The gates of the Temple of Threads loomed before us—tall, narrow, and seemingly woven from strands of silver and stone. It wasn't a structure forged by mortal hands. Every inch shimmered with iridescent hues that shifted with the wind—colors I couldn't name, yet felt deeply in my bones.
The path behind us vanished into mist.
I reached out, hesitating just before touching the gate. The threads vibrated softly, alive with a quiet hum, like a thousand whispers spinning through the ages.
"The gate recognizes you," Queen Jeisha murmured behind me. "Your blood... your longing. The temple is alive to those who still seek."
"What will we find inside?" I asked, my voice low.
She stepped forward, placing a hand over mine, and together, we pushed.
The gate unraveled like a tapestry pulled loose, the threads parting—not breaking, but rearranging—until an opening appeared. The inside was not darkness. It was light. A warm, golden radiance that bathed the stone floors and high vaulted ceilings with a gentle, woven glow. Banners hung suspended in the air with no walls to hold them, each one glowing faintly—inscribed in old tongues, none of which I could understand.
Stepping inside felt like walking into memory. Not mine—but the memory of the world itself.
A group awaited us near the central loom—a towering contraption of divine complexity. It spun threads that glimmered like constellations, each string etched with moments, each strand whispering a thousand possible futures.
And before the loom stood three figures cloaked in garments that looked like stitched galaxies—threads trailing behind them as they turned in unison to greet us.
One of them stepped forward, her voice ancient and serene.
"You stand before the Celestial Order. Daughter of a fallen bloodline, and Queen of the fractured pact. State your threads."
Queen Jeisha stepped ahead without pause.
"I am Jeisha of the Verdant Crown, Queen of the Elves. I come seeking the current vessel of Solviel, the Third Circle Spirit of the Gadriel line."
Then they turned to me.
"And you, who carries grief like a scar across her soul?"
"I... am Vanessa Van Vokhsina," I answered. "Of the Crimson Line, last princess of Nivellan. I seek truth... about the dragonlord, about the old war, about the broken chains the world pretends no longer bind us."
The three figures exchanged glances—though their faces were veiled, I could feel the weight of their gaze.
"Then enter. But know this—answers have cost. And not all who seek them survive their revelation."
The loom began to spin faster, threads pulling tighter.
Queen Jeisha met my eyes.
"Whatever comes next, Vanessa... do not look away."
I swallowed hard and nodded.
And we stepped deeper into the temple where the fate of ages awaited.Where spirits remembered truths the world had long since buried.
"The High Seer would meet you at the end of the hall, in his office. Take note," one of the figures said, her voice soft yet hollow, "when a memory passes toward you, please refrain from reacting to it in the slightest."
She raised her right arm, gesturing to the long corridor ahead.
I turned to Queen Jeisha, brow furrowed. "What do they mean by 'memory pass'?"
"Apparitions," she replied, her voice quiet, reverent. "Echoes of events or people who once lived. Some may appear in your mind, others directly before your eyes. The rule is simple—do not react. It's a form of respect… a promise not to disturb their resting echoes."
I nodded slowly, though the pit in my stomach deepened.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead of us, lined with walls of softly glowing thread. We took our first step forward.
Then the light around us dimmed, slowly at first… then completely.
Darkness swallowed everything.
When light returned, it was not the corridor we saw—but devastation.
The sky above was stained grey, choked in smoke. The once-marble courtyard we stood in was reduced to rubble and bone. The stench of blood hung thick in the air.
Men were cut down where they stood. Women cried, bound and dragged. Children… they screamed, laughed at by demons in mortal skin.
My heart beat faster. I tried to breathe—but even the air here grieved.
Out of the smoke, a green light pulsed. A spirit—graceful, beautiful—rushed through the ruins, guiding survivors through the wreckage.
She tried.
She failed.
An enemy spirit—darker, crueler—bound her in black chains.
She could only watch as the sanctuary she once protected was burned to ash.
I wanted to reach for her.
To scream.
To help.
But I remembered the warning.
Don't react. Don't speak. Don't mourn.
My hands trembled. I closed my eyes tightly and kept walking forward.
When I opened them again, we were back in the corridor.
My breath shook in my chest.
"What…" I whispered before I could stop myself.
Queen Jeisha didn't meet my gaze. "Keep walking," she said. "That wasn't the last one."
I swallowed hard and stepped forward again—toward the next haunting. Toward the Seer.
"A place of marbles?" I murmured to myself, the image of that shattered battlefield still lingering behind my eyes.
"The Pale March," Queen Jeisha responded beside me, her tone unusually solemn.
I looked at her, surprised. "So that's what happened to the Pale March?"
She nodded faintly, her gaze fixed ahead. "No one truly knows the full truth… but it was due to this echo, this memory, that people began piecing the story together. It's one of the few remnants that tells anything about what transpired."
My thoughts returned to the green spirit—the way it moved, the desperation in its struggle.
"What happened to the spirit?" I asked quietly. "The green one who tried… but failed?"
Queen Jeisha folded her arms as she walked, thoughtful. "It doesn't appear in any known record. No name, no lineage. It might not have been a powerful one, just… devoted. But legends say spirits tied to such ruin either dwell in their failure or, rarely, are found by an awakener who resonates with their sorrow."
"So… someone could have found it?"
"It's possible," she said, her voice softening. "Spirits tied to tragedy carry weight, but also deep resolve. Those who contract with them… usually change."
I nodded slowly. "I see…"
But I didn't truly.
Because that spirit, nameless and forgotten, had shown more courage than most rulers I've known.
I felt something in my chest—like a cord being pulled taut.
It wasn't just grief.
It was the echo of purpose.
And I wondered…
Would I end up like her?
Would I be remembered at all?
Thankfully, only apparitions of people appeared after the Pale March echo. No more scenes of carnage, no more crumbling sanctuaries. Just quiet whispers of what once was—lovers parting at the garden steps, children racing through a corridor long since cold, a woman holding a spiritstone as if praying for a miracle.
And then... we arrived.
The corridor ended in an arch of braided roots and faintly glowing runes, beyond which stood a man who seemed carved from sleepless hours and buried weight.
He was tall, though not imposing. His eyes were sunken, with shadows nesting beneath them like ink stains. His skin held an unnatural pallor, not deathly but… worn. Lived through too much. A heavy beard trailed down to his chest, tangled slightly near the ends, and his robes were lined with the color of old parchment and faded gold.
He wasn't thin, nor was he large. Just—tired. As though the years had bent his soul rather than his spine.
"Greetings, Queen and Princess," he said in a voice like dry wind sweeping across stone. "I am Vareon, the High Seer of this temple. I shall escort you to the main sanctum."
He bowed slightly, though the gesture seemed more habitual than courteous.
I looked toward Queen Jeisha, who gave him a respectful nod. "It is an honor, High Seer. Thank you for receiving us despite the hour."
"The Loomwardens do not keep time," Vareon replied, turning and motioning with a gloved hand. "When the will of threadbinders stirs, we are always watching."
I followed quietly beside them as we stepped into the deeper chambers of the temple, where the stones pulsed faintly with pale blue veins of energy—memories, perhaps, woven into the very architecture.
The air smelled of old incense and something older still… like parchment buried beneath moss and salt.
There was something about Vareon that unsettled me.
Not fear.
But recognition.
As if he, too, had seen things that should have stayed buried in time.
We then entered the sanctum.
It wasn't grand in the way one might expect a celestial temple to be. No overwhelming opulence. Instead, it exuded something subtler—humble reverence. The interiors were lined with modest woodwork and golden trims, catching the gentle lanternlight in a way that made everything feel warm, lived-in, sacred. Not for worship, but for understanding.
A long table was prepared for us, with plates of food and pitchers of cool drink set at its center. The aroma of brewed herbs drifted softly through the room.
Yet what caught my eye was the clutter—papers piled in one corner, scrolls overflowing from a rack that stretched the length of an entire wall. It was a sanctum, yes… but one drowning in signs of ongoing research, of urgent prophecy.
We took our seats.
Vareon, with his ever-haunted eyes, gently poured a cup of tea in front of me, the steam curling as if carrying whispers from the leaves.
"Queen of the Elves," he began, his tone calm yet edged with knowing, "what is the reason for both of you coming this late?"
Jeisha lifted her own cup, graceful even in her weariness. "It is about the Dragonlord. Surely, as a Seer, you must have felt the stirrings in the hidden depths?"
He nodded slowly, a frown forming beneath his beard. "I have. Though I struggled to discern the form it would take. Your presence confirms my fears—that the Dragonlord intends war against the kingdoms of men."
"That is correct," Jeisha said. "And we hoped we could warn the other realms before it is too late."
Vareon leaned back slightly, his hand drifting toward one of the many scrolls. "The Celestial Order may be vast, but even our reach has limits. To contact all races, all kingdoms—it would take months, perhaps years. We must be tactical. Prioritize the major powers first."
He unrolled a scroll on the table, its seal already broken.
"This arrived last week."
I leaned closer, scanning its contents, my eyes narrowing.
"This… this would cause chaos."
Vareon nodded. "The Kingdom of Seremonya is demanding Kingdom Cindral repay tributes borrowed during the final year of the Dragon's Liberation Era. With threat of consequence."
Jeisha's voice sharpened. "So not only do we face the threat of the Dragonlord, but now the embers of old debt threaten to spark war between two of the most prominent kingdoms?"
"The pieces are moving," Vareon said grimly. "And what worries me further is…"
He paused, studying us both with a flicker of something heavier than dread.
"I've heard whispers that you seek the current inheritor of Solviel."
Jeisha's shoulders tensed.
"She's currently residing in Cindral. A student awakener."
I didn't need to ask who. The name Solviel echoed too freshly in my mind. The current child of the line of Gadriel.
Jeisha's frustration was visible now—faint in her eyes, but real. Her grip tightened on the tea cup.
"A race against time, then," she murmured.
"Yes," Vareon confirmed. "And it will take three whole days to reach Cindral from here—unless, of course, you possess a more efficient method of travel. Otherwise, we can provide what aid we can."
He raised a hand and called upon one of the temple servants in flowing pale robes. "Prepare a carriage. And notify the gate wardens."
The Queen gave a slow nod, then cast a glance in my direction.
Even now, with threads of war weaving tighter around us, she still looked like a woman carrying more than one burden. Perhaps it was hope. Perhaps it was regret.
And perhaps—like me—she feared what we might find in Cindral more than what was already behind us.