The mountains of Arlith rose like the ribs of some ancient beast, half-buried in the snow of forgotten time. As Aris and Ember ascended the final ridge, frost clung to their cloaks, their breath coming in silver clouds. Behind them, Riven and Myla struggled against the wind, barely visible through the white haze.
But ahead—looming, silent, and impossible—the Loom Citadel stood.
No doors.No bridges.Only thread.
Thousands of silver strands stretched between the peaks, shimmering in the stormlight, anchored in the very sky. They pulsed with life, humming like the strings of a divine harp, their vibrations echoing faintly in the bones of those who dared approach.
"That's… it?" Riven asked, voice muffled by his scarf. "We're supposed to climb that?"
"It's not a climb," Myla whispered. Her violet eyes narrowed, glowing faintly. "It's a crossing. The threads are alive. If they sense your purpose, they hold you. If they don't—"
"You fall," Ember finished.
Aris stepped forward, chest rising with determination. "Then let's not give them a reason to doubt."
Without waiting, he reached out—and the moment his fingers touched the first thread, the storm halted.
Everything stilled.
The winds froze mid-howl. Snowflakes hung in the air like suspended stars. Even sound faded.
A heartbeat later, the thread glowed.
Warm, golden light rippled outward from his touch, and one by one, the other strands responded—lighting up in succession, until the entire citadel web shone like a woven constellation.
The thread beneath Aris's feet shifted. It curled upward, forming a bridge. Without hesitation, he stepped onto it.
It held.
Behind him, Ember exhaled. "Well, that's a good sign."
They crossed in silence, the only sound a low resonance beneath their boots—a music older than language. The bridge moved with them, reshaping itself with every step. Below, nothing but clouds and the suggestion of a fall that had no bottom.
At the heart of the web, a spire emerged.
The Loom Citadel was not built from stone, but from woven time itself. Every wall, every tower, was made of memory-thread: translucent, shifting, constantly reweaving in response to unseen forces.
The gates opened not with a sound—but with acceptance.
A woman awaited them inside.
She stood motionless, her face hidden beneath a veil of thin, gold strands. Her robes shimmered like starlight through fabric. Around her, dozens of other robed figures moved like echoes—never quite touching the ground.
"You've come at last," the woman said. Her voice echoed in the air and in their minds. "The Thread-Breaker, the Flame-Heir, the Exile, and the Wind-Born."
"I'm not sure which is more insulting," Riven muttered.
Ember stepped forward. "Are you the High Weaver?"
"I am. I am also the last of my line. You may call me Elyriin."
Aris studied her. "You knew we'd come?"
"No. But the threads did." She turned. "Come. The loom is ready. And it has much to show you."
They followed her deep into the citadel.
The air inside felt… heavy, but not in a way that suffocated. It was a weight of memory, like walking into a library where each book remembered its readers.
They entered a chamber vast beyond reason. A circular platform sat in the center, suspended in the air by glowing strands. In its heart, a loom larger than any structure Aris had seen—its spinning wheel turning slowly, guided by unseen hands.
Hundreds of glowing threads ran through it—each one pulsing, changing, merging. Aris realized with a start: these were lives.
Elyriin turned to him. "The loom records all fate-paths. It does not judge. It only weaves."
"Then you can show me my thread?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But you may step into it."
Before he could question her, the threads around the loom spread outward, parting like curtains. A single strand hovered before him—bright, coiled, and pulsing with something he recognized not as light… but as possibility.
"If you walk this," Elyriin said, "you will see not just what was, but what might yet be. You will understand the forces pulling at your soul—and why the Collector seeks you."
Aris looked at Ember.
She nodded. "We came this far. Don't stop now."
He stepped forward.
The thread enveloped him.
The vision was instant.
He was no longer in his body.
He stood in a ruined throne room, fire pouring through shattered windows. Dead soldiers lay at his feet. Above, the sky burned red.
Before him stood… himself. Older. Colder. Wearing a crown made of bone and starlight.
"You think you can fight this," the future Aris said. "But you forget—you are the storm. You don't stop fate. You cause it."
"I won't become you," Aris said.
"No?" The future Aris stepped closer. "Then why do your hands already shake with rage? Why does your heart race when they call you hero?"
Aris looked down. His hands were covered in blood.
"You think the Collector is your enemy," the future said. "But he is only the mirror. I am the reflection."
With a roar, Aris lunged—only for the vision to shatter.
He collapsed on the loom's platform, gasping. Ember rushed forward.
"What did you see?"
"Me," he whispered. "But wrong. Twisted. Powerful—but empty."
Elyriin watched with unreadable eyes. "The Collector does not want to kill you. He wants to preserve you—in that form. A fixed version of you that serves the pattern."
Ember turned to her. "Then how do we stop it?"
"You don't stop fate," the Weaver said. "You rethread it."
She stepped aside, revealing a small box of silver thread and a dagger wrapped in white silk.
"One cuts," she said. "One binds. You will need both."
Aris took the box.
The threads inside moved on their own, eager and restless.
"Where do we go next?" Myla asked.
Elyriin's voice lowered. "To the last pillar. To the place where all threads begin."
"Where is that?"
Elyriin turned to the loom.
And the loom whispered a word not spoken for a thousand years:
"Vael'Serin."
Ember's breath caught.
"That's impossible. That city was lost in the Sundering."
"Not lost," Elyriin said. "Only hidden."
Aris felt the weight of what was to come. The final pillar. The truth about his origin. The face of the Collector.
The real war was coming.
And the loom had only just begun to spin.