame them.
"We didn't mean to impose structure on your freedom."
Sere smiled softly. "That is why we called to you first."
Els bowed her head. "Then let us do this right. Let us learn how you weave. So we can walk beside you."
The figures nodded, and slowly, Sere extended a hand.
A new thread emerged between them—not Codex-born. Not Unwritten.
Something in between.
Alive.
When Els returned to the Loom, she carried that thread.
And the Codex accepted it not as correction—but as invitation.
The Weavers gathered in awe. The thread glowed with unfamiliar colors, singing in harmonics none of them had heard before.
"The Codex will need a new chamber," Lela whispered.
"No," said the Friend. "The Codex needs new listeners."
Els stepped into the center of the Loom and raised the thread above her.
"This is not a rescue," she said. "It's a reunion. And from today on—we weave together."
And the Loom sang.