Long before the Hollow was named, before the Loom was anchored in stone, there were Watchers.
Not gods.
Not spirits.
But something older—guardians of balance, protectors of threadlines between memory and fate.
Their eyes had remained shut for generations. But now, with the Loom awakened, they stirred.
Morya felt it first.
A shadow behind her thoughts, not hostile—but measuring. When she spun threads at the Loom, the sensation grew sharper, like being watched through glass.
"Something's testing me," she said aloud one twilight, standing beneath the silver tree.
Nima looked up from a lantern she was repairing. "Not testing—judging."
Erielle arrived soon after, carrying an ancient book. "They've noticed you. The Watchers."
"They still exist?"
Erielle nodded. "They exist outside existence. They observe the Weavers of every realm, and when one emerges who shifts the thread too boldly, they intervene."
"How?"
"They send riddles. Warnings. And sometimes… trials."
That night, Morya dreamed.
She stood inside a vast chamber with no ceiling. Stars hung like threads above her, and in the center, three faceless figures sat upon thrones of woven silence.
Their voices rang out together:
"You wield the Loom, child of flame.
But every weave bears a cost.
Tell us, Morya Alen—do you know whose thread you cut to save your own?"
She tried to speak, but no voice came.
Instead, the silver needle floated into her hand once more—its point now curved like a question mark.
"Answer."
Suddenly, she saw them—countless faces. The echoes she had passed in the Unwoven. Forgotten memories. Unclaimed names. Threads she never mended.
"None of them were lost because of me," she said. "But maybe… I chose who to save."
"And who not to," one Watcher intoned.
"Do you regret?"
"Do you fear?"
"Do you dare try again?"
The needle glowed—and in that moment, Morya understood:
This was not punishment.
This was an invitation.
"I dare," she whispered.
The chamber trembled. The stars pulsed.
Then the Watchers said:
"Then three trials shall bind your worth.
One of memory.
One of sacrifice.
One of truth.
Only then shall the Loom be truly yours."
She awoke gasping beneath the silver tree.
Erielle and Nima rushed to her.
"What did they say?" Nima asked.
"They're coming," Morya said softly, "and they'll take everything I've built if I fail."
She looked up at the sky, where the stars began to move—threads rearranging.
"Three trials. And I have no idea what waits on the other side."