They didn't speak much during the flight.
The old propeller plane that ferried them into the Carpathians rattled with each gust of wind, as if protesting the weight of what Eliara and Rowen carried. Below them, pine forests stretched endlessly, blanketed in mist. The world looked untouched—too quiet, too still.
But Eliara knew better.
Somewhere in those mountains lay The Fracture—a rip in the Weave so deep, so violent, the Council had sealed the surrounding lands decades ago. The stories said entire villages had vanished overnight. That reality bent there. That time stopped. That memory bled.
The plane touched down on a frozen field. No customs. No questions.
Just wilderness.
They hiked in silence. The trail narrowed until it disappeared entirely, swallowed by ancient trees and snow-dusted roots. The deeper they moved, the less things made sense—compasses spun wildly, the air smelled like burnt fabric, and shadows moved just out of reach.
After three days, they found the edge of the world.
A ravine split the mountains like a wound, stretching black and deep into the earth. And from its depths rose the hum of unraveled thread. It sounded like breathing—shallow, shivering, almost human.
Eliara stood at the brink, the wind clawing at her coat. Her pendant pulsed in warning.
"This is it," she said. "It's active."
Rowen nodded grimly. "I'll anchor a threadline. We don't know how deep it goes."
They descended slowly, rappelling down the jagged rock face. The further they went, the stranger the world became. Colors dulled. Their speech echoed back with slight differences—words they never said, voices distorted. At one point, Rowen swore he saw his own reflection pass them going up.
At the bottom, there was no floor. Only mist.
And then—
A door.
Standing on nothing, carved from obsidian and stitched with glowing runes. It pulsed faintly, as if aware.
Eliara stepped forward, hand trembling. "This shouldn't exist."
"Neither should we," Rowen muttered. "But here we are."
She pressed her hand to the door.
It opened.
They stepped into another time.
Not past or future—just elsewhere.
A hallway stretched before them, lit by floating strands of thread like lanterns. The floor shimmered, flickering between hospital tile and forest earth. Portraits lined the walls—portraits of people Eliara had seen in dreams, or forgotten in nightmares.
The deeper they went, the more the space twisted. Memories clung to the walls. One door showed her mother's kitchen, burning. Another showed Kera as a child, crying in a circle of salt.
And then, they came to the final chamber.
A dome of woven light. And at its center—Kera.
Suspended in midair, strands of black and gold wrapping her limbs like a cocoon. Her eyes were closed, lips parted slightly, as if caught in sleep or a scream.
Eliara surged forward.
Rowen grabbed her. "Wait."
The air bent.
Nayir stepped from the wall. Not cloaked in shadow now, but fully visible. His body shimmered, unfinished—part man, part thread. His hair hung in woven braids, his eyes hollow voids.
"Careful," he said softly. "She's nearly perfect."
Eliara faced him, fury and sorrow boiling in her chest. "Let her go."
Nayir tilted his head. "Let her go? I've given her purpose. Belonging. She's not alone anymore. She is the Veil now."
"She's a child!" Eliara shouted. "You used her!"
"She chose this," he said calmly. "The world forgot her. The Council abandoned her. I offered her meaning."
Rowen stepped forward. "You're not rebuilding. You're controlling."
Nayir's face darkened. "I am preserving. Do you know what happens when threads decay? When memory fades? People cease to exist."
Eliara gritted her teeth. "You're afraid."
"Of course I am," he whispered. "Afraid of watching everything unravel again. I lived through the First Fray. I saw entire lives erased. I won't let it happen again."
"You've become what you feared," she said.
Nayir looked at Kera, suspended like a marionette. "Not yet."
He raised his hand.
The room shattered.
Eliara found herself standing in a storm of memory.
Threads whipped past her—voices, images, lives. Children screaming. Laughter twisted into sobs. Every forgotten moment given form. The weight of it all bore down on her.
She staggered, searching—
Rowen was gone.
Kera was gone.
Only Nayir remained.
"You can't stop me," he said. "You've felt it. The Weave is dying. You're strong, Eliara, but you are a patch. I am a rewriter."
She clenched her fists. Her pendant blazed to life.
"You think I'm patching?" she said coldly. "I'm weaving forward."
She summoned the cleansing thread—not silver this time, but white-gold, shot through with flame. Pure creation.
The storm surged around her as Nayir roared.
They clashed.
Thread met thread in midair, screaming against each other. The chamber buckled. The Fracture howled.
Then—
Kera screamed.
A raw, primal sound that split the air.
The cocoon around her burst. Threads snapped. Her body fell.
Eliara caught her.
Nayir's threads unraveled. His form flickered, then imploded—sucked into the very Weave he had tried to twist.
And then the Fracture healed.
They awoke on the ravine's edge.
No mist. No door. No hum.
Just trees. Wind. Earth.
Rowen stirred beside her. "You… did it."
Kera lay between them, breathing shallow but alive. Her eyes fluttered open.
"I dreamed… of threads," she whispered. "But they weren't mine."
"They are now," Eliara said, brushing hair from her face. "You're free."
Kera clung to her. "Will they forget me again?"
Eliara held her tighter. "Never."
Later, under the stars, Eliara sat beside Rowen and watched the sky.
"You knew we wouldn't walk out the same," he said.
She nodded. "We didn't. We walked out better."
He looked at her carefully. "The Weave changed you again."
She didn't deny it.
The cleansing thread now burned within her, a part of her soul. She wasn't just repairing. She was creating. A new kind of Weaver.
"We have work to do," she said. "Others to find. Wounds to heal."
He smiled faintly. "You think the Council will approve?"
Eliara stood. "Let them try and stop us."