The moment the Threadhunters stepped into Nim'Serel, the city remembered pain.
Stone warped. The air rippled with the ghosts of a thousand yesterdays. Statues cracked and bled gold. The cathedral bells rang not from their towers, but from inside Cael's skull.
He dropped to one knee.
"They're forcing a collapse," Vyn growled, unsheathing her jagged sword. "Threadhunters don't kill fast—they unmake. They'll rewind you out of existence before you ever learn why you were born."
Cael looked up. "Then let's give them something to remember."
The First Strike
Lady Mourn led the charge herself.
Cloaked in blue-glass armor stitched from stolen timelines, her every movement left afterimages—echoes of paths she might've taken. Behind her marched a battalion of Chrono-Specters, eyeless warriors hollowed by the Threads they once bore.
Cael stepped forward, his left arm glowing with the sigil of the Second Thread.
Vyn stood beside him, shadows rising at her feet like loyal wolves.
"Don't die," she said softly.
"Not planning on it."
"Good," she smirked, "because if you die, I'll bring you back and kill you myself."
And then they moved.
Dance of Threads
The first Specter lunged.
Cael met him head-on, catching his blade on a shield forged from frozen moments. With a twist of the Thread, he reversed time just around the man's wrist—snapping it backward into infancy.
Bones cracked. The man screamed in three voices—child, man, and ghost—and collapsed.
But the others kept coming.
Vyn danced among them like a shadow untethered, her sword slicing memories out of her foes. Not blood—memory. Every cut erased something: a face, a name, a vow. Her enemies forgot why they fought. Then they forgot how to breathe.
Mourn's Power Unleashed
Lady Mourn stepped forward, her eyes now burning with twin suns. She moved faster than thought, her blade skipping seconds as she wove through timelines.
Cael raised his shield, but it was too late.
Slash.
Pain exploded across his ribs. Blood sprayed the ground—but it was reversed a heartbeat later as he forced the wound to undo itself.
He coughed. "That's cheating."
"So is existing," Lady Mourn said.
She grabbed his throat.
"You were not meant to wake. Neither was she."
Before Cael could react, Vyn was there—driving her blade straight through Lady Mourn's shoulder.
The Threadhunter screamed, but didn't bleed.
"You're the mistake," Vyn hissed. "We're the answer."
The Collapse of Nim'Serel
But the Pattern wouldn't allow this defiance to go unanswered.
The city shuddered. Buildings folded inward. Sky cracked. The ghosts of the past began to burn—looping faster and faster until their faces turned to static.
Cael's vision swam.
"It's unraveling," Vyn shouted. "Too many Threads clashing!"
"How do we stop it?"
"We don't. We run."
She grabbed his hand, and for a split second—he saw her past.
A little girl, alone in a dark tower. Threads growing from her skin like chains. A voice whispering:
You were never meant to be real.
He blinked—and they were gone.