At dawn, Ahri climbed the steps to the Loom Chamber again, her exhaustion plain. The threads above swayed faintly, dimmer than before. She stared upward, searching for stability, but found only a tangle of unrest.
The Elder's words returned to her: Each thread carries weight. A burden of memory, of life, of choice. Too much weight, and it frays.
She touched one of the lower strands, and images flooded her mind—memories not her own. A woman kneeling before a pyre, clutching a child who faded into ash. A man casting his sword aside as an army collapsed around him. A faceless figure drowning beneath waves of silver thread.
The visions broke, leaving her gasping. Every life, every choice, was a weight upon the Loom. How could she possibly hold it all?
Jin stood nearby, his expression unreadable. "The Loom does not show you this to torment you. It shows you the cost. You must decide if you will carry it."
Her voice cracked. "And if I can't?"
"Then someone else will cut. And the cost will be greater."
The Weaver's Shadow's offer echoed through her memory: The first cut is always the hardest. But it is also the most freeing.
She pressed her forehead against the cold stone railing, her body trembling with fatigue and fear. Every path seemed to lead to ruin. Every choice carried fracture.
For the first time since awakening as Threadseer, Ahri felt the pull of surrender—not to rest, but to release.