The path to the first trial revealed itself not with fire or thunder—but with a whisper in the wind.
A mirror appeared at the edge of the Loom's roots. It wasn't made of glass, but of threaded light, its surface rippling like woven water. Morya stood before it, the silver needle in her palm, and a hush fell over the Hollow.
Erielle watched from a distance. "No one can go with you," she warned.
Nima reached out instinctively, but Morya shook her head gently.
"If this is about my memory, then it's mine to carry."
She stepped through the mirror.
On the other side was the Ashen Year—the worst of her childhood. The year her family burned. The year she first heard the Loom's hum in the darkness. The year she had chosen to forget.
But memory, once hidden, becomes hungry.
She stood in her old village. The sky was dusky red, and flames flickered in the distance. Children screamed. And at the center of it all stood a younger Morya, no older than ten, with wide terrified eyes and scorched hands.
The mirror had brought her not just to a place—but to a moment.
The trial had begun.
"You remember," the younger version of her said.
"I tried not to," Morya whispered.
"You left me here. Alone."
Suddenly, the world split like torn fabric, and every forgotten memory burst forth:
Her mother's final scream as the roof caved in.
The man in red thread who stood at the fire's edge, watching but not helping.
The whisper in the ashes: "You will burn to become light."
"Why did you abandon me?" the child Morya cried, clutching her arms.
"Because I had to survive."
"You survived by burying me."
The trial deepened.
All around her, versions of herself appeared—fragments she had locked away:
The girl who first stole fire.
The one who nearly let Nima die in the Threadlands.
The Weaver who questioned whether love was ever truly hers to keep.
They circled her, accusing, aching.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, desperate.
"Not forgiveness," they said together.
"Not escape."
"We want you to remember."
Suddenly, the silver needle began to hum in her hand.
"Thread is memory," Morya whispered.
"And memory is pain."
She lifted the needle and did what she had never dared:
She sewed her past into herself, stitch by stitch. The screams, the ashes, the guilt. Each memory bled as it entered, but she did not stop. Not until all her selves were whole again.
When she looked up, the child version of her smiled faintly.
"Thank you… for remembering me."
The mirror faded.
Morya stepped back into the Hollow.
Erielle gasped. "You're bleeding—your hands…"
Nima knelt beside her. "What did they make you face?"
"Myself," Morya murmured.
The Loom pulsed softly. One star in the sky blazed briefly, then dimmed—signaling the first trial was complete.
But the sky darkened again.
Two trials remained.