The sky trembled.
Not with thunder, but the unwinding thrum of potential. Stars spun more quickly above, writhing into a vortex of light. Threads hung about the great tower like living rivers—gold, crimson, void-black—each one pounding in time with the great Loom-heart below the world.
Kael stepped forward, and the ground itself complained of his presence.
"Elira," he breathed, his voice rough, "this place… it's alive."
She nodded, fist in his. "It's judging us."
The Throne Sovereign did not yet rise. They simply looked at them—not as an enemy, but as something that had seen a thousand champions come and go.
"You carry Calthera's spark," the Throne Sovereign said, voice glass chimes rung in a world with no wind. "And you… child of shattered blood…" Their gaze flicked to Elira. "The Hidden Spindle's daughter."
Elira drew back. "You recognize who I am?"
