The Nightweaver moved like a loom gone mad, arms flaring wide, hurling threads of midnight across the seam. Each strand rewrote reality in its wake: flowers shriveled into ash, laughter warped into sobs, silver stone bleeding into rust.
Elara of shadow slipped between the threads, fire-dark blade severing the weave before it could knot.
Elara of light cut with arcs of brilliance, her strikes revealing truth beneath the lies.
Back to back, they moved—imperfect halves yet perfectly in step.
> "It does not slay the body," the dusk-born hissed, her blade scattering sparks of shadow.
"It slays the meaning of the body, the memory that keeps it alive."
The golden twin's chest tightened at those words, but she pressed forward.
Her light surged, not to burn, but to illuminate—the blade shining like dawn itself.
When their blades met the Weaver's threads together, the sound was deafening.
A keening note, sharp enough to split horizons, shook the Confluence.
The black threads unraveled, bursting into fragments of silver-black rain that scattered into the void.
And yet—the Weaver did not fall.
Its faceless head tilted, as though amused.
More threads began to spin, faster, weaving patterns too vast to strike down one by one.
The bridge quivered beneath their feet.
Together, the two Elara stood, no longer mirrors, no longer rivals—
but warriors bound by one truth: only united could they stand against the Weaver.
The war of two horizons had begun.