The Nightweaver's threads tightened, stripping away the last fragments of her being.
Her laughter, her pain, her love—all torn apart. Even the echo of her own thoughts began to fade.
Elara staggered, staring at her hands as if they were slipping into nothingness.
The void was swallowing her.
But then—the shadow caught her wrist.
Her twin's eyes burned with a defiant flame.
> "Do not let it steal your name."
The golden Elara gasped, breath shallow, light trembling.
But then she bit down, gathered every shred of will, and screamed—
> "I am—Elara!"
The name ripped through the Confluence, louder than the silver bells of the bridge.
Golden letters burst into being, spiraling from her voice, embedding themselves into the trembling path.
The shadow raised her blade, voice cutting through the dark like a scar.
> "I am—Elara!"
Two voices became one, light and shadow entwined.
Threads of gold and black braided together, searing into the Weaver's fabric.
The bridge thundered with remembrance.
The world, once rewriting, hesitated—as though pausing to acknowledge her truth.
No matter how many times the Nightweaver wove, no matter how deeply it tried to erase—
her name would remain.