The group stumbled into a side chamber that, miraculously, hadn't been turned into a trauma maze or eldritch killbox. The stone walls, unlike every other place in this cursed Uncore, weren't bleeding shadows or whispering betrayal.
Instead, the door hissed closed behind them with the grace of a half-asleep librarian, and a quiet hum of ambient thread energy filled the space like a lullaby.
Beatrice dropped her sword with a grunt and flopped onto the floor like a marionette whose strings had finally snapped. "If another ghost tries to guilt-trip me with emotional blackmail, I swear I'm going to punch the next wall and blame it for my unresolved trauma."
Rafael leaned against Clara as they stumbled to a seated position. "Pretty sure the walls are traumatized," he wheezed.
"You laugh now," Calyx muttered, lying supine with limbs splayed like roadkill. "But my evil twin tried to seduce me. I'm scarred. That's not even metaphorical."
"How do you know she was the evil twin?" Lira asked without looking up from her notebook. She was already sketching out sigil lines on an empty page, her fingers moving with the practiced ease of someone pretending not to listen while cataloging every word.
"Because she was devastatingly hot," Calyx said with a solemn nod. "I'm charming. That gal? She was... smoldering. I can't compete with that breast symmetry."
Stanley limped in next, his robes singed and eyebrows slightly crooked from earlier spell backlash. He raised a shaky hand. "Please. Someone. Anyone. Tell me there's tea. Or alcohol. Or a portal that leads directly to a spa staffed by mute, towel-wielding angels."
Clara guided Rafael to the corner and helped him down. She unslung her pouch and passed around the last of their clean water. "Ten minutes," she said, stern but kind. "Any longer, and our favorite thread-junkie here might start unraveling. Again."
Rafael raised two fingers weakly. "Technically, I only unraveled the fabric of space and subjective memory once today. That's a win."
Dasha was already meditating, legs crossed, eyes shut. Her spear sat upright beside her like a loyal guard dog. She cracked an eye open and grumbled, "It was like a rave. A sweaty, screaming, soul-ripping rave."
Beatrice rolled over, propping herself up on one elbow. "If this keeps up, I'm retiring after this dungeon. I'm going to open a bakery. Just me, sourdough, and emotional repression."
Lira didn't look up as she laid out sigil-etched cards in a circle. "Tarot?" Clara asked, curious.
"Trap detection," Lira replied. "Also tarot. Don't judge me."
Stanley eventually managed to conjure a small, flickering flame and began warming something in a bent tin cup. The liquid inside looked like the offspring of tea and despair, but the scent was comforting.
"What is that?" Calyx asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Leftover citrus peel, one mint leaf, and some emergency focus dust," Stanley replied.
"That's not tea. That's an alchemy accident," Beatrice muttered.
They drank it anyway. It was hot. That was enough.
The moment stretched. Calyx tried to dry her soaked shirt with lightning thread. Predictably, she shocked herself. "Ow—gah! Okay, that was hubris. Loom is punishing me for pride."
"Let the Loom humble you," Lira said flatly.
"I am humbled," she groaned. "I'm a smoking sock puppet."
Dasha cracked a grin. "You smell like ozone and regret."
Even Clara laughed at that.
A quiet calm settled over the chamber. Not peace—peace was a myth—but something like its weary cousin. A moment where no one screamed, bled, or bled while screaming.
Beatrice was sharpening her sword again. Not because it needed it, but because muscle memory helped keep her hands from shaking.
Rafael's head leaned against the wall, his eyes shut. Clara sat beside him, legs stretched out, humming something wordless. Her humming faltered for a moment, then grew steadier—an old lullaby from her hometown, one her mother used to sing when the stars felt close enough to touch.
Stanley finished his tea and made a tiny illusion of a sunlit window. It flickered and faded almost immediately, but for a moment, it was something warm.
Then:
"So," Calyx said, sitting up with a stretch, "when we survive this, I'm starting a bar. 'The Cursed Goblet.' Drinks named after all the stuff that almost killed us. First one's called 'Shattercore Surprise.'"
"What's in it?" Rafael asked.
"Spiced rum, ghost pepper, liquid mana, and a bad decision," Calyx replied.
Beatrice raised her hand. "Put me down for two."
"I want a drink named after my evil twin," Calyx added. "Something smooth, sweet, and full of betrayal."
Stanley stood slowly, groaning as his knees popped. "Enough bonding. Let's go stab the metaphysical horror before it turns my pain into a musical."
Lira pocketed her cards. Dasha grabbed her spear. Clara stood and offered her hand to Rafael.
He took it.
He looked at them all—worn, wounded, sarcastic bastards to the last. His people.
The door unsealed with a sigh.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," Beatrice said. "But we're going anyway."
As they crossed the threshold, Stanley glanced over his shoulder one last time. "Next breather," he said, "we take a vote on the spa idea."
"The spa better have cake," Calyx added.
"And no ghosts," Dasha murmured.
"Impossible," Lira said. "But we can dream."
The corridor beyond pulsed faintly. The air was heavier again. But this time, they weren't stumbling.
They were walking forward—together.
Toward the Threadforge.
And this time, they were going to make it hurt.
***