The Temple of Threads held its breath.
Velcrath's presence had receded for now, but his words lingered like smoke in Mira 's ears: You delay the inevitable… I am the end of the game.
Mira gripped the Die tightly in her palm, their metallic edges still warm from the last roll. The threads she had woven now hung overhead in the great loom like a celestial web — strange and luminous, depicting potential futures: some triumphant, some tragic, all undeniably hers.
Therian looked graver than ever. "He came far too close. His power is growing faster than the laws of this world can resist."
"So," Reeko muttered, "not to nitpick the existential panic here, but… where do we run to now?"
"We don't," Mira said, surprising even herself with the resolve in her voice. "We go forward."
Pipla thumped her axe against the stone floor. "Finally. Marching toward the doom. That's more like it."
Therian gestured to the far end of the chamber, where a rippling archway had appeared, formed entirely of knotted threads. It looked like a doorway stitched by time itself.
"That path leads to the Threadbound March," he said. "An old road. Mostly forgotten. It cuts through the Cradle Hills and ends near the Shattered Steppes — Velcrath's current stronghold. The terrain between here and there is twisted by old magic. You'll see things that never were, and walk paths no one else can follow."
Jory rubbed his chin. "So it's confusing. Good. I do my best work when confused."
Mira exhaled, trying to brace herself. "And what exactly are we looking for?"
Therian stepped closer, handing her a small scroll sealed with green wax. "The next shard of the Fatebinder's soul. It lies in a place called The Mirrorhold. A fortress built in contradiction. Only the bearer of fate can survive its trial — and even then, only barely."
Nereida joined her. "I'll guide you until the boundary. But I cannot enter the Mirrorhold. That trial is yours alone."
"Great," Mira muttered. "More trials. More metaphysical trauma. Love it."
Before they left, Therian gave each of the Halflings a charm — thread-bound sigils that shimmered softly with defensive magic. "You'll need these," he said. "Velcrath's influence leaks into creatures now. The further you go, the more reality bends."
"Can't wait," said Pipla, already adjusting hers into a makeshift knuckle-duster.
They passed under the arch of woven time, the fabric of the world humming as it let them through. On the other side, the air changed.
It smelled… impossible. Like a memory of cinnamon, old parchment, and storm clouds that hadn't happened yet.
The landscape unfolded before them in shifting gradients of green and gold — fields of grass that bent away from them as they walked, as though time itself didn't want to be touched.
Welcome to the Threadbound March.
It looked like a battlefield no one had ever fought on. The land stretched in surreal plateaus, littered with floating rocks, mirrored lakes that reflected people who weren't there, and trees with hourglasses for leaves. Gravity was uncertain. So was up.
Reeko tapped a floating stone with his lute. "This place is breaking every bardic law of acoustics."
Mira checked her Die. They were calm again — not cold, not pulsing, just waiting. As if they knew something she didn't.
As they moved deeper into the March, they came upon a line of statues. Dozens of them. All along the path — men, women, creatures of myth — all frozen in action. Some looked terrified. Others reached for invisible objects. One appeared to be doing a very dramatic interpretive dance.
"Creepy," muttered Jory. "Like a museum curated by nightmares."
Mira approached one of the statues and frowned. "These aren't sculptures. They're… real."
"People?" Reeko asked.
"Frozen in time," Nereida confirmed. "Velcrath has begun testing his reach. He's interrupting timelines. These are echoes of people caught in almost-events. Choices never made. Futures denied."
Mira swallowed. "So what happens if I… mess up?"
Nereida was quiet for a moment too long. Then: "Then you join them."
They pressed on.
The sky above fractured slightly, revealing slivers of alternate realities. Mira caught glimpses of herself — sometimes alone, sometimes triumphant, once in a wedding dress made of fire. She tried not to look too long.
By the time they reached a rise overlooking a valley of broken mirrors, the sun had changed color three times.
There, standing in the center of a reflective field, was a figure.
At first, Mira thought it was a woman in a white dress. Then she realized it was herself.
Or… a version of her.
"Ah. Lovely," she muttered. "Time for my evil twin."
"Do we kill it?" Pipla asked.
"Let's talk first. Then kill it if necessary," Mira said.
They approached cautiously.
The mirrored Mira turned. Her eyes were gold. Her smile was not kind.
"I'm not evil," she said, before anyone could speak. "I'm… potential."
"Potential for what?"
"To stop holding back."
The others fanned out slightly, uncertain.
Mirror Mira circled Mira slowly, speaking as she walked.
"You still think this is about being good. About balance. About doing what's right."
"Well," Mira said, "it's certainly not about joining the literal manifestation of cosmic control."
"Isn't it?" the reflection hissed. "Velcrath offers peace. Stability. You could end pain. End uncertainty. All it takes is one decision."
Mira took a deep breath. "No Die."
She pulled the real ones from her pouch and let them fall.
11
A shockwave of probability pulsed outward — the mirror landscape fractured slightly, but Mirror Mira didn't flinch.
She just smiled. "One roll won't save you. But maybe this will."
She raised a hand. Time folded.
Suddenly, they were surrounded — not by enemies, but by versions of Mira . Dozens. Hundreds.
Some looked hardened. Some wore armor. Some were wounded. One was crying.
The real Mira turned slowly, horrified.
"What is this?"
Mirror Mira gestured. "Every Mira who made a different choice. All the paths you abandoned. All the fates you walked away from. They're here. And you must walk through them to reach the Mirrorhold."
Behind the army of selves, a fortress of glass and paradox shimmered into being.
The Mirrorhold
Mira drew a sharp breath, then rolled the Die again.
18
A path opened — narrow but glowing. A thread of her own truth cutting through the chaos.
She stepped onto it And so began the final march toward the Mirrorhold.
The path shimmered beneath Mira 's boots — not quite solid, not quite illusion. Just enough reality to carry her forward. Each step she took left behind a faint echo, as if time was reluctantly recording her progress.
Behind her, Pipla, Reeko, Jory, and Nereida followed with cautious determination. Around them, hundreds of versions of Mira watched from the glassy wastes. Some stood still as statues. Others paced in tight circles. One sat cross-legged, rolling Die endlessly and muttering probabilities under her breath.
"This place is horrible," Reeko whispered, plucking a dissonant chord on his lute just to break the silence.
"No argument," Mira replied, eyes fixed on the colossal structure rising before them.
The Mirrorhold loomed like an impossible idea made manifest. Its spires twisted inward, defying geometry. Walls flickered between transparency and reflection, revealing glimpses of things Mira had never done — and some she hoped never to do. One tower showed her clutching a crown of thorns; another, bloodied hands over a fallen Pipla. The fortress didn't just mirror — it mocked.
As they reached the foot of the fortress, the mirrored versions of Mira parted like ghosts. A great obsidian door opened without sound.
Nereida touched Mira 's arm. "From here, it's only you."
"What?" Pipla barked. "She's not going in alone!"
"She must," Nereida said. "This is her soul's challenge. The Mirrorhold will only permit one."
Mira looked back at her friends, her heart sinking. "I'll be fine," she lied.
Jory tossed her a flask. "If you meet a version of yourself offering soup, be suspicious."
"Thanks, Jory."
With a breath like stepping off a cliff, Mira entered the Mirrorhold.
The door sealed behind her.
Inside was silence. Pure and absolute.
She stood in a vast hall, its walls polished to perfect reflectivity. Dozens of Mira s stared back from every angle — some curious, some angry, a few afraid. The air was thick with potential, like a room before a storm or a conversation that might end everything.
At the far end stood a pedestal.
Upon it: a small, crystalline shard.
The next piece of the Fatebinder's soul.
It pulsed gently, emitting no heat but radiating deep, undeniable gravity — a weight not measured in mass but in meaning.
Mira took a step forward.
"Stop."
Her voice. But colder.
From her left stepped another Mira — this one armored in silver and obsidian, a war-leader version. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were hard.
"You shouldn't take it."
Another Mira emerged from the right — robed, with ink-stained fingers and glowing tattoos. "Taking it changes you. The more you bind your fate, the less you belong to yourself."
"I need it," Mira said. "To fight Velcrath. To stop the world from unraveling."
"Is that your goal?" asked a third Mira , stepping out from the wall directly behind her. This one was barefoot, dressed in simple linen. "Or are you just trying to find meaning in a world that stole your normal life?"
Mira froze. That cut deeper than she expected.
Another Mira appeared, arms folded. This one looked… tired. She wore her London work badge on a broken lanyard. "You could go back. Give up the Die. Find Eli again."
Mira 's stomach clenched.
"I can't," she said, quietly.
"Can't or won't?" asked tired-Mira .
Then the room shimmered.
And all the Mira s began to speak at once — a cacophony of alternate truths.
You should lead armies.
You should save no one.
You are meant to destroy Velcrath.
You are meant to replace him.
This is all a test.
This is all a trap.
You should have stayed in London.
Mira shut her eyes and clutched her Die. She whispered:
"Let me roll."
The noise ceased
She opened her hand. The Die gleamed in the pale mirrorlight. She let them fall.
2
The ground shattered.
Mira fell — or rather, the world fell around her — and she landed on her back in another chamber.
This one was different. Dim. Warmer. A study, cluttered with parchment and coffee cups. A sofa with worn cushions. A bookshelf of fantasy novels. A framed photo of Eli smiling.
It was her living room.
Except not quite.
At the desk sat another version of Mira .
Middle-aged. Eyes hollow. Her fingers trembled as she clutched a pair of silver Die — identical to Mira 's, but dulled.
"You came," this older Mira said, without turning.
"Who are you?" Mira whispered.
The woman looked up. "I'm you. If you give up."
Mira stepped forward slowly. "You mean… if I go home?"
"If you survive all this. Defeat Velcrath. Save the world. And then realize that it didn't fix anything you left behind."
Older-Mira stood. Her shoulders sagged under invisible weight.
"Even if you win, you'll return changed. You'll look at Eli and wonder if he still sees you the same. You'll miss this world. You'll crave the thrill. The control. And slowly, you'll stop being her. The woman he loved."
Mira 's throat tightened.
"I still love him," she said.
"Then don't take the shard," said her older self. "Let it go. Walk away. Go back before you can't."
Mira looked down at her Die.
And then she rolled again.
19
A pulse of light burst outward — not violent, not sharp — but pure.
The room melted away like snow in spring.
Mira stood once more in the great mirrored chamber. The other Mira s — warlords, monks, shopkeepers, monsters — bowed their heads and vanished.
Only the shard remained.
Mira walked to it.
She reached out, hand shaking, and touched the crystal.
Warmth flooded through her arm — not heat, but understanding. For a moment, she saw her thread in the tapestry of all things. She saw Eli asleep in bed, holding her pillow. She saw Pipla laughing atop a broken siege tower. She saw Velcrath screaming as a thread unraveled around him.
And she saw herself.
Whole. Afraid. But determined.
The shard dissolved into her chest.
Her Die flashed.
A new rune appeared along their surface — spiraling, infinite.
When Mira stepped out of the Mirrorhold, the Halflings were waiting.
"You're glowing," said Reeko.
"Not metaphorically," added Jory. "Your face is actually glowing."
Mira exhaled. "Let's hope it's not contagious."
Nereida approached. "You passed the trial. The soul remembers you."
"I remember her," Mira said softly.
She looked up.
Far on the horizon, clouds were gathering — impossibly high and twisting like dragons. In the distance, black lightning split the sky.
"Velcrath's not going to wait for us," Mira murmured.
"Then let's not wait for him," Pipla said, cracking her knuckles.
They turned north — toward the Shattered Steppes, and the final fate that waited there.
The endgame had begun.