The fractured bridge stretched before them, trembling with every heartbeat.
It was not only stone and silver threads that shook—it was the weight of choice itself.
Ahead, a shimmer of argent light beckoned, promising renewal.
Behind, the unraveling void gaped wide, whispering of endings.
> "If we walk forward… the universe will never be the same,"
said Elara of Light, voice steady but fierce.
Elara of Shadow tightened her grip, eyes burning with unspoken truth.
> "And if we falter… the bridge, the power, even us—all will fall into nothing."
Cosmic winds howled, tearing at the fragile weave beneath their feet.
The joined blaze of gold and black flickered, fragile as a candle caught in a storm.
A sharp crack split the silence—the bridge itself protesting their hesitation.
The choice loomed over them, heavier than any blade.
For the first time, the twins felt it:
The loom was no longer the Weaver's. It was theirs.
> "This power belongs to us," whispered the dawn-born.
"And the path—we will weave it together," the dusk-born answered.
The silver road awaited.
But each step forward was not survival—it was creation.