The days bled together as Koshiro and Zen crossed the ruins of the eastern dunes. The wind had grown quieter, but never warm. The land had its own language—broken stone, cracked sky, whispers in ash. The road to the Thread was not straight. It bent around the bones of history.
They walked in silence for hours. Only when the spire came into view did Koshiro speak.
"That's it."
Zen followed his gaze. The Broken Spire pierced the horizon like a splinter in the eye of the world—blackened stone twisted upward, wrapped in the remains of iron cables and rusted platforms.
The base of the spire sat in a basin of pale sand. At the center of it, the Thread shimmered soft and low, like a memory whispered through sleep.
Koshiro stepped forward, but Zen put out a hand. "It's unstable. Do you feel that?"
Koshiro nodded. "Yeah, It's... grieving."
They descended slowly, the Thread pulsing like a heartbeat. It hovered above the ground like fog in a dream, and inside it danced fragments of light, shapes of children, laughter, towers once full of life… Echoes.
As Koshiro reached toward it, he froze.
A scream rippled through the Thread.
Koshiro gasped and stumbled back. The images twisted, children turned to ash, towers collapsed, and the Thread shrieked with a thousand unheard regrets.
Zen caught him. "What did you see?"
"Not see," Koshiro whispered "Felt, this place… it was a sanctuary. A place where Threads were stored not mined, Protected, until the Syndicates came."
He looked up at the Spire. "They turned it into a testing ground. For something they couldn't control."
A voice echoed from above. "Correct."
They looked up.
Solas stood sideways on the wall of the spire, sipping tea from a new bowl. His coat fluttered as if ignoring gravity.
"You're early," he said. "Or maybe I'm late. Time's weird around sad Threads."
Koshiro steadied himself. "Why is it like this?"
Solas slid down the spire without effort and landed beside them "This Thread? It used to be a living memory archive. It housed the souls of orphans who couldn't be Thread-bonded, the ones too young to wield. They were kept here... safe, until someone tried to 'recycle' the energy."
He gestured at the Thread.
"Turns out, when you compress too many broken memories into one space, they don't forget. They remember together. And then they weep. Sometimes they scream."
Koshiro's face darkened. "Who did it?"
Solas's tone shifted. "Not Asereth. This was the Fold. They were testing raw soul resonance, trying to condense sorrow into fuel."
Zen muttered, "Godless."
"Worse," Solas said "Misguided."
He crouched near the Thread, tilting his head. "If you listen carefully, it still sings their names."
Koshiro closed his eyes, tuning in with his rod.
A song rose—not a melody, but a chorus of voices, high and fragile, like windchimes made from tears. It wasn't just sad. It was unfinished.
"They never got to finish their song," Koshiro whispered.
Solas nodded slowly. "You want to help them?"
Koshiro didn't answer. He stepped into the glow.
The light enveloped him. For a moment, his body became part of the Thread, flickering with images—running feet, small hands, a cracked toy, eyes wide with wonder, then with fear.
He reached out—not to take, but to listen.
And then... he hummed.
A single note, soft, careful.
The Thread pulsed, slowed, and wept—not violently, but like someone finally exhaling.
The glow faded, and Koshiro stepped back. His rod bore new symbols—delicate, childlike, etched in sorrow.
Zen stared. "What did you do?"
Koshiro's voice was soft. "I gave them an ending."
Solas wiped his eye mockingly "Touching. But be careful, little Threadwalker. You're becoming something... different."
Koshiro looked up. "What do you mean?"
"You didn't claim the Thread," Solas said. "You healed it. That's not Threadwalking. That's something older. Something the Syndicates thought they buried."
He stood and turned toward the east "Which means... They'll know. And they won't like it."
Zen's hand moved to his blade.
Solas smiled. "Don't worry. They're slow."
A deep hum echoed through the basin.
Then the sky cracked with light.
Far on the ridge, a walker approached—larger than the last. Its eyes were white-hot. And beside it strode three Ascendants.
"...But not that slow," Solas added, already vanishing again.
Koshiro raised his rod.
Zen unsheathed his sword.
The Thread behind them shimmered once more—this time not in sorrow, but in warning.
They weren't done yet.