The Codex did not rest after Mary's first weave.
It trembled.
The chamber itself seemed to breathe — slow, heavy, and alive — as threads of ink and light rippled outward from the page where Mary's hand had pressed. The echoes of her weaving spread across the room, climbing the pillars, sliding across the walls, seeping into the air like mist that carried whispers.
She stood in the middle of it all, her hand still burning faintly, her eyes wide with realization.
Els reached her first. "Mary," she said carefully, "you need to step back."
Mary didn't move. "It's responding… it's alive."
"It always has been," the Friend said softly. "But it hasn't sung like this in centuries."
The Codex's pages turned of their own accord — one, two, ten — the sound of parchment like the flapping of wings. Symbols reshaped themselves into living script, words twisting into new meaning.
Loosie took a step closer, her hammer resting across her shoulder. "What exactly did you weave?"
Mary swallowed hard. "A thread of mercy," she said. "A story where the lost could find peace again."
The Friend's eyes narrowed. "And yet… mercy is never simple."
From the pages of the Codex, a sound rose — soft at first, like weeping. Then louder. Desperate.
Mary's blood turned cold. "What is that?"
The Friend's face was grave. "An echo answering your call."
By nightfall, the echoes had taken form.
From the lower halls of the Loomspire came the first sightings — flickering silhouettes wandering the corridors, whispering names that no longer belonged to anyone living. The dead, drawn by Mary's weave, were stirring.
Some appeared as gentle phantoms — mothers calling for children, lovers searching for lost vows, soldiers saluting ghosts of wars that no longer had names. Others came twisted, trapped between what they once were and what Mary's mercy had tried to rewrite them into.
The Weavers' council gathered in the high chamber before dawn, their faces pale in the torchlight.
Els stood at the head of the table, her voice steady though her fingers shook. "The weave is unstable. The Codex is drawing on unfinished threads — ghosts of stories that were never meant to return."
"Then unweave it," said one of the elders sharply. "Cut it out before it spreads."
Mary felt the words like a knife to her chest. "You can't just erase them. They're alive now."
"They're not alive," the elder hissed. "They're echoes. Mistakes."
Mary's voice rose. "Then so am I."
The hall went silent. Even the fire dimmed for a heartbeat.
Loosie broke the tension with a sigh, her hammer clinking against the floor. "Enough. Fighting won't fix the Codex." She turned to Mary. "If you made this weave, you're the only one who can control it. You have to anchor it — give the echoes form before they tear the threads apart."
Mary nodded slowly, determination flickering behind her exhaustion. "Then take me to them."
The corridors of the Loomspire were thick with mist when they arrived. The air buzzed with memory — not sound, but sensation. Each step carried echoes of those who had walked before.
As Mary descended the final staircase, she saw them: dozens of figures drifting between the pillars, their forms translucent but trembling with emotion.
A woman knelt, cradling an invisible child.
A man whispered prayers to a god long devoured by time.
A boy stood staring at his own name carved into the wall.
Mary's throat tightened.
Els whispered beside her, "You didn't just call them — you remembered them."
Mary stepped forward. The echoes turned toward her, drawn to the pulse of the Codex in her veins.
"Why are you here?" she asked softly.
One of the ghosts spoke — its voice a harmony of many tones. "You opened the thread. You called us from silence. But you didn't finish the story."
"I wanted to give you peace," Mary said.
The ghost smiled — a sad, splintering expression. "Peace cannot exist where memory still bleeds."
And with that, the mist shuddered — and the echoes began to twist.
Their outlines tore like parchment in flame, reforming into shadows darker, hungrier, more desperate. Faces dissolved into hollow sockets of light, and the air filled with the static of a hundred forgotten screams.
Els shouted, "Mary, anchor them!"
Mary reached for the Codex's thread that still burned faintly across her wrist. She felt the pull of every soul, every story clawing for closure, and she poured her power outward, weaving desperately — not to erase, but to shape.
Light and shadow collided, weaving into a spiral that wrapped around her. Threads of memory tangled with strands of her blood, her will, her guilt.
And then, from the heart of the chaos, a figure stepped forward.
Tall. Cloaked in gray fire. Eyes like polished bone.
The others stumbled back. Even the Friend's calm shattered for an instant.
"Who are you?" Mary demanded.
The figure tilted its head. "I am the Voice Between."
The words thrummed through the hall like thunder.
"I speak for the echoes. You opened their door. You must answer what you have unleashed."
Mary stood her ground. "Then tell me what you want."
The Voice's smile was neither cruel nor kind. "To finish the stories you began. Or to end you, so they may rest."
The ground split beneath their feet. The air turned sharp with power.
Loosie swung her hammer, shouting, "Mary, now!"
But Mary didn't attack. Instead, she reached forward, her hand trembling, her voice steady.
"Then let's finish them together."
The Voice froze.
For a moment, the shadows hesitated — caught between rage and understanding. Then the threads shifted, folding inward like a tide pulling back from the shore.
The mist dissolved. The echoes faded, leaving only the faint scent of ink and rain.
When silence finally returned, Mary was on her knees, her body shaking. The Codex's light had dimmed to a faint heartbeat at her wrist.
Els knelt beside her. "You did it."
Mary looked up weakly. "No… I barely held it together. The weave is still broken. I can feel it."
The Friend approached, his voice low. "You gave them form, but not closure. Their stories are still looking for endings."
"And if I can't give them that?"
He met her gaze. "Then they'll come back. And next time, they won't stop at the Loomspire."
As dawn broke again, the Codex grew still.
Mary stood at the highest window, watching light bleed across the horizon. The city below looked peaceful, unaware of the storm whispering beneath its foundations.
She thought of the ghosts' words — of unfinished stories, and how easily good intentions could unravel into chaos.
Behind her, the Friend spoke softly. "Every Weaver learns their first truth the same way. The threads don't just answer your will. They answer who you are."
Mary turned to face him. "Then I'll have to become something stronger than mercy."
The Friend nodded. "You'll have to become balance."
Far away, in the crimson spires of the vampire court, the Queen of Ashes watched the sunrise from her throne of glass.
Her knights knelt before her, heads bowed.
"The Codex stirs," one of them said. "The dead awaken."
The Queen smiled faintly, eyes glinting like rubies in firelight. "Then the Weaver's child has taken her first step."
She rose, her gown trailing shadows across the marble. "It is time the old blood remembers its place."
She turned toward the horizon — toward Tallowmere — and whispered, almost tenderly,
"Let the stories burn."