The Confluence roared.
The name—Elara—echoed still, a golden-black chord that struck through every fiber of the Weaver's tapestry.
The Nightweaver shrieked, its form unraveling, limbs twitching as threads snapped.
Each broken strand dissolved into ash, its false realities undone—flowers bloomed again, laughter returned, memories stitched back into being.
For the first time, the Weaver faltered.
Its faceless mask bent, like cracked porcelain, voice shredding into countless tones:
> "This… is not… possible."
The twin Elara stood together, their blades humming in resonance.
Light and shadow wove themselves into something new—not a thread of despair, nor of denial, but of defiance.
The bridge quaked. Silver stones splintered as the new weave bled outward, rewriting the rewrite.
For a heartbeat, even the Nightweaver's eternal loom bent to their will.
> "The true Loom," whispered the dusk-born.
"Not woven by it. Woven by us."
The Weaver recoiled, yet behind it stretched a storm of threads—endless, fathomless, a tapestry as wide as eternity.
Its broken fingers spread, summoning more. Too many to cut. Too many to resist.
And then the bridge itself cracked, not under Weaver's hand—
but under the weight of Elara's own power.
The loom was shattering.