Kael stood frozen.
The old woman before him radiated something deeper than power. It wasn't merely strength or wisdom. It was weft. Presence. As if she wasn't simply in the Pattern—but of it.
"You... are the Loom?" he asked cautiously.
The woman gave a gentle nod, her silver-blue braids softly jingling as the threads within them shimmered faintly. "I am its keeper. Its voice when necessary. Its silence, when needed most."
The campfire crackled beside them, casting long shadows across the clearing. The rest of the group stayed alert, half drawn to her and half wary of the sudden twist in fate.
"I thought the Loom was a place," Lira said, stepping forward. "A hidden sanctuary for those who survived the First Collapse."
"It was," the woman replied. "And still is. But a loom is only useful if it knows how to thread. A pattern is only sacred when it remembers why it was woven."
Kael lowered the golden thread he held. "Then… if you are the Loom, do you know what this means?"
The old woman's eyes focused on the thread.
And for a moment, Kael felt her perception touch it—not with sight, but with recognition. A ripple passed through the air, and the thread shimmered in response.
"That thread," she whispered, "was never supposed to exist. It's the consequence of choice. Of defiance. Of truth unburied."
She looked at him, truly looked. "You are not a Weaver. You are a Fracture."
The words settled like frost.
Kael blinked. "Fracture?"
The woman nodded solemnly. "A being born of an imperfect memory restored. You aren't here to mend the world as it was. You're here to break the illusion of what it thought it was."
Ashara's hand tightened on her blade. "That sounds an awful lot like the rhetoric used by those who started the Pattern Wars."
"I was there," the woman said quietly. "I remember what they said. And I remember what they forgot."
She turned back to Kael.
"You are not a weapon. Not unless you choose to be."
Veyna asked, "And what happens if Kael doesn't choose to fracture the Pattern?"
"Then the lie continues," the Loom said softly. "And Riven Sol wins."
The fire sputtered briefly. Wind whispered through the pines like voices of the dead.
Kael stepped closer. "You know him."
The Loom's face darkened.
"Riven was once a Fifth Weaver. The most gifted of us all. But he believed that sorrow could be engineered—bottled, distilled, and then weaponized. That if we learned to manipulate grief… we could rewrite loyalty."
Kael's stomach churned. "Is that what happened in the Collapse?"
"No. That was just the beginning. The Collapse was what happened after we tried to erase him. We removed him from the Pattern… but the Pattern remembered him anyway."
Lira sat down slowly. "And now that we've restored the Fourth Shape... he's coming back."
"He never left," the Loom said. "He was just waiting—in the forgotten frequencies, in the corners of forgotten rituals, in the pain people never healed."
Kael looked at the thread again. "Then I need to learn to use this."
"No," she said firmly. "You need to understand it. The thread is not a weapon. It is a question."
He frowned. "A question?"
The Loom knelt and traced a symbol into the dirt—an ancient sigil that flickered with memory.
She looked up at him.
"Every true pattern begins not with a loom, nor with a thread—but with a why."
At her invitation, they followed her through a narrow gorge beneath the mountains. There, carved into the side of a cliff, lay a door made of stone and thread. It had no hinges, only layers of fibers gently woven in such a way that it recognized the hand of the Loom as she approached.
With a simple brush of her palm, the door unraveled.
Inside, was silence.
And then light.
Thousands of threads suspended in mid-air, each glowing with different hues—emotions, memories, possibilities.
A great tapestry hung across the far wall.
But it wasn't finished.
Kael walked slowly through the chamber, eyes wide. "This… this is the true Pattern?"
The Loom nodded. "What remains of it. Before the Collapse, there were Five Weavers. Each of us crafted one of the Five Shapes. The First was Order. The Second, Passion. The Third, Curiosity. The Fourth… Sorrow."
She turned to him. "And the Fifth was the Shape of Contradiction. Riven's shape."
Ashara scoffed. "That doesn't sound very inspiring."
"It wasn't meant to be," the Loom said. "It was meant to challenge us. To remind us that the Pattern was never perfect."
Veyna studied the unfinished tapestry. "Is this where Kael's thread belongs?"
The Loom smiled. "No. His thread doesn't belong in the Pattern."
Everyone turned to her.
"It belongs around it."
Kael sat for hours that night, meditating with the Loom.
He asked her about the ancient weavings. About the First Collapse. About the true nature of threads.
But mostly, he listened.
"The world doesn't need another hero," she told him. "It needs someone who will ask the questions everyone else avoids."
He finally spoke. "Then here's one: Why did the Fourth Shape have to be forgotten?"
She looked at him sadly.
"Because grief... is contagious. Once one person truly remembers loss, everyone around them must face theirs too. And the world wasn't ready."
Kael closed his eyes.
"I don't think it is now either."
The Loom placed her hand on his shoulder.
"No. But you are."
The next morning, the sky over the mountains cracked open again.
But this time, the rift didn't scream.
It sang.
A low harmonic tone, like a memory you didn't know you had being hummed by a voice you thought you'd lost.
From the rift descended not a Reaper—but a Weaver.
His robe was woven of gray threads, his face obscured by a mask of bone and glass.
Kael stood at the edge of the sanctuary.
"Are you Riven Sol?" he asked.
The man chuckled.
"No. He wouldn't come himself. He sends… proxies. I am the Shade of the Fifth."
Kael didn't flinch.
"I have a thread."
The Shade tilted his head. "Yes. I see it. It glows. It questions. That's dangerous."
Kael smiled slightly. "Good."
The Shade spread his arms.
"Then ask me something, Threadbearer."
Kael stepped forward.
"Why are you afraid?"
The Shade froze.
And for a heartbeat… his form shimmered. His mask cracked.
"Because," the Shade whispered, "if you succeed… we remember the price. And not all of us are ready to pay it again."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Then don't stand in my way."
The Shade bowed.
"I won't. But others will."
He vanished.
Back inside the sanctuary, the Loom approached Kael with a new bundle—black thread with gold streaks.
She handed it to him.
"This is yours now. Not as a gift. But as a burden."
Kael accepted it.
"I understand."
"No," she said. "But you will."
She stepped back.
"And when the Pattern begins to fray again—when the world screams not for a savior but for a truth—you must ask it again:
Why?"