The skies above the celestial realms ripped open.
Cracks of golden lightning tore through the firmament, splitting the heavens as the Throne of Threads—once a symbol of absolute control—began to tremble. For eons, it had rested atop the Loom's highest plane, guarded by fate-bound deities too ancient to name. Now, it shuddered beneath the weight of something it could not bind:
Choice.
Kael hovered at the edge of the Celestial Spire, cloaked in raw stardust and unbound light. In his hand, he held the Loomshard, a crystalline relic carved from the soul of the tapestry itself—a gift from the entity now tamed within him.
Behind him stood lyra, her aura blazing, no longer just the Oracle of Whispers—but the Voice of the Woven Will. She had seen what was coming. She had felt the silent rebellion stirring in the hearts of gods who had long grown weary of obeying a path written by someone—or something—else.
"Kael," she said, eyes locked on the spire. "Are you ready?"
"No," he admitted. "But fate doesn't wait for readiness. It only waits to be broken."
❖
Atop the spire, the High Celestials had gathered—immortal beings who once dictated the course of time, destiny, and judgment.
Vaelion, the God of Order, gripped the Crown of Fate in his gauntleted hand. It pulsed with ancient authority, threads spilling from it like silver blood.
"You dare to unweave eternity?" Vaelion bellowed. "You, a half-mortal who rejected the weft?"
"I didn't reject it," Kael said, voice echoing across dimensions. "I evolved beyond it."
With a flick of his wrist, Kael sent the Loomshard into the air—it split into thousands of fractals, weaving themselves into new patterns, opening paths that had never existed before.
The threads writhed. Reality itself bent around his will.
Vaelion hurled his spear of decree, forged from the First Law. But Kael caught it mid-air, rewrote its command, and shattered it into golden dust.
The Celestial Court gasped.
Then… Kael stepped forward and spoke three words that would end their rule:
"Let fate fall."
The Crown of Fate cracked.
Splinters of control burst from it, and the sky rained fragments of what was once unbreakable.
Lyra raised her arms, catching the falling pieces and casting them into the Loom not to destroy them, but to free them. Every soul who had ever been chained by fate suddenly felt it loosen. The forgotten. The cursed. The predetermined.
They all looked up.
❖
The Throne of Threads exploded in a shockwave of divine energy, sending the High Celestials flying.
In its place rose a new seat—not forged of gold or prophecy, but of living starlight and mortal will. It did not command. It listened.
Kael turned away from it.
"I don't need to rule," he said. "I just need to make sure no one else rules in silence."
The Loom, now untamed, spun behind him.
Lyra touched his shoulder. "So… what now?"
Kael smiled faintly, as a galaxy bloomed where his footsteps touched.
"We let them write their own stories."