The seasons changed slowly in Emberthrone.
Where once the city bristled with watchtowers and lantern-carrying guards, it now hummed with soft light and open doors. The once-faded murals of the Old Weavers had been restored, each thread painted with reverence.
And in the town square, where echoes had once battled silence, a tree now stood—its roots laced with golden thread, its bark carved with names that had once been erased. At its base, a plaque:
"For every stitch mended.
For every name remembered.
For every girl who faced the wind."
Nima no longer walked with the Threadneedle.
She walked with Morya.
They taught.
They listened.
They laughed.
In the mornings, Nima would rise early and speak to the tree.
Not with words—but with memory.
She gave thanks to Ashira. To the Hollowed.
To her parents. To the pain. To the journey.
One day, a girl approached her, no older than ten, holding a broken charm made of string and bone.
"It was my brother's," the girl whispered. "He was lost in the quiet year. They say his name doesn't exist anymore."
Nima knelt beside her, took the charm gently.
"Then let's stitch him back."
And together, they began to weave.
Beyond the Horizon…
Far to the north, in a land untouched by lanterns, winds began to carry whispers once more.
Not of war.
Not of fear.
But of a place where stories could be rewritten.
Where memory could mend.
A boy, nameless and curious, stood on a lonely cliff and saw threads forming in the clouds.
And somewhere beneath the soil…
…the Threadneedle stirred.
**End of Book 5: *Ash