The air was colder now.
Not the kind of chill that came with altitude or shade, but the kind that curled into your bones and whispered warnings to your spine. The sky above the Daggerfall Hills was smeared with ash-gray clouds, twisting like smoke in water. Somewhere beyond them, something massive stirred — something that made the mountains lean back and the trees grow silent.
Mira walked without speaking.
The shard of the Fatebinder's soul still pulsed in her chest, a flickering light just beneath her sternum, too deep to touch but too loud to ignore. It hadn't stopped humming since she'd claimed it. With every step, the Die in her satchel felt heavier, as if they knew what came next — as if they feared it.
Jory was unusually quiet, though he occasionally poked the ground with a stick and muttered, "No traps here. Just time. And time's the worst trap of all."
Pipla trudged beside Mira , a half-eaten turnip in one hand and her warhammer in the other.
"You alright?" she asked at last, voice softer than usual. "You've been looking off into the middle distance for like... an hour."
Mira blinked. "Have I?"
Reeko, who had been composing a song entitled Mira , Queen of Odd Shiny Die hummed sympathetically. "You've been quieter than Jory during tax season."
Mira managed a weak smile. "I think I can feel him. Velcrath. Watching."
Reeko stopped plucking his lute. "You mean the ancient, realm-devouring evil with a talent for shattering reality like pottery?"
"The very one."
The Halflings all exchanged looks, a few concerned grunts passing between them.
"I'd offer you a cup of something strong and Halfling-distilled," Pipla said, "but I drank it last night after the blight-wolf incident."
Mira shook her head. "It's not fear. It's... resonance. Like there's a string between us, pulled tight. And when I touch the Die, it hums with his name."
The group fell into a tense silence.
They had reached the ridge known as Veil's Edge — where the land sloped steeply down into the Cracked Valley, and beyond it, the ruins of Vael'Zherin — a forgotten city once devoted to fate magic, now swallowed by time and twisted roots. That was their next stop. Therian's map had been clear: within the buried library of Vael'Zherin lay the next shard — and, perhaps, the truth about Velcrath himself.
But crossing the Cracked Valley would not be easy.
"It's cursed," Jory said, sniffing the wind. "Can smell it. Like mildew and burnt promises."
Mira took out her Die.
"Let's see how safely we can make it through this mess. Roll for guidance."
14
The Die spun in her palm and landed with a flash. Immediately, the wind shifted. A thin trail of golden moss began to glow faintly beneath the brambles, winding through the gorge like a beckoning hand.
Reeko leaned over it. "I don't know what species of moss this is, but I would absolutely write poetry about it."
"Follow it," Mira said. "The Die say it's the best chance we have."
They descended carefully, the golden trail threading through crumbled stone and eerie totems — bundles of feathers and bone hung from dead trees, clicking softly in the wind like wind chimes built by something that didn't quite understand music or mercy.
Halfway down, Pipla halted. "I smell movement."
Jory dropped to one knee, ears twitching. "North slope. Something big. And... cloaked in unluck."
Mira grabbed her Die again.
"Roll for perception!"
11
A flicker of movement caught her eye — a shadow flitting between the ruins, too tall to be a Halfling, too graceful to be undead. It wasn't stalking them. It was watching. And then, it whispered.
"Fate-touched…"
The voice was soft and female. Ethereal.
Mira turned. The others braced for a fight — but no threat emerged.
From the shadow stepped a figure cloaked in silver-gray robes, face half-covered by a veil of translucent silk. Her eyes shimmered like mirrors. Her hands bore rings of ancient design.
"I am Nereida," she said. "Of the Forgotten Circle."
Reeko gasped. "They're supposed to be extinct!"
"We're not," she said. "Just forgotten. Like all things fate fears."
Mira didn't move. "Are you a friend of Velcrath?"
Nereida tilted her head. "No. But I was once his student."
That made everyone pause.
"I followed him when he was still a being of balance," Nereida continued. "Before he fell. Before he tried to rewrite the Die."
Mira stepped forward. "You were there?"
"I was there when he tore the Circle apart. When he shattered the Shard of the Ninth Thread and tried to erase the idea of failure. He believed fate should obey intention — not randomness."
Jory muttered, "Sounds like a cheat code."
Nereida smiled, almost sadly. "He sought to control the Die. Bend their will to his own. When they refused… he broke the world instead."
Mira took a shaky breath. "Can he be stopped?"
Nereida looked at her, long and searching. "Only if the Die trust you. And even then... the cost will not be yours alone."
Behind her, the wind rose suddenly — carrying a voice deeper than anything human.
"She carries the echo. She defies the thread."
The sky darkened.
Nereida's eyes widened. "He has found us. Run."
From the north slope came a shape — massive, shrouded in tattered wings and shadow. Velcrath's presence. Not his full form, but a fragment. An echo given flesh.
Mira shoved the Die into her hand. "Roll for survival!"
18
The earth exploded in green fire where they had stood — but the group had already leapt clear, rolling behind a crumbled pillar.
Pipla tossed Reeko onto her back and ran. Jory tossed a smoke bomb. It exploded into a cloud of bees.
"You brought bees?" Mira shouted.
"Bees are always useful!" he shouted back.
The group scrambled up the far slope, the presence of Velcrath's shadow-form howling behind them, devouring light, warping stones, chasing like a hunger made manifest.
Only when they reached the far ridge and Mira slammed a fate ward into the earth — courtesy of Therian — did the echo recoil.
Nereida stood beside her, breathing hard.
"You saw it," she said. "The truth of what you face."
Mira nodded slowly. "I don't think I'm strong enough to beat him."
"Then become stronger," Nereida said. "Come to the Temple of Threads. There's more to learn. And far more to lose."
Mira looked down at her Die.
Their surface shimmered with a new color now.
A streak of black — the color of endings.
She gripped them tighter And turned toward the next horizon.
The Temple of Threads
The path to the Temple of Threads did not appear on any map, at least not one created by sane cartographers. It was marked in changes of wind, in how the sun tilted slightly too far west, in birds that flew in triangles and whispered riddles about time to the trees.
Mira would not have found it without Nereida's guidance.
The former student of Velcrath moved like someone half-tethered to the world — walking just above the grass, her footprints fading before they fully formed. She barely made a sound, and even the bees Jory had accidentally unleashed earlier gave her a wide berth.
"You said you used to follow Velcrath," Mira said as they walked. "What changed?"
Nereida didn't look at her. "He started trying to unmake what could not be made again."
The group followed her in uneasy silence. The Halfling trio had fallen back into their usual patterns — Reeko humming nervously, Pipla sharpening her axe against her teeth, and Jory building a miniature scarecrow out of twigs, moss, and bad intentions.
They walked until the sky changed. Literally.
The clouds above stopped moving. The breeze fell silent. And the sun, though visible, stopped casting shadows.
"We're here," Nereida said simply.
Before them stood a field of silver reeds, each stem exactly the same height, waving in unison though there was no wind. At the center, half-buried in the earth, lay the Temple of Threads — an ancient ruin of seamless white stone, shaped like an unwound spool of thread turned into architecture. The entrance shimmered with magic that didn't hum or glow but listened.
Pipla wrinkled her nose. "That's… weirdly polite for a ruin."
Reeko held his lute like a shield. "I feel like if I play the wrong chord here, the grass will scream."
Jory nodded solemnly. "Temple's cursed. I like it."
Inside, the walls were lined with weavings — massive tapestries that shifted as you walked past, showing different outcomes based on where you stood. One moment, Mira saw herself laughing beside the Halflings at a campfire. The next, she saw a crown of thorns on her brow and ash under her feet.
At the far end of the main hall stood a loom.
It was larger than any she'd ever seen — easily two stories tall, with spools of thread that shimmered in colors human eyes were never designed to perceive. And standing beside it was Therian, the Arc-Seer.
He did not seem surprised to see them.
"I told you the path would lead you here," he said simply. "And that the Die would respond to your growth."
Mira stepped forward. "Velcrath found us."
"Yes. He is learning. He's begun to manifest again — even in partial echoes. It means he's growing stronger."
"He's trying to break the Die," she said. "Bend them to his will."
Therian nodded. "That was always his aim. Control over fate is control over everything. He failed once, but only because the original Fatebinder sealed the Die in their current form — with scattered shards of his own soul hidden across the world."
Mira touched the satchel at her side. "I have one of them now. I can feel it changing me."
Therian's gaze sharpened. "It should. The bond between bearer and Die isn't just magical. It's mutual. The more you trust the Die, the more they trust you."
Jory, who had been pretending not to listen while re-arranging ancient candles into the shape of a duck, muttered, "Trust is a liability."
"No," said Nereida. "It's the price of hope."
Therian stepped toward Mira , raising one hand.
"I need to test your connection. May I?"
Mira hesitated, then nodded.
He placed his palm over her forehead. At once, her vision flickered.
She stood in a place without gravity, surrounded by threads of light and shadow. Some were frayed. Some were tangled. Others pulsed with heat or cold or distant music.
At the center was a mirror.
Inside it, she saw not herself — but Velcrath.
He had no face. Only a shifting void in the shape of a man. And he was looking back.
Mira snapped out of the trance, gasping.
"He knows me," she said. "Not just as the bearer. As me. Mira Wrenlow."
Therian's face was grave. "Then he's closer than I feared."
"What does he want?"
"To replace the Die," said Nereida. "With certainty. No chance. No randomness. Just control."
"That doesn't sound evil," Pipla said cautiously.
"It's worse than evil," said Reeko. "It's boring."
Therian waved them toward the great loom.
"This temple is the last place where fate can still be rewritten in raw form. Before the Age of Weaving ended, the Fatebinders used this loom to anchor reality. Now, you must use it to reinforce your bond — by weaving a fragment of your own story into the tapestry of fate."
Mira stared up at the loom.
"How?"
"By rolling the Die," Therian said. "And accepting what comes."
She stepped forward.
The Die in her hand felt different now — heavier, more alive. She could feel the breath of a thousand possibilities inside them.
"I roll," she whispered, "to weave my fate."
4
The result was underwhelming.
The loom shuddered, and a single weak thread stitched itself into the weave. It flickered. Then dimmed.
"That's… not good, is it?" she asked.
Therian did not answer.
The Die pulsed again. Roll again, they seemed to say.
So she did.
18
The loom roared to life.
Threads of light exploded outward, weaving through the tapestry with the fury of a storm. Images formed — Mira standing before Velcrath, holding not Die, but an entire world in her hands. Then another image — Mira sacrificing the Die to save the Halflings. Then another — her standing alone, everyone else gone.
The threads paused. Hovered And then wove together into a new path.
Mira staggered back. "What… what did that mean?"
Therian looked both awed and afraid.
"It means the Die trust you more than any bearer since the original Fatebinder. But it also means…"
"What?"
"That you may have to choose between saving the world… and saving yourself."
Silence.
No one knew what to say to that.
Not until a crack of thunder shook the walls.
Outside, the silver reeds had turned black. The sky had darkened.
A voice boomed from far away — too loud to be mortal.
"MIRA WRENLOW. I SEE YOU."
Velcrath !
Therian's eyes widened. "He's breaching the temple's edge. He shouldn't be able to—"
"He's using her thread," Nereida said. "He's twisting it."
Jory drew his dagger. "Well. Time to stab metaphysical things again."
Mira turned to the loom
The Die pulsed in her hand one final time.
13
A shield of shimmering thread surrounded the temple, just as a storm of shadows slammed into its walls.
Velcrath's voice grew deeper.
"You delay the inevitable. I am certainty. I am the end of the game."
Mira stepped to the temple's threshold.
"Maybe," she said. "But I've got Die. And a bunch of very weird friends."
She rolled them once more.
16
A wave of protective energy surged outward, forcing Velcrath's projection to retreat — for now.
But it was clear.
The final confrontation was coming And the threads of fate were tightening around her.