Chapter 9: The Loom's End.
The ancient vault groaned beneath the immense strain of time and burden, its stone walls echoing with every labored, shallow breath Kael took as he ascended the long staircase. The shard's dim light flickered feebly in his blood-slicked hand—barely more than a guttering flame now. Each step was a war against exhaustion, his muscles screaming beneath the weight of wounds and relentless weariness.
Behind him, Toren followed in silence, dragging his great hammer along the stone. The dull scrape of the metal was a steady rhythm in the darkness—a grim metronome of survival.
Pressed close to Kael's side was Lirien, her steps quick despite her own fatigue. The spiritbound glow that once radiated from her was now little more than a silver shimmer. She was trembling, but she was not falling—that spoke volumes about her fear and her resilience. Mara limped behind them, her breath coming in ragged gasps, each movement leaving a distinct crimson trail across the floor. Her blood mingled with the dust of the collapsing Loom chamber below, the final gasp of the Sleeping Tyrant's current prison still echoing in their bones like distant, dying thunder. It was not just a sound—it was a definitive warning.
Kael's body was a battlefield of pain. Gashes across his back burned with every movement, his leg screamed with every step, and his shoulder was numb—but the shard pulsing faintly in his grip gave him purpose. That sliver of power—dying, yet still present—was all that kept him upright. He knew the Tyrant was dreaming again. Not dead. Not defeated. Just sleeping. And dreams, he understood now, had a terrible way of clawing their way back into reality.
"Soon…" The single, chilling word crawled through Kael's thoughts, a whisper that felt etched into his very soul.
At last, they reached the upper chamber, where the small rift had been. The mosaic floor—once a masterpiece of woven patterns and celestial colors—was shattered. Hairline fractures ran through it like veins, centered around the place where Toren had felled the rift-beast. Blood, debris, broken steel—remnants of war lay strewn about like discarded offerings.
And amidst it all, the villagers stirred.
Jessa was the first to move. Her knitting needles clutched tight in her fingers, she sat upright with a start, as if awakening from a long and terrible dream.
"Kael…?"
His name was barely a whisper, but it struck him harder than any blade or blow he had endured.
"You're awake," Kael murmured, his voice rough, dry, but filled with a swell of pure relief. He knelt beside her, gently helping her sit up. Her fingers trembled, still clutching the needles like they were daggers.
Toren moved past him, checking on Korrin. His big hands worked gently and carefully, his brow furrowed in worry.
"It's over," Kael said, glancing at them all. "The curse… it's gone."
Torm groaned nearby, his lined face creased with confusion. "Felt like I was drowning… threads… everywhere."
"You were," Lirien said softly, kneeling beside him. Her voice was steady despite her own trembling limbs. "But it's done. You're safe now."
Mara limped to the center pedestal, wincing with every step. Her hand pressed against her torn thigh as she looked up. The rift—once a gaping wound in the world—was little more than a thread-thin scar now, its violet glow fading like twilight.
"The Tyrant's bound again," she muttered, almost to herself. "Its hold severed."
She looked back at Kael, her eyes meeting his with profound intensity. "You did it."
"No," Kael said quietly, stepping toward her. "We did it. But it's not gone. Just… dreaming."
Her jaw tightened in grim agreement. "It's Aetherial. You don't kill something like that. You trap it. Delay it. But it remembers. It waits."
Toren hefted his hammer with a grunt, the veins in his arms taut with renewed fury. "Then we find a way to crush it. To grind it into dust. No more waiting."
"No." Mara's voice cut through the air with the finality of a blade. "The Loom's tied to the vault's structure. Destroy the Loom, and this entire chamber collapses. We'll be buried under stone and screams. It's not an option."
Kael glanced down at the shard. Its glow had dulled completely. The runes etched across its surface were fading like ink in rain. "Then what? Just leave it here? Let some poor fool find it a century from now and unleash this all over again?"
Mara's face hardened, her expression set. Her cane struck the stone with unyielding finality.
"I'll seal it," she declared. "Properly, this time. With blood. With runes. Like the old ways should have been done."
"Blood?" Toren stepped forward, alarm visible across every line of his scarred face. "You're half-dead already. One bad step and you'll fall."
She ignored him, her focus absolute. She pulled a small blade from the folds of her shawl. It was a cruel little thing—jet black metal, with ancient runes crawling along its edge like living things.
"I sealed it once, as a priestess," she said, not looking at them. "But I was too weak. I made mistakes. I woke it again."
Kael reached out and grabbed her arm, his grip firm. "Mara, no. You've done enough. Let me—"
Her eyes met his, fierce and calm all at once. "You're Unshackled, Kael. Free to choose your path. I'm not. This… this is the thread I was meant to cut. This is my fate."
He stood frozen, the weight of her words pressing against him like the very vault ceiling. Behind them, the floor cracked again, a final geological shift. Dust drifted down like snow. The faint scar of the rift pulsed, and a quiet whisper rose from it: "No…"
Lirien stepped forward, her eyes wide, her voice small and trembling. "Mara… please. You don't have to."
The older woman smiled—soft, sad, and full of fiery resignation. "I do, lass. For you. For all of them. So you can start weaving your own lives again."
She turned back to Kael and placed the small black blade in his hand. Her fingers were cold, yet steady.
"Help me finish it."
Kael's throat tightened. He nodded once, understanding the impossible burden of her request.
They moved to the pedestal. Mara knelt, wincing deeply, her wounded leg nearly giving out beneath her. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then swiftly slashed her palm. Warm, dark blood dripped onto the stone, and with trembling fingers, she traced a massive spiral—a jagged rune of binding. Her chant was low and guttural, ancient words that resonated through the stone, laced with agony and absolute hope.
The rift twisted violently, a final shadow roiling within it. The whisper returned, louder now: "No… wait…"
"Now!" Mara gasped, her voice thinning to a thread.
Kael stepped forward and pressed the dying shard into the faint, shimmering outline of the Loom's current silhouette, its essence barely visible through the dying rift. The shard flared with a final, bright expenditure of energy. The rune she had drawn instantly lit up, its glow matching the faint, new lines that had burned into Kael's palm. For one blinding moment, the room became pure light and thunder.
Then profound silence.
Mara's breath hitched. She slumped forward, and Kael caught her gently before she hit the stone. She was feather-light in his arms.
"It's done," she whispered, her voice faint, distant. "Sealed… for good… No more secrets."
"Mara?" Lirien rushed to her side, her voice breaking with fear and grief. "Mara!"
Lirien fell to her knees, grabbing the older woman's hand. But it was limp. The cane clattered to the floor, echoing loudly like a bell tolling for the fallen.
Toren knelt beside them, his brow low, his massive frame trembling. His voice came thick and rough with unshed tears. "She's gone, lad. She bought us the rest of the time we need."
Kael said nothing. He laid Mara down gently, brushing the hair from her forehead. Her face was peaceful now, finally free from pain and centuries of guilt. A true warrior's peace.
The vault hummed no longer. The rift was a thread-thin scar. The echo of the Tyrant was gone. And Mara's fight—her life—had sealed the Tyrant's dream.
The villagers gathered slowly. Dazed. Silent. But intensely, thankfully alive. Jessa wept openly, clutching her needles like prayer beads. Korrin and Torm sat beside each other, heads bowed in confused mourning.
Kael looked down at the shard. Its light had completely died. But the runes had branded themselves into his palm. They glowed faintly—Weaver marks, ancient and strange. He wasn't sure what that meant. Not yet.
Toren broke the long silence. "This place won't hold. We need to leave."
Without a word, Kael led the way. They passed the pedestal, the statue's base—now cracked and crumbling—and emerged into the cool evening air above.
The Shattered Crown lay quiet. The fountain at its heart still trickled water, but the rift above it was no more. Just fading mist and silence.
One by one, the villagers emerged. They coughed. Some wept. All breathed. Alive.
Kael stood still for a moment, letting the cool, real air fill his lungs. Free.
Toren clapped his shoulder with surprising gentleness. "You did good, Kael. More than good."
Kael didn't reply. He stared at the shard. Its runes were whispering to him again, in their new, silent, haunting way.
Lirien wrapped her arms around his leg, hugging him fiercely—a silent, deep thank you.
He looked around at the people, the broken stones, the fading sky. The Shattered Crown still stood—scarred, changed, but unbroken. A monument to their defiance.
But in the back of his mind, the inevitable whisper lingered.
"Soon…"
Kael closed his fist around the shard. The fight was not over. The Tyrant dreamed, and dreams were dangerous things. But now he had more than a shard of power. He had people to fight for.
He had a choice.
And he would be ready.