The visions began before sunrise.
Aurea jolted upright in the quiet of her quarters, her skin damp with sweat, her breath sharp. The dream—no, not a dream—memory—clung to her like mist.
In it, the sky had shattered not in silence but in song—a discordant, fractured lullaby sung by a voice with no mouth. Threads of silver unraveling from the stars, slipping between her fingers like dying light.
And Eryan—Eryan had been falling.
She wrapped herself in her cloak and stepped into the corridor, drawn not by reason, but by instinct.
She found him where she'd known he'd be.
The inner terrace of the Archive overlooked the fractured sky, still veiled by violet clouds and the shimmering scars that refused to fade. Eryan stood at the edge of the stone balustrade, arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair caught in the wind.
"You're not sleeping," she said.
"Neither are you."
He didn't turn, but he shifted—just enough for her to step closer, just enough to make space beside him.
Aurea hesitated. Then:
"I saw you fall."
He didn't reply immediately, but when he did, his voice was soft. "And did I hit the ground?"
She exhaled slowly, then leaned on the balustrade beside him. "No. I woke up before that."
Eryan finally looked at her then, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes held storms.
"There's something I haven't told you."
Aurea's shoulders tensed. "What is it?"
"I wasn't always bound to the Archive," he said. "Before that, I served the Weavers' Order. I… believed in the Loom. In the design."
She blinked. "You were one of them?"
"Not like the cultists. I studied the structures. I believed they could be stabilized. Restored."
His jaw clenched. "Until they tried to sacrifice an entire village to 'anchor' a thread."
The pain in his voice wasn't distant. It was recent. Raw.
"I tried to stop it. I failed." He looked away. "Kael found me after. Riven helped fake my death. And the Archive took me in."
Aurea didn't speak for a long time.
Then, softly:
"And now you watch over me like a penance."
"No," he said. "I watch over you because you remind me that something good can still emerge from this chaos. Not as redemption. Just… hope."
Emotional deepening.
Aurea's hand found his.
"I'm not a god, Eryan. I'm not a thread or a flame or a prophet."
"I know."
"I'm scared," she whispered. "And angry. And confused. And I feel like I'm constantly one step away from tearing apart at the seams."
He looked down at her, slowly.
"And I will stand there with you," he said, voice low and sure, "even if the world tears with us."
Their foreheads touched. A breath between them. Her hand rose to the side of his face.
And then she kissed him.
Not fire this time. Not promises. Just need.
They stayed like that—wrapped in something unspoken—until the wind shifted and a voice echoed from the hallway behind them.
"Good," Kael drawled. "Because we've found the first rupture site. Thought you two might want to be dressed for it."
Hours later, they stood at the edge of a ravine near the ruined village of Lysmar Hollow.
The sky above it churned in slow spirals, stars visible even in daylight. And in the heart of the broken land, a monument pulsed with silver light—twisting, half-formed, bleeding magic into the air.
Serenya had called it an exposed Weavepoint—a thread unspooling from the Loom itself.
Aurea, Kael, Eryan and Riven stood together on the ridge. None of them spoke.
"Looks like hell's anus," Riven muttered.
"That would make you the tongue, then," Kael said flatly.
But even Riven didn't laugh.
They descended into the ravine, the magic thick in the air. Aurea felt it immediately—the pressure behind her eyes, the tug in her blood.
"It's calling to me," she murmured.
Eryan was at her side in an instant. "Then listen. But don't answer."
They reached the monument—if it could be called that. A tangled spire of bone and crystal and torn silk, etched with runes that shimmered and shifted between languages none of them recognized.
Aurea stepped forward.
"Wait—" Kael began.
But it was too late.
The moment her hand touched the monument, the world inverted.
She stood not in the ravine, but on a platform suspended in endless void. Above her, the Loom stretched into the cosmos—threads of time, fate, love, death—each glowing with its own color.
And in the center, a missing thread pulsed with hunger.
It was her.
Or something that wore her face.
It turned toward her with a smile.
And said:
"You're already unraveling."
She gasped as she fell backward into her body, Eryan catching her before she hit the ground. Her skin glowed with faint sigils—temporary, flickering, fading.
"I saw it," she said breathlessly. "The Loom. A piece is gone. But it's still aware."
Riven crouched beside her. "You mean it's conscious?"
"More than that," Aurea said. "It's active. It knows I'm here."
"Then we need to close this place," Kael said. "Before it spreads."
"No," Eryan said suddenly. "We need to trace it."
Aurea looked up at him. "What?"
"There's a signature here—magical resonance. I can map it. If it leads to the other rupture sites, we'll find the source."
Riven whistled. "Always wanted to play cartographer in a dying world."
Aurea stood, brushing herself off. "Then let's start with this one."
They worked together through the night—drawing runic circles, inscribing sigils, tracing magical ley lines that bled from the Weavepoint. Aurea's strength held only because Eryan stayed with her, his presence grounding, his touch quiet reassurance.
At one point, as she struggled to hold a spell-stabilizing rune, her hand shook. Eryan moved behind her, covering her fingers with his own.
"Let me carry some of it," he whispered against her ear.
She leaned back into him slightly. "Only if you don't let go."
"I wouldn't dare."
As dawn broke, the lines were complete. Kael activated the triangulation. Threads of light rose from the spire, bending into the sky, converging toward a new location.
The second rupture site.
It shimmered faintly over the northern sea—far beyond the reach of land.
Riven narrowed his eyes. "That's where the Archipelago of Silent Gods used to be."
Kael muttered, "Used to be?"
"They sank. Or burned. Or vanished. Depends on which drunk sailor you ask."
Aurea stepped closer to Eryan.
"We go there next."
He nodded. "Together."
But above them, unseen by all, a second tear split quietly across the sky.
And this one—whispered her name.