That night, the Loom Chamber roared.
Ahri woke to the vibration, the entire temple shuddering as if struck by a storm. She rushed upward, threads of fate lashing like living serpents. The chamber blazed with chaotic light, each thread singing a different discordant note.
Jin was already there, his form barely stable against the surging energy. "The Loom is breaking alignment!" he shouted over the din. "It has not done this in centuries!"
Ahri staggered forward, clutching the railing as she tried to steady her gaze. The threads were tearing at each other, sparks flying where fates collided. She could see lives unraveling in flashes—wars igniting prematurely, children born still, and alliances shattered before their time.
Her chest clenched. If the Loom tore itself apart, reality would follow.
Then she saw it—at the very center of the weave. A black thread coiled tight, spreading rot outward like ink spilled on parchment. The same darkness she had seen in the shard offered by the stranger.
Her breath caught. It's already here.
The Weaver's Shadow's voice echoed in her memory: The first cut is always the hardest.
Jin gripped her arm, his expression fierce. "You must choose, Ahri. Cut the black thread and risk unraveling what it touches, or let it spread and corrupt the Loom entire."
Her dagger felt impossibly heavy at her side. Every instinct screamed at her not to cut—but the Loom trembled violently, threatening collapse.
The chamber shook. Threads screamed. And at the heart of it all, Ahri stood poised between destruction and silence, her hand trembling on the blade.