Clucksworth stood at the edge of the Hollow Pines, the stitched compass pulsing faintly in his cotton hand. The map Cedric left him was folded in his satchel, its ink faded but its purpose clear.
He took one step forward.
Needle Crown's voice cut through the wind like a thread pulled taut.
"You don't know where you're going, do you?"
Clucksworth paused. His iron boots sank slightly into the moss. He turned, unsure whether to answer.
Needle Crown didn't wait.
"The compass doesn't point to pain anymore," she said. "It points to the White Knight."
Clucksworth's breath caught. Cedric had written of the White Knight — a stitched warrior who once stood against the demons, then vanished into myth. A symbol of hope. A thread of power.
Needle Crown gestured to the clearing.
Thimble stood there, arms crossed, a tunic folded neatly in their hands. It was dark gray, stitched with protective sigils, reinforced with wax and thread. The collar bore Cedric's mark — a tiny embroidered flame.
"Cedric designed it," Thimble said. "I finished it. It's yours."
Clucksworth stepped forward, reverently accepting the tunic. The fabric was soft but strong, stitched with care and defiance. He slipped it on. It fit perfectly — like it had been waiting for him.
Thimble adjusted the collar, then stepped back.
"Now you look like someone who stitches through war."
Needle Crown hovered silently, her glass eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Take Thimble with you," she said. "You'll need someone who knows how to stitch in motion."
Thimble grinned, already strapping their gear. "I've been waiting for this."
Clucksworth nodded.
Two stitched souls. One map.
And a compass that pointed not to suffering — but to salvation.
They stepped into the forest together, the wind behind them, the White Knight ahead.