Eleanor hurried down the stone corridor, her steps uneven, her body still trembling from what had happened in the chamber. The door had closed behind her, yet the clang of it kept ringing in her ears, as if the chamber had not fully released her.
She told herself she was safe—that the Nullith had disintegrated, that she had survived again. But her body refused to believe it. Her heart still raced as though the shadow could tear through the walls and drag her back.
She pressed her palm to her chest. The beat beneath her skin was wrong—surging, stuttering, and surging again, as though something inside her had been altered. For a moment she thought she was still in the Interlace, threads vibrating around her, but the corridor was only stone and silence. She inhaled deeply and reminded herself she had burned her anchor. The emergency route home had worked. She was back in her universe. She should feel safe.
But safety did not explain the shimmer on her skin.
She caught it at the edge of her vision—a faint, silvery gleam running across her hands. Sweat, she first assumed. But the light pulsed gently, like an answer to something she could not see. She rubbed her hands hard, trying to erase it. The shimmer faded, then returned, persistent and quiet. A reminder.
This was not normal.
Every crossing left traces, her professors had said. Fraymarks. Harmless, usually—annoying at worst. Students joked about glowing in the dark or hearing thread-resonance before sleep. Even the whispered dreams, where the Interlace supposedly dragged you halfway back without consent—Eleanor once dismissed them as exaggerations meant to frighten first-years.
But after the chamber, after the Nullith breaking through, she could no longer laugh at any of it.
Her ears rang again—high, thin, relentless. She winced and covered them, but the sound didn't stop. It was inside her.
Her stomach tightened. Professors had also warned of danger: too much echo residue could attract Nulliths even outside the Interlace. The traces acted like beacons. But that had never been proven. No Nullith had ever followed anyone home.
Eleanor stopped walking.
She wanted to dismiss everything—the hum, the shimmer, the trembling in her chest—but she couldn't. They were real. And they weren't fading.
She stared at her hands. The light flickered across her skin.
When she reached home, she had hoped for silence. Instead, the warm glow of the kitchen lamp told her someone was awake. Her mother sat at the table, posture impossibly straight—the stance that always meant she'd been rehearsing disappointment.
"Where have you been? It's late," Elizabeth said. Her even tone carried judgment like a hidden blade.
"I was just out… thinking." Eleanor answered too quickly.
"Eat your dinner. We need to talk."
"No. I'm full." She wasn't. But food turned her stomach. "What is it?"
"I spoke to Mr. Croft. You will be transferring—"
The words struck like a blow. "What?"
"We'll collect your things tomorrow—"
"Stop. Stop!" Eleanor's voice rose before she could rein it in. Heat climbed her cheeks. Her hands shook at her sides. If she didn't hold them still, she might slam them on the table.
Her mother wanted to uproot her. After the Nullith, after the shimmer still clinging to her skin, after nearly dying—Elizabeth wanted to excise her from the only place that mattered. From Lumenrift. From Lacelining. From the one field where she had any chance of proving she wasn't just Elizabeth's failure.
"This is for your own good," Elizabeth said.
Eleanor wanted to scream. But her throat burned, and her voice felt trapped beneath a weight larger than anger.
"I'm not leaving Lumenrift," she forced out. Her words trembled, but they were all she had.
Elizabeth sighed—slow, prepared, practiced. Eleanor knew that sigh. It meant her mother already had the next move ready.
"You failed your First Stitching. What more can you do for the University?"
The calmness sliced deeper than shouting would. Eleanor pressed her shaking hands against her skirt.
She wanted to tell her mother everything—that she had been inside the Interlace again, that she had nearly anchored a thread, that she had survived a Nullith alone. But the words tangled.
"You don't know what I can do," was all she managed.
Elizabeth tilted her head. The look Eleanor hated most—the one professors gave her when comparing her to the legendary Elizabeth Kostova.
"If you had taught me nullmasking, I would have crossed!" Eleanor burst out. "You kept it from me. You didn't want me to succeed."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. Then her voice cut sharp: "Nullmasking warps the multisigil. Bend it long enough, and the scars become permanent. You will burn your thread before you ever cross. I didn't teach you because I wanted you whole, not broken."
Eleanor's breath snagged. She had heard warnings—but never like this.
"You don't understand," she whispered harshly. "I faced a Nullith. If I had nullmasking, I could have anchored."
"Reckless," Elizabeth snapped. "Standing before a Nullith does not make you ready. Nullmasking consumes those who think they can bend the Interlace without consequence."
Eleanor's chest ached. Her mother's refusal to see her—really see her—was worse than the threat of failure.
"I'm not leaving," Eleanor repeated, her voice small but firm.
"This isn't a choice. My decision is final."
"You can't do this! I worked hard! I failed one Stitching—"
Not one. Two. But she shoved the thought away.
"And once was enough to prove you're not ready," Elizabeth said. "You're smart, Eleanor. But Lacelining is not for you—"
"How can you say that?" Eleanor stepped forward, trembling. "I've devoted my life to this! I can train—every day—if that's what you want—this is my life—"
"It isn't," Elizabeth said quietly. "It was mine. And I am done with this life. So are you."
Something inside Eleanor cracked.
"You're just afraid I'll embarrass you."
Silence. Heavy. Unmoving.
Eleanor's gaze rose to the multisigil carved across her mother's skin—a mark deeper, darker, more revered than any other Laceliner in Lumenrift's history. Elizabeth's legacy was etched into her flesh.
Eleanor's own sigil, soft and untested, pulsed faintly beneath her collarbone.
"It must be hard," Eleanor said, voice shaking, "having a daughter who isn't as good as you."
Each word cut her throat on the way out.
Her mother didn't deny it. That silence was answer enough.
Eleanor couldn't breathe. If she stayed another second, she would break.
She turned away.
"I won't let you decide my life," she said. "I'm not leaving Lumenrift. And I'm not leaving Lacelining."
Elizabeth didn't stop her.
Eleanor strode out. The night air hit her skin—a relief, but not enough. Her body still hummed with echo. Her mind still reeled with fury, grief, fear.
She walked. She didn't know where.
Then the sirens began.
A rising, falling wail tore through the night. Eleanor froze. Sirens at this hour meant fire—or worse. She moved toward the sound, her steps quickening.
The smell of smoke reached her first.
Her chest tightened. She ran.
Smoke towered above the skyline, orange light flickering beneath.
Her heart lurched—Was it her house?
But when she turned the corner, the truth hit her like a blow.
Not her house.
The University.
Her knees buckled. She steadied herself against a wall, breath shattering.
Lumenrift was burning.
A sudden wail ripped through the air—so loud the streetlamps shattered, glass raining like cold stars. Eleanor staggered, covering her head. She knew that resonance. She had felt it in the chamber.
Her blood ran cold.
Could the Nullith have followed her?
Guilt slammed into her. If it had, then every life inside the University—
Someone shouted her name.
She turned. Elizabeth was sprinting toward her, hair undone, breath ragged, face carved with fear Eleanor had never seen.
"Go home! Don't come out until I say so!"
"Why? What's happening?" Eleanor cried.
"Don't be stubborn—go—"
A second wail split the night. Louder. Closer. An explosion followed. Sparks rained across the street. People screamed and scattered.
Elizabeth grabbed Eleanor's shoulders. "Run, Eleanor!"
Then she turned and bolted toward the University.
"Mom!" Eleanor choked.
She ran after her.
By the time Eleanor reached the gates, the sight stole her breath.
The University—her sanctuary—was collapsing. Towers fractured. Flames spilled from windows. Ash fell thick and suffocating.
And then—
Another wail.
Right behind her.
She turned, trembling—
And froze.
A Nullith towered above her. Larger. Crowned with jagged spines like a shattered crown. Its form flickered between flesh and shadow. Every step cracked the ground.
Her multisigil burned—so hot she cried out, clawing at her collarbone.
The Nullith leaned closer.
Light tore the air open. White, overwhelming. The world folded. The streets vanished.
She was weightless.
Then she saw them.
Nulliths. Hundreds. Thousands. Swarming the dark.
She was in the Interlace.
Impossible.
She reached for a thread—desperate, begging the universe for one mercy—
A Nullith lunged.
Its grip seized her arm.
Cold as death.
Fire ripped through her veins.
Her vision shattered—
And everything went white.