The silence that followed was worse than the fighting.
Dozens of thread-born puppets stood frozen mid-attack, their faceless heads tilted toward Clara. The battlefield, moments ago alive with chaos and fire, now held its breath.
Clara's chest heaved. Her flames sputtered crimson, the threads twining her veins glowing faintly under her skin. She hadn't meant to do it. She hadn't commanded them. But they obeyed anyway.
Her whisper cracked in the stillness. "I didn't… I didn't want this."
Damien's jaw tightened, fire wreathing his fists again. "Then stop. Let go of it. Before it consumes you."
"I can't!" Clara shouted back, her voice breaking. The puppets mirrored her outburst, twitching violently, their bodies jerking like strings tugged too hard. She staggered as if the movement hurt her too, like they were pulling against her bones.
Yurin stepped forward. His voice cut through the tension—calm, sharp, measured. "Clara. Listen carefully. They're not free. They're not alive. They are threads—yours now. And threads can be cut."
His eyes locked on hers. His calm wasn't comfort; it was demand. "So either sever them—or learn to weave."
The words lodged in her chest like a blade. She didn't want to weave. She didn't want this power. But deep inside, beneath the fear, something stirred—a heat that wasn't entirely her flame. A flicker of… control.
The fissure pulsed again. More puppets began clawing their way out, larger than before, their shapes warped by thicker cords, their movements feral. They didn't freeze like the others. They rushed forward, snarling silently.
Damien cursed and hurled a wall of fire, scorching three to ash, but his flames sputtered. "We can't hold forever!"
Evelyn giggled from her perch on a shattered column, spinning her blades lazily. "Oh, but don't you see? We don't have to. Clara's little fan club can do all the heavy lifting."
"Shut your mouth," Damien growled. But he didn't miss the way Clara's crimson-tinted fire was the only thing that truly unmade the puppets. His fear wasn't subtle.
Clara's body trembled as the whispers grew louder. Lead. Rule. Become. Every word was temptation, every syllable a command. The still puppets twitched again, waiting for her voice, her flame, her acceptance.
Her head shook violently. "I won't. I'm not one of them."
But Yurin's gaze didn't waver. He cut down a puppet beast with a swipe of his threads, precise as a surgeon. His words, however, were not merciful.
"You already are."
Clara froze.
Damien turned on him, fury in his eyes. "Don't you dare say that!"
"It's truth," Yurin replied, cold and final. "Truth doesn't vanish because you dislike it." His eyes never left Clara's. "The fissure didn't choose randomly. It doesn't waste its threads. It recognized her. That bond won't break. She can either resist forever and die from it—or accept it and bend it to her will."
The words felt like chains. But they were chains Clara knew she couldn't shake.
Another wave of puppets surged. Damien fought back, Evelyn laughed her way through the chaos, and Yurin sliced with efficient grace. But the tide wasn't turning. The fissure was feeding them endlessly.
Clara's fire flared brighter, crimson spilling through it. The frozen puppets shifted, lifting their hands in eerie unison. For the briefest moment, the battlefield tilted in her favor—their faceless bodies waiting for her command.
Damien shouted, raw panic in his voice. "Clara, don't! If you give in, there's no coming back!"
But her hands burned, her body searing with power that wasn't hers but felt so right. She could end this. She could make the puppets tear each other apart, turn the endless wave against itself.
She opened her mouth—
And the puppets bent closer, silent, waiting, trembling for her order.