The world no longer trembled under command.
Instead, it listened.
From the heart of the newly rooted tree, radiant threads spiraled into the heavens — not spun from fate, but born of choice. The Ashborn had retreated to the scorched vale, the Loomsent had vanished like fog before dawn, and the great song of existence had grown… silent.
Not in absence.
In anticipation.
Kael stood beneath the Tree of Light, its branches unfurling like wings of dawn. Each pulse from the Root within him resonated with the newborn Loom, no longer a tool of dominion but a chorus of shared will. He was no longer just a catalyst. He was the first note of a new harmony.
Aelira descended beside him, her stormform quieter now, more contained.
"Funny," she murmured, watching the tree sway despite the still air. "We burned through reality to fix it… and now we're gardeners."
Kael allowed himself a breath of calm. "Rebuilding isn't as dramatic as rebellion."
Lin approached slowly, her gaze fixed on the canopy above. "What happens next? Now that no thread is written for us?"
Kael turned, eyes glowing faintly. "We write our own. All of us."
But peace is never absolute.
From beyond the horizon, deep in the ruined vaults of the forgotten realms — where broken gods still slumbered and chaos whispered old names — a tremor awakened. Not of domination. Not of order.
But of hunger.
A form stirred. Neither Loomsent nor Ashborn. Not bound by thread nor Root. It had watched the unraveling. And it had waited.
Where order dies and freedom blooms, chaos feasts.
Back in the heart of the world, Kael felt it — a flicker beneath the roots, a discordant chord that didn't belong.
He clenched his hand. "Something's watching."
Lin tensed. "Another Weaver?"
Kael shook his head slowly. "No. Something older. Something that was never part of the Loom."
Aelira's eyes flashed with static. "Then what now, 'Threadbreaker'?"
Kael stepped forward, raising his hand toward the sky. The threads above responded, but this time they didn't form chains or bindings. They formed a blade — transparent, shifting, made of intention and memory.
"We welcome the future," he said.
"And if it comes with teeth—"
He smiled.
"—we teach it to bleed."