The Shadow's words clung to Ahri long after he vanished into the ruined corridors. She did not remember leaving him—one moment he was there, threads spilling from his hands, and the next she stood alone beneath a crumbling archway, her pulse still racing.
But silence did not mean safety.
That night, as she tried to rest, she felt it: a whisper brushing against her ear, too close, too human. She sat upright, searching the chamber. No one. Only the Loom's faint pulse from above.
Yet the voice returned, seeping into her thoughts like smoke.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
Her hands trembled. She pressed her palms against her ears, but the whispers burrowed deeper, coming not from without but within. Shadows stirred across the walls—elongated hands twitching and reaching, each finger lined with broken threads.
The whispers grew clearer: We were once as you are. Bound to the weave. Bound to silence. But we cut. We severed. And in severing, we became free.
She backed against the wall, heart hammering. "Who are you?"
The shadows writhed, their hands dragging along the stone. A dozen, then dozens more. Some bore rings; others had nails splintered to the quick. Hands without bodies, each tethered to nothing.
We are the Severed Hands. The fragments left behind when we chose freedom. And you, Threadseer, you will join us, or you will drown in silence.
Jin appeared suddenly, his spirit form crackling with defensive light. His voice boomed louder than she had ever heard: "Begone!"
The shadows recoiled, shrieking like torn cloth before retreating into the dark. The chamber stilled.
Ahri's knees buckled, and she sank to the floor. Jin knelt beside her, his usually calm tone tight with urgency. "They should not be here. The Severed do not cross unbidden. Something is weakening the barrier."
Ahri stared at her trembling hands, her breath shallow. The whispers lingered, faint but insistent: Cut.