A shared gasp drifted through the Weavers.
The third Lord—lost in remembrance—spoke at last. Their tone was soft, but unambiguous.
"You both bear the mark now," they said. "Not just by the Watcher. Not just by the Loom. But by something ancient. You are Threads that will not conform to the pattern."
Elira stepped forward. "Then we shall weave our own."
For a moment, the Lords said nothing.
Then the hooded one nodded.
"So be it."
The door slammed open behind them, and what lay beyond was not a single world—but worlds. Realms stitched along seams of perception. Places where time stuttered and laws bent. Places uncharted.
And Kael understood.
This was the end of war.
It was the first turning.
"We must go," Elira said. "Not just to repair what was broken—but to glimpse what beneath it all."
"Are you certain?" Sareth croaked.
