The next morning dawned in silence.
No bells tolled from the Loomspire's towers. No echoes of apprentices sweeping the corridors or calling out morning greetings. The rain had passed, but its shadow lingered — heavy, metallic, as if the air itself had learned how to rust.
Mary sat at her worktable, staring at the Codex. Its cover was cool to the touch now, the color of forged steel under moonlight. The Queen's mark — that crescent of thorns — still shimmered faintly, embedded like a brand beneath the surface.
Els paced across the chamber, hands clasped behind her back. "You should've destroyed it when you had the chance."
"I can't destroy what I am," Mary said quietly.
"That's exactly the problem."
Loosie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her hammer slung over one shoulder. "Let's not start this again."
Els shot her a look. "You didn't see what it did last night."
"I saw enough," Loosie said. "The Codex flared, sure — but it didn't attack anyone."
"Not yet."
Mary rose. "Enough, both of you."
The command in her voice silenced them. She wasn't the same as she'd been when they first entered the Doors. The Codex had changed her — her voice carried its rhythm now, a weight that settled in the bones.
Els exhaled slowly. "Then tell us, Mary. What did the envoy mean by 'the Codex will choose for you'?"
Mary hesitated. She could still feel the envoy's gaze on her, even now — golden eyes that seemed to see through time.
"I think she meant the Codex isn't just responding to me anymore," Mary said. "It's remembering something. Or someone."
"You mean the Queen," Loosie said.
Mary nodded once.
Els frowned. "If that's true, then it's not just remembering. It's realigning."
Mary met her eyes. "Maybe. But I won't let it."
Loosie stepped closer to the Codex. "So what's it doing now?"
"Waiting," Mary said.
"For what?"
Before Mary could answer, the Codex shuddered.
All three women froze.
The book's pages fluttered open with a sound like a deep inhale. The air thickened, charged with a pulse that didn't come from the storm outside but from within. Words began to spill across the open pages, ink forming of its own accord — black, alive, writhing like veins.
Mary reached forward, hand trembling. The words moved as if aware of her touch.
"What's it writing?" Loosie whispered.
Mary leaned closer, reading aloud:
"When ink remembers blood, the story begins again."
The words sank into the page and vanished. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a droplet of liquid — dark red, glimmering like garnet — welled up from the spine of the book.
Els stepped back sharply. "That's blood."
Mary's breath caught. "No. It's—"
But before she could finish, the droplet spread, seeping into the parchment like water through sand. The Codex pulsed once more, and the next line appeared:
"Ink and blood are the same, when the hand forgets who writes."
Loosie's grip tightened on her hammer. "That thing's alive."
"It's not alive," Mary said, though her voice trembled. "It's awakening."
Els looked at her sharply. "And what happens when it fully wakes?"
Mary didn't answer.
Because she already knew.
Later that afternoon, she found herself alone in the lower archives — the part of the Loomspire that hadn't been touched since before the Doors were opened. Dust hung in the air like mist. Shelves of brittle parchment and broken quills lined the walls, remnants of earlier Weavers who'd vanished long before her time.
Mary carried the Codex carefully, its glow dimmed beneath a cloth wrap. She placed it on an old stone altar at the center of the room. The runes etched into the altar had long faded, but as the Codex touched its surface, they flared faintly — enough to reveal fragments of forgotten words.
"Anchor," she murmured. "Contain."
The Codex's cover shifted beneath her palm. "You can't contain what you are," it whispered in her mind.
Mary froze.
She hadn't spoken aloud.
Her heart pounded. "Who said that?"
The voice came again — soft, familiar, echoing from inside her skull.
"We did. The ink. The story. You wrote us, and we wrote you."
She swallowed hard. "No. I only hold you."
"You misunderstand." The whisper deepened, like ink soaking deeper into paper. "You are not holding the Codex. The Codex is holding you."
Mary stumbled back, but the book pulsed — not threateningly, but like a heartbeat syncing to her own. A soft light spread across the walls, illuminating ancient script that hadn't been visible moments ago. Her eyes caught on one line, half-hidden beneath dust and age:
"The first author bled the first word."
Her throat went dry. "That's impossible…"
She brushed her fingers across the line, and the Codex responded — opening itself again, unbidden.
On the page, new words appeared:
"The Queen remembers her scribe."
"And the scribe remembers her chains."
The air trembled. The ground beneath her feet vibrated, and shadows crawled along the edges of the chamber — ink made tangible, twisting, coiling like smoke. From within the haze, faint outlines began to form — hands, faces, fragments of old voices whispering.
"Mary!" Loosie's voice echoed from above, muffled by distance. "You down there?"
Mary tore her eyes away from the page. "Loosie! Don't—"
Too late. The door to the archives burst open.
Loosie stood framed in the doorway, hammer ready, eyes wide. "What in the hells—"
She didn't finish. The shadows surged toward her.
Mary lunged, snapping the Codex shut. The ink-shadows recoiled instantly, fading back into the walls. Loosie staggered but didn't fall. When the last of the darkness vanished, the room fell still.
"What was that?" Loosie demanded.
Mary hesitated. "Echoes. The Codex's memory."
Loosie stared at her. "That was more than memory, Mary. That thing moved."
"I know," Mary said softly. "And it recognized me."
Loosie frowned. "Recognized you how?"
Mary turned to face her, eyes distant, haunted. "It called me the scribe."
That night, the Loomspire didn't sleep.
Every corridor hummed faintly with tension. Weavers whispered of lights moving through locked rooms, of the scent of iron lingering in the air. The Queen's mark had begun appearing on other surfaces now — mirrors, inkpots, even on the skin of those who worked too close to the Codex.
Els called an emergency gathering.
Mary arrived late, the Codex bound in heavy chains across her back. Dozens of Weavers stood in a circle around the Great Loom — the heart of their order. The massive web of light that usually shimmered like dawn was flickering, its threads turning red at the edges.
"This is spreading," Els said, addressing the assembly. "The Codex's influence is corrupting the Loom."
Loosie bristled. "It's not corruption — it's connection."
Els turned sharply. "You sound like her."
"I trust her," Loosie snapped. "That book isn't evil."
"Neither is fire," Els said, "until it burns your home down."
The room erupted into whispers. Mary stood in the center, silent, her expression unreadable.
When the noise died, she spoke.
"The Codex isn't trying to destroy us," she said. "It's trying to remember. And maybe… maybe it's remembering through me."
Els's face tightened. "You think you're its vessel."
"No," Mary said, her eyes flicking toward the flickering threads of the Loom. "I think I'm its echo."
Silence followed — deep, uneasy, and absolute.
Then, from somewhere beyond the walls, a faint tremor rolled through the city. Distant bells rang out — not in warning, but in recognition.
The Queen of Ashes had arrived in the world again.
And with her return, the Codex's ink turned crimson.
Later, in her private chamber, Mary stared into the mirror. Her reflection shimmered faintly, a faint ripple of shadow crossing her face like a passing cloud.
When she blinked, for just a moment, she saw another version of herself staring back — eyes glowing red, mouth curved in a knowing smile.
"You can't separate yourself from me," the reflection said. "You're already written."
Mary's hand trembled against the glass. "Not yet."
But even as she said it, the Codex pulsed on the table behind her, pages fluttering in the still air — writing words she hadn't spoken, hadn't thought, but somehow remembered:
"The scribe wakes. The Queen stirs. The ink remembers its maker."
And beneath it, one last line appeared — not written in ink, but in blood:
"The story is rewriting itself."
Mary turned, eyes burning with reflected crimson light.
"Then I'll rewrite it back," she whispered.
But somewhere deep inside the Codex, a voice laughed softly — the voice of something ancient, patient, and pleased.