The light of two suns filtered through vaulted canopies, casting doubly long shadows on the velvet moss beneath Rin's feet. At first, he walked with a nervous, halting step, keeping Elira in his sight but maintaining a careful distance. Each time he glanced at her—robes embroidered with silver symbols, staff of strange latticework—he felt the weight of unspoken questions.Elira, for her part, kept moving with practiced diligence, parting the glowing fernlike plants with her staff. As they walked, the air shimmered with a low, resonant hum, like the world itself was tuned to a secret note. The vegetation pulsed faintly, responding to footsteps or whispered words. Every now and then, Elira would mutter incantations under her breath, and the foliage would gently recoil, clearing a path."You're still alive," she said at last, pausing to look back. "That's a start. Most Echoed wander off the star-trails and vanish before their Threads awaken fully."Rin noted the word: Thread. It flickered again in his thoughts—a glowing strand in the fabric of his mind, vibrating with dormant energy. "What… is a Thread?"She eyed him skeptically, as if weighing how much to reveal. "You hold power. Not magic, nor skill—something older. The Thread binds you to Ethelara, grants you the ability to shape or guide a single aspect of existence. Each Thread is unique."Rin pressed a hand to his chest, feeling for that strange internal current. "Is that what saved me?""Perhaps." Her expression clouded. "Or perhaps it's what brought disaster here." She motioned for him to follow as the woods thickened, roots arching overhead like the ribs of a sunken cathedral. "This part of the forest is safe from the Phageborn. For now."He stumbled; a rogue root seemed to pulse and hiss. He caught himself, heart pounding. Every sense was overclocked—the air too scented, the light too vivid. He paused, staring at his palm: for a moment, faint lines seemed to glow beneath his skin, tracing toward his heart.Elira noticed. "Your Thread is awakening. Try not to use it unintentionally. It will drain your memories the more you wield it."He tried not to dwell on the warning.Birdsong—or what passed for it in this world—echoed through the undergrowth. Elira finally stopped beside a shallow spring, water glowing faintly blue."Drink," she said, kneeling. "You'll need your strength."Rin knelt, cupping the water to his lips. It was cold, almost sparkling, and as he drank, energy pulsed beneath his sternum—the Thread responding to nourishment. For a moment, memories of his old world bubbled up: crowded trains, ramen shops, his sister's laughter."I want to go home," he blurted, voice raw.Elira's gaze softened, just briefly. "No one returns. Ethelara is all there is—until your Thread burns out, or the Weaver takes you."He looked at her, searching for hope in her eyes. Instead, he saw resignation. "Tell me about this Weaver."She weighed her words. "It is the architect and guardian, but also a judge. It brings the Echoed here, so the world does not collapse—so echoes of old worlds can survive. But the Weaver's rules are strange. To cross it is to invite erasure."A breeze picked up, laden with scents of earth and blossom. Beyond the spring, the woods deepened, veiling their secrets.That night, in the shelter of overhanging roots, Elira produced dried fruit from a pouch and tossed some to Rin. As they ate, she told him snatches of Ethelara's history: of cities lost and found, of Echoed who rose to greatness or madness, of forests that whispered and fields that changed with a thought. Darkness pressed beyond their circle of light, and every shadow seemed to watch.Rin tried to rest, but dreams fractured his sleep: visions of Tokyo flooded and silent, of threads unraveling in his hands, and of a thousand voices whispering forgotten names.When he woke to Elira's urgent grip on his shoulder, dawn was just breaking—and trouble had already found them.
