Darkness did not fall all at once.
It peeled open.
Elowen dropped through it like the world had been unzipped beneath her feet, air tearing from her lungs as cold slammed into her bones. Magic scraped along her skin, not hostile—evaluating. Ancient wards brushed past her like blind fingers, cataloguing, measuring, whispering.
Not a pit.
A threshold.
She hit ground hard enough to knock the breath from her chest, pain blooming bright and immediate. Stone—smooth, black, warm beneath her palms as if it remembered fire long after it had gone out.
She lay there, gasping, heart racing, waiting for panic to swallow her whole.
It didn't.
Instead, something worse crept in.
Recognition.
The prison realm breathed.
That was the only way to describe it. The air moved with slow, deliberate purpose, carrying a faint hum that resonated through her ribs. Light—if it could be called that—glowed dimly from veins in the walls, pale silver threaded with shadow and something darker still.
This place was not dead.
It was waiting.
Elowen pushed herself upright, every muscle trembling. Her magic flickered uncertainly, answering the realm's pulse despite her fear. Shadows gathered instinctively at her feet. Heat warmed her spine. Green sparks flared, then steadied. Cold brushed the back of her neck like a warning touch.
"They're still with me," she whispered, though the bonds felt stretched thin—muted, distant, like voices heard through water.
Her chest ached.
She took a step forward.
The ground shifted.
Not collapsing—making space.
Her breath caught. "Hello?"
The word echoed strangely, folding back on itself, reshaped by the realm until it sounded older, heavier.
Hello.
A laugh rolled through the dark.
Low. Vast. Amused.
"You always ask that first," the voice said. "Even when you know the answer."
Elowen froze.
The sound did not come from one direction. It came from everywhere—stone, air, the hollow places inside her thoughts.
"Who's there?" she demanded, forcing her spine straight.
Another laugh. Closer this time.
"I wondered how long it would take you to remember that voice."
Light flared ahead of her—not bright, but deep. A shape began to resolve: tall, indistinct, woven from shadow and starlight and something that hurt to look at directly. Eyes opened within it—too many at first, then settling into two.
Ancient.
Knowing.
Elowen's knees nearly gave out.
"No," she whispered. "I don't— I've never been here before."
The entity tilted its head.
"Not like this," it agreed. "But you have walked these halls in other skins. Other names."
Her heart pounded painfully. "You're lying."
"Am I?" it asked gently. "Tell me, little thread—when the Mark flared, did it feel new?"
Her silence was answer enough.
The entity stepped closer, the realm responding to its movement like a loyal beast. Symbols glowed faintly along the walls—variants of the sigil that had burned above the throne room.
Weaver marks.
"You were always difficult to erase," it said. "The courts tried. Gods, they tried. They slaughtered histories, burned bloodlines, shattered souls and scattered them across centuries."
It smiled.
"They never understood weaving."
Elowen's throat tightened. "What are you?"
The entity bowed.
"I am the Keeper," it said. "The Warden. The thing they locked away when they realized killing me only made the pattern stronger."
Cold dread slid down her spine.
"You're… the prison," she said slowly.
"Yes." Pride warmed the word. "And its memory."
It reached out—not touching, but close enough that the air between them vibrated.
"Do you know why this realm exists?" it asked.
"To hold monsters," she said.
"Incorrect," it replied. "It exists to hold truths too dangerous for orderly worlds."
Its gaze sharpened.
"You were never meant to choose, Elowen."
Her name landed like a blade.
She staggered back. "Don't call me that."
The Keeper's smile softened, almost fond.
"It's not your first name," it said. "It's the smallest one."
The realm pulsed.
Memory slammed into her—fragmented, disjointed. A crown of living light. Hands stained with blood that wasn't hers. Lovers arguing beneath a sky split by magic. A scream that ended a golden age.
She cried out, clutching her head.
"Stop—please—"
The Keeper withdrew at once.
"Forgive me," it said. "Too fast. You always hated being rushed."
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Tears burned her eyes, unbidden.
"They're going to come for me," she said hoarsely. "They'll tear the courts apart."
"Yes," the Keeper agreed calmly. "They already have."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"The Shadow King broke the first law less than a heartbeat after you fell," it said. "The Ember Prince is burning through a mountain range. The Verdant Lord has awakened roots older than written time."
Its eyes gleamed.
"The Frost Regent is praying."
Hope flared painfully in her chest.
"Then I just have to hold on," she said. "They'll get me out."
The Keeper regarded her for a long moment.
"They will try," it said. "And they may succeed."
Her shoulders sagged in relief.
"But this prison," it continued softly, "does not open without payment."
Her stomach dropped.
"What kind of payment?"
The Keeper stepped back, shadows folding around it like wings.
"Awakening," it said. "Truth. Memory."
The walls brightened, runes flaring one by one as the realm responded to her presence.
"You can leave this place unchanged," it said. "Fragile. Uncertain. Hunted."
Or—
"You can remember who you were before they broke you into something smaller."
Its voice lowered, reverent.
"Before you were the Weaver Queen."
The realm fell silent.
Elowen pressed a shaking hand to her chest, where the bonds pulsed faintly, aching and alive.
If she accepted—
She would never be small again.
If she refused—
They would keep bleeding for her.
She lifted her chin, fear and fire twisting together in her veins.
"Show me," she said.
The Keeper smiled.
And the prison realm began to open her like a book the world had tried to burn.