The chamber was quiet again, but not peaceful.
The Weft Warden's presence lingered in the air, like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike—raw, elemental, ancient. Corin's fingers still tingled from the vision, his nerves on edge as if his body had brushed too close to something that existed just outside time.
He stared at the golden Thread in his hand. It had dimmed now, pulsing gently, but it no longer felt like something he carried. It felt like something that carried him.
Ashlyn helped him to his feet, her gaze tight with concern. "You need to rest."
"I'm fine," Corin said hoarsely. "I just... need to understand what I saw."
Fira was pacing along the edge of the floating diagram. "That wasn't just a memory. The Warden responded to him directly."
The Remnant, still watching from the corner of the room, nodded. "The Pattern recognizes its own. You are not yet bound, Threadbinder—but you are no longer unspun."
Corin looked up. "You said earlier that this Thread was a call. What happens if the Pattern answers?"
The Remnant's expression didn't change. "Then the world will be rewritten. And the Loom as you know it... will unravel."
A long silence followed.
Ashlyn muttered, "We really need better warnings before we touch ancient, apocalyptic relics."
Corin ignored the comment, turning to Fira. "We came here for knowledge. This... wasn't what I expected, but we're closer to something. This Thread, the Warden—it's tied to Kael somehow. He's trying to bring it back, or reshape it. Either way, we need to know what he's building."
Fira nodded, her expression grim. "If he's creating a new pattern... he's doing it from somewhere deep. Somewhere that touches the foundational Threads."
The Remnant tilted his head. "There is such a place."
They all turned to him.
"The Threads that make up the world were not laid evenly," he continued. "Some run shallow—lightly woven into the surface. But others... descend. Anchoring points. Root Threads. If Kael is crafting a counter-pattern, he will begin at one of these roots."
Corin stepped forward. "Where's the closest?"
The Remnant hesitated.
"There is one," he said at last. "But it is buried deep. Beneath the Spindle itself."
Ashlyn blinked. "There's a Loomroot under the Archive?"
The Remnant nodded. "It predates the Archive. Predates the Seers. Some believe the Spindle was built here because of it—not the other way around."
Corin's jaw tightened. "And Kael?"
"We have not sensed him. But the Threads in the lower vaults have gone... quiet. As though they are being watched."
Fira frowned. "That's a bad sign."
"Then that's where we go," Corin said. "Show us the way."
The Remnant turned toward the far wall of the chamber. With a motion of his hand, he swept aside a thick veil of Threadlight, revealing a staircase carved into the stone. The air that poured from it was cold, sharp—like breathing in glass.
"The Loomroot is sealed," he said. "It has not been opened in generations. You must descend alone. If the Threads accept you, they will part. If they do not... you will not return."
Ashlyn stared down the stairs. "You're not exactly great at inspirational speeches."
Corin stepped forward. "I'll go."
Ashlyn moved beside him. "Then I'm going too."
"No," the Remnant said, with a voice like steel. "Only he may enter. The Root will not tolerate divided Threads."
Ashlyn's mouth opened, but Fira placed a hand on her arm. "He's right. These places follow rules older than us. If Corin's the one the Threads are choosing... he has to go alone."
Corin gave her a grateful glance, then turned toward the stairs. The golden Thread pulsed softly in his hand, as if encouraging him forward.
He descended.
—
The steps wound downward for what felt like hours.
There was no light but the faint glow of Threads embedded in the walls, pulsing like veins. The deeper Corin went, the more silent the world became—not just quiet, but hollow. Sound didn't echo. His heartbeat seemed muffled.
And then, the air changed.
The tunnel opened into a vast cavern.
It was unlike anything Corin had ever seen.
Massive roots of Thread—thick as towers—hung from the ceiling and spiraled downward into a still pool of liquid light. The entire chamber glowed with a muted radiance, the kind that came from something very old, very deep, and very alive.
In the center of the pool, a single loom stood.
Not a metaphorical one. A literal loom—vast, ancient, its frame carved from obsidian and bone, its spindles turning slowly without touch. Threads passed through it in patterns that made no sense—backward, sideways, looping infinitely.
The golden Thread in Corin's hand lifted on its own, pointing toward the loom.
He stepped forward.
With each step, the Threads in the chamber stirred. Whispers began to echo—not voices, but the sounds of Threads rubbing together, creating friction that mimicked language.
He stopped before the loom. The golden Thread floated from his hand and wove itself into the pattern.
The loom stopped.
The Threads went still.
And the water at Corin's feet began to ripple.
A shape rose from it.
Not Kael.
Not the Warden.
This presence was larger, formless—like a shadow that hadn't yet decided what to become. It spoke not with sound, but with certainty.
You trespass upon the Weft Below.
Corin's voice was steady. "I was summoned."
You were called. Not chosen.
Corin stepped forward. "Then choose me."
A long pause.
The Weft Below swelled, its presence expanding through the Threads.
You carry the Call. But you are bound by order. By structure. You fear chaos.
Corin nodded once. "Yes."
Yet you seek it.
"I seek understanding."
Then be rewritten.
A Thread shot toward him—black as night, lit with red sparks. It pierced his chest.
Corin gasped, staggered—but didn't fall.
Memories not his own flooded his mind: stars collapsing, Threads screaming, the First Pattern spiraling outward in waves of thought and design. Not evil. Not good. Just... potential, hungry and blind.
When the vision cleared, he stood alone.
The black Thread retreated.
The golden Thread was gone.
But in his chest, a new Thread pulsed—one that hummed in two voices: light and shadow, order and chaos.
He turned back toward the stairs.
—
Above, in the Archive chamber, Fira and Ashlyn both stiffened as the Threads in the ceiling shuddered.
"He made contact," Fira whispered.
Ashlyn's hand tightened around her bow. "Let's hope he made it back."
A moment later, the stairwell pulsed with golden light—and Corin emerged.
His eyes were glowing softly.
And threaded into his chest, just beneath the skin, a new line of black and gold shimmered with every breath.
Ashlyn stared. "What did you do?"
Corin's voice was quiet. But steady.
"I rewrote my Thread."