Ivy woke to warmth.
Not forest warmth—blanket warmth. Familiar softness. The scent of herbs and something simmering.
She blinked.
She was back in the attic.
Her cloak was folded. Her satchel was beside her. The moths were gone.
She sat up, confused. "Tieran?"
She padded downstairs, bare feet quiet on the creaky wood.
He was in the kitchen.
Sleepy. Hood off. Stirring something in a pot with slow, deliberate movements.
"You brought me back," she said.
He nodded.
She frowned. "Why didn't you answer when I woke up?"
He didn't look up. "I was making soup."
She blinked. "Soup?"
"You asked for it."
She stared.
He stirred.
She stepped closer. "Can I help?"
He hesitated.
Then nodded—once.
She reached for the herbs.
He watched her like she was defusing a spell bomb.
"Careful," he said.
"I'm always careful."
"You summoned edible chaos."
"Artistic chaos."
He didn't argue.
She chopped. He stirred. She added a pinch of salt. He adjusted the flame.
Then, as she reached for the final garnish—a sprig of emotional mint—he stopped her.
"I'll finish," he said softly.
She stepped back.
He plated the soup with quiet precision.
The book pulsed once in his cloak.
Neither of them noticed.
Yet.
The soup was warm, fragrant, and oddly comforting.
Ivy sat curled on the attic floor, bowl in hand, watching the steam rise like stitched breath. Tieran moved quietly around her, cleaning up, cloak rustling softly.
She wanted to thank him.
Not just for the soup—but for the silence, the warmth, the way he let her cling to him in the forest without saying a word.
So she pulled out her charm kit.
A few threads. A scrap of cloth. One of Tieran's fallen cloak buttons (she'd pocketed it earlier, obviously).
She began stitching.
A simple thank-you charm.
But the thread pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
She frowned. "That's weird."
Tieran turned. "What are you doing?"
"Just a charm."
The thread shimmered.
The air shifted.
And then—
She gasped.
The symbols from the pedestal flickered in her vision—golden, stitched, unreadable. Her fingers trembled. Her breath hitched.
Then everything went dark.
She collapsed.
The bowl clattered.
Tieran rushed to her side, heart racing, cloak forgotten.
She didn't wake.
Not for half an hour.
When she did, her eyes fluttered open slowly.
She was back on the attic floor, wrapped in a blanket, Tieran beside her, eyes tired.
"Ivy?" he said softly.
She blinked. "I saw something."
"What?"
"A nightmare."
She sat up, breath shaky. "There was a thread stitched into someone's skin. And a voice. It said—'You shouldn't speak.'"
Tieran didn't respond.
But the book pulsed once in his cloak.
And this time, Ivy noticed.
The attic was quiet.
Ivy sat wrapped in a blanket, still pale from the charm misfire. Tieran watched her from across the room, cloak heavy, eyes unreadable.
Then, slowly, he reached into his cloak.
And pulled out the book.
It pulsed once—soft, golden, stitched with something ancient.
He held it out.
She hesitated.
Then touched it.
Her head snapped back.
A sharp pain bloomed behind her eyes, like a thread pulled too tight. Her breath hitched. Her heart stuttered.
Tieran grabbed the book back instantly, shoving it into his cloak.
But it was too late.
The air shimmered.
The symbols from the forest pedestal appeared again—glowing, floating, stitched into the attic walls like memory graffiti. Ivy gasped.
Then choked.
A thin line of blood traced her lip.
She collapsed.
Tieran caught her before she hit the floor, heart racing, eyes wide.
The symbols faded.
The book pulsed once more.
Then went silent.
She didn't wake.
Not yet.
But the thread had spoken.
And it wasn't done.
She didn't stir.
Not for hours.
Tieran sat beside her, cloak draped over her shoulders, watching her breath rise and fall like fragile thread. Her skin was pale, her lips still stained with the faintest trace of blood.
He didn't panic.
But he didn't sleep either.
At dawn, he slipped out.
The forest was quiet, dew clinging to leaves like whispered secrets. He moved with purpose—gathering wild herbs, crushed petals, and a sprig of moonmint known for calming threadshock.
He brewed them slowly, carefully, the scent filling the attic like a lullaby.
Then he waited.
She woke just after sunrise.
Eyes fluttering open, breath shallow, limbs heavy.
He was beside her instantly, holding out the herbal brew.
She blinked. "What happened?"
"You fainted," he said softly.
She tried to sit up, winced, then leaned against him without protest. "I feel like I got stitched by lightning."
"You almost did."
She sipped the brew, grimacing at the taste. "This is awful."
"It'll help."
She drank anyway.
Then closed her eyes, head resting against his shoulder.
"I'm still tired," she whispered.
"I know."
He didn't move.
The book pulsed once in his cloak.
But for now, he stayed.
Ivy was still weak, curled in the attic blanket, sipping the last of the herbal brew. Her eyes were half-closed, but her voice was steady.
"You need to open it," she said.
Tieran didn't move.
"The book," she whispered. "It's bound to me now, isn't it?"
He didn't answer.
But slowly, he reached into his cloak.
The book pulsed once—soft, golden, stitched with something older than memory.
He opened it.
The air shifted.
The attic darkened—not with shadow, but with silence. The kind that feels stitched into your bones.
The pages fluttered on their own.
Then stopped.
Symbols shimmered across the parchment—threadsbound runes, glowing faintly, rearranging themselves like breath.
And then—
A voice.
Not loud.
Not human.
But clear.
"You were not meant to speak."
Ivy gasped.
Tieran froze.
The book pulsed again.
"You were stitched to remember. Not to awaken."
The symbols burned brighter.
Then faded.
The book snapped shut.
Ivy stared at it, breath shaky. "It spoke."
Tieran nodded.
She looked at him. "What does it mean?"
He didn't answer.
But the attic walls shimmered faintly.
And somewhere deep inside her, a thread began to hum.
The attic was quiet.
Too quiet.
Tieran sat beside Ivy, the book resting between them like a sleeping storm. She was still pale, still weak, but her eyes were steady now—watching the thread-bound cover like it might blink.
Then—
It pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then opened.
The air shifted.
The pages turned on their own, symbols glowing, rearranging, breathing.
And then—
"You have awakened what should not stir."
The voice was deeper this time. Older. Threaded with something ancient and unforgiving.
"Forbidden magic has been touched. The threads demand balance."
Ivy sat up straighter, heart racing. "What does that mean?"
"One must pay."
Tieran moved closer, protective.
"She carries the echo. Her life is the price."
Ivy froze.
"No," Tieran said instantly.
"There is another way."
The book shimmered.
"Two threads. Bound together. Life for life. Magic for magic."
Ivy's breath hitched. "Bound?"
"Forever. If one breaks, the other unravels."
Tieran didn't hesitate. "Do it."
Ivy turned to him, eyes wide. "You'd—"
"Yes."
She stared at him.
Then at the book.
Then at her hands—still trembling, still stitched with faint magic.
"I don't want to die," she whispered.
"You won't," he said.
She nodded.
"Okay," she said softly. "Bind us."
The book pulsed once.
Then again.
And somewhere, deep in the attic, a thread stitched itself between them—silent, invisible, but real.
Their lives were now one.
Bound.
Ivy stirred beneath the blanket, eyes fluttering open, breath steady.
She felt… better.
Not whole, not healed—but stitched back together just enough to sit up and whisper, "I'm hungry."
Tieran didn't speak.
He simply stood, moved to the kitchen, and began to cook.
The attic filled with soft sounds—chopping, stirring, the quiet clink of bowls. The scent of herbs and broth wrapped around Ivy like a lullaby.
She watched him.
He didn't rush.
He didn't speak.
But every movement was careful. Intentional. Like he was stitching comfort into the soup itself.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite.
He ate beside her, silent.
The book sat untouched.
The thread between them pulsed faintly—warm, quiet, alive.
After the last spoonful, Ivy curled back into the blanket, eyes heavy.
Tieran sat nearby, cloak draped over his knees, watching the shadows flicker.
She mumbled something about soup dreams and glowing moths.
Then slept.
He followed soon after.
And the attic held them both—stitched together by magic, memory, and something neither of them could name yet.