The ruin stretched on for hours, each step sinking into ash that shifted like memory turned dust. The walls hummed faintly with broken threads—half-notes of forgotten songs, voices straining but never completing their chorus.
Ahri slowed when she heard the first lament. A faint wail, carried on the copper winds, tugged at her chest. At first, she thought it was Aya. But Aya was pale and silent beside her.
The wail came again. Louder. Closer.
Shapes drifted into sight—spectral remnants of threadbearers, their outlines glowing like moth wings burning at the edges. They did not attack. They only wept. Their faces were blurred, eyes hollowed by the unraveling.
"Are they… trapped here?" Ahri whispered.
"They are the singers of the Loom's undoing," Mino answered. "When the First Thread burned, it took voices with it. Now they sing what they cannot forget."
The spirits turned their faceless heads toward Ahri. The wails shifted, weaving into a chorus that seemed to fold into her chest. For a heartbeat, she heard words hidden in the cry: Seeker… you carry what we lost.
Her breath caught. "They're speaking to me."
Jin stepped forward sharply, placing himself between Ahri and the wraithlike choir. His outline flickered with tension, the edges of his form spiking like blades. "Ignore them. They only feed on your certainty."
But his voice shook, betraying fear.
Ahri's hand hovered over her lantern, light pulsing with her heartbeat. "No. They're not feeding. They're mourning."
The spirits wailed again, louder, so loud the air trembled. Aya clutched her ears, tears spilling as if the song struck some buried truth in her hollowed memory.
Ahri knelt, lowering her lantern to the ash. The wailing calmed, threads of light gathering near her flame as if soothed by recognition.
Jin turned away, shadows dragging behind him like chains. "Do not comfort them, Ahri. Comforting ghosts will only bind you to them."
His voice was cold, but beneath it, Ahri thought she heard something else—longing.