The Moondial shattered—not with an explosion, but with a sigh. Like the breath of a world giving up. It folded inward on itself, its silvery surface webbing with cracks, and then... it unraveled. Light seeped out from every fracture, threads of starlit crystal spiraling into the air like fragments of memory.
For a breathless moment, everything hung still. The hum of fate, the hush of the temple, the tension coiled in Elara's chest. Then the ground beneath her buckled, buckled again, and gave way entirely.
There was no time to scream. One heartbeat she was standing atop prophecy—the Moondial beneath her boots, Cassian at her side, the Seers chanting in the background—and the next she was tumbling. Tumbling through a void that wasn't quite darkness. It was thick, like molasses or starlight turned to syrup, and it dragged her downward, sideways, throughways she didn't understand.
Stars streaked past her like dying fireflies. Space twisted.
Elara flailed until a hand caught hers.
"Don't let go!" Cassian shouted. His voice wavered, barely heard above the roar of existence stretching.
"I wasn't planning on it!"
She tightened her grip on his hand, their fingers laced with desperation. Around them, the laws of gravity danced drunk and blind. Nothing moved the way it should. They fell through moments, not space.
Time peeled open.
In one fragment of light, Elara stood alone in a field of glass, fire leaking from her eyes as people knelt before her.
In another, she lay dying beneath a red moon, her chest still as Cassian cradled her in bloodied arms.
A third showed Cassian kneeling with a shattered blade, whispering her name into dust.
And then—a snap.
A jolt of impact.
Elara hit something soft yet solid. It was like falling into memory, into sleep that didn't end. She gasped, air filling her lungs like fire. She rolled to her side, the world spinning.
The ground was soft, glittering silver sand. Above her, constellations floated in fragments—frozen, like shattered stained glass suspended in ink.
Cassian landed beside her with a grunt, coughing, his hand still locked in hers. His armor was streaked with stardust and blood.
"Where the hell are we?" he asked, blinking.
Elara sat up slowly, the pressure of the place seeping into her bones. Time here felt. It breathed. It warped.
"We're inside the Thread," she said. "The space between fates."
Cassian turned, scanning the floating shards of broken sky. "The Thread is myth. Aetherian nursery stories."
Elara didn't answer. She was staring at the mist curling through the air. It had shape. Intent. Presence.
And something—someone—was watching them.
Out of the fog stepped a girl. Barefoot. Pale-eyed. Her skin shimmered faintly, like she'd been carved from starlight. She looked about sixteen, but her gaze was older than stars.
"You shouldn't be here yet," the girl said, head tilted like a curious owl. "You're not ready to choose."
Cassian stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"Call me the Weaver," the girl said. "I guard the fractures. The seams. The edges of the Pattern."
Elara stood, legs unsteady. "We didn't come here on purpose. The Moondial shattered."
The Weaver nodded slowly. "Yes. The Moondial was not supposed to break… not yet. But things unravel when too many paths converge."
Cassian frowned. "Can you send us back?"
"Back?" The Weaver smiled. It was not unkind, but it was not reassuring. "There is no back. Only through."
Elara looked around again. The floating shards reflected versions of herself: laughing, dying, fighting. One showed her wearing a crown of cinders. Another showed her holding a child with Cassian's eyes.
She turned back to the Weaver. "What is this place for?"
"Decision," the Weaver said. "This is where you choose."
"Choose what?"
"Which version of yourself becomes real."
Elara recoiled. "I don't want to choose."
"Most don't," the Weaver said. "But all must. To move forward is to choose the self you are willing to become."
Cassian took a step closer to Elara, grounding her. His presence was steadying, even in this place beyond sanity.
Elara shook her head. "But I don't know who I am. I didn't ask for this."
The Weaver's eyes softened. "No one ever does. But the Thread shows who you could be—and who you fear to be."
From the sand, a mirror rose. Not a real mirror, but a reflection made of memory and possibility. Elara saw herself again—angry, radiant, alone, loved, broken, reborn.
"Choose," the Weaver said. "Not a fate. Not a destiny. Just the self you will carry into what comes next."
Elara hesitated.
Cassian touched her shoulder. "No matter what you see, you're still you. That doesn't change."
Her eyes burned. Not with tears—with recognition.
She stepped to the mirror. The images swirled. Each version of herself a path. A warning. A promise.
She reached out—and touched the reflection of herself standing not as queen or warrior, but as bridge. A girl holding two hands—one Aetherian, one Earthborn—glowing with light that wasn't hers alone, but shared.
The Thread responded.
The sand flared with light. The constellations began to swirl. The Weaver stepped back, smiling softly.
"So be it."
Cassian shielded his eyes. Elara felt herself pulled upward, through the light, through the mist, through her own bones.
And then—
She woke.
Not in the temple. Not in the Thread.
But in a field of starlit glass.
Cassian beside her.
And a war waiting just beyond the horizon.