Ilyan's heart beat unevenly as he approached the heavy oak doors of Lady Revienne's study. The faint pulse of the relic in his satchel thrummed against his chest, a constant reminder of the weight he now carried — and the cost of knowing.
He had barely stepped inside when her voice cut through the air like a blade.
"You've returned," Lady Revienne said, her back turned, the warmth of the afternoon sunlight spilling over her shoulder.
Ilyan hesitated before replying. There was always something about her presence that unsettled him, like he wasn't meant to be here, standing in her orbit.
"I have," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. His grip tightened around the relic, feeling its strange hum pulse against him. "I brought something."
Her shoulders stiffened for a brief moment, but she didn't turn to face him. "The Bound Relic?"
Ilyan didn't answer immediately. His fingers brushed the satchel, and for a moment, he wondered if it was all worth it — if she'd look at him with that same cold gaze, as though he were just another instrument in her scheme. But no. This was different. He could feel it. Her tension was palpable, almost like she knew exactly what he had done, and yet she was waiting.
"I've found it," he said, his voice quieter now.
Lady Revienne's hands fell to the surface of the desk with a faint thud, the softest sound in the quiet room. "Show me," she said, and though her tone was calm, there was an undeniable force in it.
Ilyan stepped forward and carefully removed the relic from his satchel, placing it on the polished wood of the desk. The shard pulsed faintly, shimmering with a light of its own.
Lady Revienne finally turned toward him. Her dark eyes scanned the relic, studying it with a mix of fascination and cold detachment.
"The Bound Relic," she whispered, more to herself than to Ilyan. "Lost to time, thought to be nothing but a myth. And yet… here it is. In your hands."
Ilyan's pulse quickened. "What does it mean?"
She tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "It means that the threads of fate are already tightening around you, Ilyan."
He stared at her, confused. "Threads of fate?"
She stepped closer, the scent of old books and parchment mingling in the air. "The Loom of Truth," she said, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were sharing something forbidden. "The Relics… they are keys. Keys that open doors not just to power, but to knowledge. To truths most dare not seek. And those who wield them become…"
Her gaze flicked back to the relic. "...become something else."
Ilyan blinked. "Something else?"
Lady Revienne's smile widened, but it held a knowing sadness. "Power is the currency of the world, Ilyan. You've already paid a price for it. Now the world will demand payment in return."
There was a pause. A moment of silence where the air seemed to thicken, like a weight pressing down on him.
He could feel it now — the weight of the relic, the weight of the truth hanging between them.
"I didn't ask for any of this," Ilyan muttered. "I didn't ask for this relic. Or for any of it."
She raised an eyebrow, her voice laced with something sharp. "Do you think I chose this life, Ilyan? Do you think anyone who touches the threads of fate ever chooses? There are no choices, only paths. And those paths... they lead where they will."
Ilyan's hand tightened around the edge of the desk, his fingers shaking. "What am I supposed to do with it then?"
Lady Revienne's gaze softened for just a moment, but her words were still harsh. "You'll do what the Loom demands. What you must do. Or you will be consumed."
He swallowed, stepping back slightly as if the weight of her words was too much to bear.
Before he could respond, a voice—one that wasn't Lady Revienne's—broke the tension.
"You talk as if he has a choice," came Ashwen's cool, quiet voice from the doorway.
Ilyan glanced over to see Ashwen standing in the threshold, her posture unreadable, her eyes gleaming like metal under the low light. Her gaze flicked to the relic, and then back to Lady Revienne.
"Does he?" Ashwen's words were calm, but there was an edge to them, like a blade carefully concealed.
Lady Revienne's eyes narrowed, but her expression remained impassive. "Your timing, as always, is impeccable, Ashwen."
"I've been listening for a while," Ashwen replied, her voice dripping with understatement. "You don't know him, not truly. You think you can push him around with words, with fate, but he's... something else. And you're wrong if you think this relic means he'll follow your path."
Lady Revienne's lips curled slightly. "And what path would that be, Ashwen? The one where you live outside the Loom's threads? The one where you try to unweave the world itself?"
Ashwen took a step forward, her eyes flashing. "Maybe it's better than living inside them, at the mercy of the very forces that try to control you."
The tension between the two women hung thick in the air, and Ilyan was caught in the middle of it. He didn't know what was happening, or why Ashwen was so certain that the relic didn't belong to the Concord. All he knew was that there was something deeper, something darker at play, and neither Ashwen nor Lady Revienne were offering him the truth.
He finally spoke, his voice cutting through the silence, raw and vulnerable.
"I didn't come here to be a pawn. I don't care what the Loom wants."
Lady Revienne's smile dropped, replaced by something colder, more calculating.
"You should care," she said. "Because the Loom doesn't ask for permission."
Ashwen's gaze flicked to Ilyan, her expression unreadable. After a long pause, she spoke softly, almost reluctantly.
"You're right, Ilyan. You don't get to choose… but you do. What you choose is how you walk that path. The question is, will you walk it with your eyes open… or blind?"
Lady Revienne stood still, her gaze lingering on Ashwen for a moment before she turned back to Ilyan.
"Do what you will," she said, voice smooth and cold. "But know this: whatever path you take, the Loom will follow."
As Ilyan stood there, caught between the two women, the weight of his decision — of the truth — pressed down on him like a stone.
The threads of fate weren't just pulling him forward. They were unraveling him, piece by piece.
And he didn't know if he could stop it.