The storm that had lingered for days finally broke at dawn, though it left behind a sky the color of bruised iron.
From her balcony, Mary could see the city stretching below — the narrow streets of the Loomspire District, the labyrinth of stone bridges and needle-thin towers that shimmered faintly with runes of protection. Only now, those runes bled.
Tiny rivulets of crimson light trickled down their surfaces, like veins in glass.
The Crimson Thread — that's what the Weavers had begun calling it.
It had started as a whisper, a rumor carried by apprentices and echoed through sleepless corridors. A single thread of red light had appeared in the Loom's great weave, and now it had begun seeping outward — threading its way through walls, books, even dreams.
Mary watched it coil along the skyline like a living scar. The Codex pulsed faintly in her hands, as if aware of her thoughts.
"You did this," she whispered.
"No," the Codex replied, the voice soft and silken in her mind. "We remembered it."
Mary closed the book sharply. "You remembered too much."
"You can't cage memory."
"Watch me."
She placed it on the table and turned away, but the moment her hand left its cover, the air in the room shifted — heavier, warmer, like breath against her neck.
Loosie entered without knocking. "You've seen it too?"
Mary nodded. "It's everywhere now."
"They're saying the Queen's mark isn't just a curse anymore," Loosie said. "It's spreading like it's alive."
Mary frowned. "Alive how?"
Loosie leaned against the wall, hammer slung across her back. "They found a Weaver in the east wing. Said she was... changing. The marks on her arms turned to letters. Her blood spelled words before she died."
Mary felt her stomach tighten. "What words?"
Loosie hesitated. "Your name."
Silence hung between them — thick and unspoken.
Mary finally said, "Then it's begun."
Loosie's jaw tightened. "Els wants to seal the Loomspire. Burn the lower levels, destroy the Codex if we have to."
Mary turned sharply. "She can't. The Codex is the only thing keeping the threads stable."
"Or it's the thing unraveling them," Loosie said.
Mary looked down at her hands. The faint shimmer of red under her skin hadn't faded since the last time she touched the Codex's living ink. It pulsed like a second heartbeat.
"I can fix this," she whispered.
"Mary…" Loosie stepped closer, her tone softer now. "We've followed you through Doors and worlds. We trust you. But you can't keep saying that if the cost keeps rising."
Mary didn't answer. She couldn't. Because part of her didn't know if she was lying anymore.
That evening, the Weavers gathered again in the Great Loom Hall.
The chamber glowed with its usual lattice of golden light, but the crimson thread had begun weaving through it, distorting the pattern. The air was filled with the scent of burnt parchment.
Els stood at the center, addressing the circle of Weavers. "The Queen's influence has crossed into the city proper. Three wards have already failed. We need to decide whether to stay and defend the Loomspire or evacuate and regroup."
Murmurs broke out across the room.
Mary stepped forward. "If we abandon the Loomspire, the Codex's containment field will fail entirely. The Queen will have free reign over every world connected to the Path Between Doors."
Els turned toward her. "And if we stay, we die trying to hold a thread that's already cut."
"The Codex can be rebalanced," Mary said. "If I can reach the core — the heart of the weave — I might be able to rewrite the Crimson Thread back into silence."
Els folded her arms. "And what if you can't?"
Mary looked up, meeting her gaze. "Then at least we'll know who the story belongs to."
The room fell silent.
Loosie was the first to step forward. "Then I'm going with her."
Els shook her head. "Loosie—"
"You'll need someone who can break through the forge barriers," Loosie said. "And someone who isn't afraid of bleeding a little."
Mary offered a faint smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Els hesitated, then sighed. "You have until nightfall. If the thread reaches the Loom's core by then, I'll have no choice but to burn it all — Codex included."
Mary nodded. "Understood."
Hours later, the lower Loomspire was a maze of shifting corridors.
The once-golden lights had dimmed, replaced by a dull red glow that throbbed in rhythm with the Codex's heartbeat. The further they went, the warmer the air became — thick with the scent of iron and ozone.
Loosie kept her hammer ready. "You sure this is the way?"
Mary ran her fingers along the wall, following the trail of crimson thread winding downward. "It's leading us to the heart."
Loosie grunted. "Feels more like it's leading us to a trap."
They reached the Vault of Echoes — a chamber where unfinished stories were once stored, frozen in the moment before completion. The walls shimmered with spectral images: faces half-formed, voices whispering fragments of what they might have been.
At the center of the chamber stood a great iron door, etched with runes Mary had never seen before — ancient, predating the Weavers themselves. The crimson thread pulsed beneath it, alive, seething.
Mary placed the Codex against the door. "Open."
The runes glowed faintly, resisting.
"Blood for ink," whispered the Codex.
Mary froze. "No."
"You can't enter without offering what was taken."
Loosie frowned. "What's it saying?"
Mary's voice was tight. "It wants my blood."
"Then it's not getting it."
But Mary was already drawing a blade from her belt. "It's the only way."
"Mary—"
She cut her palm and pressed it against the Codex.
The ink bled out instantly, merging with her blood. The door shuddered, groaning as its runes flared to life — not gold, but crimson.
A sound like a thousand pages turning filled the chamber.
The door opened.
Beyond it lay the Loom's heart — a vast, spiraling structure of light and thread, suspended in an infinite void. The crimson thread coiled through it like a parasite, poisoning the weave from within.
Mary stepped forward, her breath catching. "It's beautiful…"
Loosie muttered, "It's dying."
Mary opened the Codex. Its pages fluttered violently, windless, as though alive. "We can still rewrite it."
"Then do it fast," Loosie said. "This place gives me the shivers."
Mary closed her eyes. Her blood still dripped from her palm, mingling with the Codex's ink. She felt it pulling at her — not just her power, but her memories, her essence.
The voices of the threads whispered around her: fragments of stories, half-spoken truths.
Mary of the Echo Door...
The Queen's scribe returns...
Ink remembers blood...
Her heartbeat synced with the Codex's. For a moment, she wasn't sure where she ended and the book began.
Then, through the tangle of whispers, another voice broke through — cold, commanding, achingly familiar.
"You took my words, little scribe."
Mary's eyes snapped open.
A figure was emerging from the weave — tall, cloaked in shadows that burned faintly with crimson fire. The Queen.
Her form flickered like a mirage, but her eyes — those molten gold eyes — were sharp and real.
"You dare to rewrite me?" the Queen said.
Mary's hand trembled around the Codex. "You shouldn't exist."
The Queen smiled, a slow, terrible curve. "Every story demands an ending. Even yours."
The threads around her pulsed violently, the crimson light spreading faster.
Loosie swung her hammer, striking the nearest thread. It sparked but didn't break. "Mary!" she shouted. "Do something!"
Mary raised the Codex. The words on the pages began to rearrange, glowing red. She poured everything she had into them — her power, her blood, her will.
"Then I'll write a new ending," she said through clenched teeth. "One where you lose."
The Queen laughed — a sound like breaking glass. "Child, I am the ending."
The chamber shook violently, the crimson thread spreading into a web of fire.
Mary screamed as light erupted from the Codex, engulfing the room. The Queen's voice echoed through the chaos, fading but defiant:
"You cannot unwrite what you are."
When the light dimmed, Mary was on her knees. The Codex lay open before her, smoking faintly.
Loosie knelt beside her. "Mary… are you—"
Mary looked up. Her eyes glowed faintly red.
"I'm fine," she said — though her voice didn't sound like hers anymore.
Behind her, the crimson thread had stopped spreading. But it hadn't disappeared.
It pulsed faintly, as if waiting.
Watching.