The Loomspire did not rest.
Even when the Weavers slept, the walls hummed faintly, alive with the pulse of threads stretching across reality. But that night, the hum had changed — deepened — as if something vast and ancient had awakened beneath the stone.
Mary hadn't slept since the encounter with the Queen.
She sat alone in her chamber, the Codex lying open before her on the desk. The candles burned low, the flames thin and restless. The room smelled of iron and ash, though no fire burned in the hearth.
Her reflection in the Codex's surface looked almost normal — almost.
But when the candlelight flickered, her eyes flashed red. The same shade as the Queen's.
She told herself it was just exhaustion.
That lie lasted until she heard the whisper.
"You bleed beautifully when you write."
Mary froze. Her eyes darted toward the mirror across the room.
Her reflection was still there, sitting perfectly still — but the reflection smiled.
She hadn't.
Her pulse quickened. "Not again," she whispered.
"You thought you could cage me in ink?" the voice said. It came not from the mirror, but from within her mind — the same smooth, cold tone that had haunted her dreams since the Crimson Thread first appeared. "You opened the door yourself. I only walked through."
Mary slammed the Codex shut. The whisper cut off instantly, like a candle snuffed.
For a long moment, the only sound was her ragged breathing.
Then — a knock.
"Mary?" Loosie's voice. Steady, practical, human. "You up?"
Mary exhaled, pressing her hand to her chest until her heartbeat slowed. "Yeah. Come in."
The door creaked open. Loosie stepped inside, the scent of forge smoke clinging to her like armor. She set her hammer down gently, as though not to startle the silence.
"You look like death," Loosie said.
Mary managed a weak smile. "Feels worse."
Loosie's eyes went to the Codex. "Still talking?"
Mary hesitated. "Not exactly."
"That's not comforting," Loosie said flatly. "Els wants a report on what happened in the Loom's core. She's spooked. The Thread stopped spreading, but… the air feels wrong."
Mary looked out the window. The city below still shimmered faintly with red veins of light, though dimmer now — like embers waiting to flare again.
"It's not gone," Mary said softly. "It's waiting."
Loosie studied her. "You mean she's waiting."
Mary didn't respond.
They met Els in the lower atrium of the Loomspire. The massive stained-glass dome overhead once shone with gold and silver light — now it glowed faintly crimson, fractured veins crawling across its surface like a spiderweb.
Els stood at the center of the room, surrounded by half a dozen Weavers. Each held a small orb of luminescent thread, tools used to sense distortions in the weave. All of them flickered weakly, as though drained.
"Finally," Els said as Mary approached. "We need answers."
Mary crossed her arms. "The Queen's influence came through the Codex. She used the Crimson Thread as a bridge between realities. But I stopped her—"
"Stopped her?" Els interrupted sharply. "You bled into the Codex, Mary. You fed it. We can all feel the shift."
Loosie stepped forward. "She saved the Loomspire."
Els's gaze hardened. "At what cost?"
Mary straightened. "You think I'm corrupted?"
"I think," Els said slowly, "that you're carrying something inside you — something older and far more dangerous than the Queen herself."
The room fell silent.
Mary met her eyes, her voice steady but trembling at the edges. "I did what I had to."
Els didn't blink. "So did she."
A chill swept through the chamber — sudden, unnatural. Every candle flickered, and the light from the stained glass pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
Then, for an instant, all the reflections in the glass — every face — smiled. Even the ones that shouldn't have.
Loosie swore and raised her hammer. The Weavers murmured prayers, threads glowing weakly in their palms.
Mary felt the presence before she heard it.
The Queen's voice — soft, melodic, unmistakable.
"How kind of you to gather, my children."
Every reflection turned toward Mary. Every set of mirrored eyes burned red.
Els shouted, "Containment ward, now!"
The Weavers thrust their hands out, threads of blue and silver lashing across the room, forming a shimmering dome of protection. The Queen's reflection flickered, pressing against it, smiling through the distortion.
"You cannot ward against your own story," she whispered.
The dome cracked. One of the Weavers screamed as the crimson light wrapped around his arm, writing letters into his skin. MARY — carved in fire.
Mary stepped forward, her voice breaking. "Stop!"
The Queen's reflection tilted her head. "Make me."
Mary raised the Codex, but before she could speak, the Queen moved — fast as thought. The mirrored glass of the dome shattered outward, shards freezing midair, suspended like floating knives.
Every one of them reflected the Queen's face.
Loosie moved instantly, tackling Mary aside as the shards exploded into red mist. The air hissed with the smell of iron.
Then — silence.
When Mary opened her eyes again, the dome was gone. So were three of the Weavers.
The others knelt where they had stood, breathing hard, the red glow slowly fading from the walls.
Els's voice trembled — the first time Mary had ever heard fear in it. "She's inside the reflection. Every reflection."
Mary pushed herself to her feet. "That means she can't exist without one."
Els caught on. "You want to erase every surface in the Loomspire?"
"No," Mary said quietly. "I want to turn them against her."
She placed the Codex on the ground. Its pages opened by themselves, bleeding red light. The words began to move, reshaping, responding to her will.
Loosie frowned. "Mary, what are you doing?"
"I'm rewriting the reflections," Mary said. "Giving them a new rule."
She pressed her bleeding hand to the page and whispered:
"No mirror may reflect the Queen."
The air crackled. The mirrors shuddered — every window, every shard, every drop of water that held an image. For one heartbeat, the Queen's face appeared in all of them — furious, radiant, alive.
Then, one by one, they went dark.
The Codex snapped shut with a sound like thunder.
Mary swayed, dizzy. Loosie caught her before she fell.
Els looked around, stunned. The reflections were gone. Only faint outlines remained — ghostly impressions in the glass, like afterimages.
"You did it," Els said quietly. "You broke her hold."
Mary shook her head. "No. I changed the rule. She'll adapt."
"She always does," Loosie muttered.
Mary's eyes glowed faintly again, crimson in the dim light. "And so will I."
Later that night, the Loomspire was quiet again. The fires had been put out. The Weavers buried the fallen.
Mary sat at her desk once more, staring at the closed Codex.
In the reflection of the window — now faint and distorted — she saw herself.
No, not herself. Not quite.
The reflection tilted its head at a slightly different angle.
Mary didn't move.
The reflection smiled — slow, deliberate.
Then, with a whisper that chilled her to the bone:
"You can't rewrite blood."
The reflection faded.
And the candle went out.