The golden Thread pulsed in Corin's hand, warm as sunlight and impossibly light, yet beneath its glow lay a weight he could feel deep in his marrow. It vibrated not just with Loom energy, but with memory — a buried history clawing to be remembered.
The chamber around him had quieted. The Loom's core, though wounded, shimmered with a cautious steadiness, like a breath held just below the surface. Maera, Grand Spinner of the Sixth Spiral, watched him silently, her eyes measuring more than just strength.
"What is this Thread?" Corin asked at last, his voice low.
Maera answered without pause. "It is a memory of the first Weave."
Corin frowned. "The first what?"
"The original design," Fira said from behind him. Her voice was dry but reverent. "The first configuration of the Loom. Before the Founders. Before the Orders. Before the Threads were categorized and controlled."
Maera nodded once. "The Thread you hold is not power — not in the traditional sense. It's a blueprint. A map of the old Weave, untouched by Kael's influence. It can lead you to what came before."
Ashlyn stepped forward, arms folded, gaze wary. "Why now? Why give this to him? If you've had this all along…"
"Because Corin is the first in generations to be accepted by the Heart," Maera said. "Even among the Loomwrights, few can touch raw Threads without unraveling. You felt it yourself, Threadguard — his bond is not just deep. It is innate."
Ashlyn stiffened. "Don't call me that."
Maera's expression did not change. "As you wish. But names have weight. And yours is not yet finished."
Corin was still staring at the Thread. "If this map leads us to what came before… then what exactly are we looking for?"
"Understanding," Maera replied. "And warning. The Loom isn't just breaking — it's being rewritten. Kael isn't merely severing threads. He's inserting new ones. Patterns not drawn from the Loom at all."
That sent a chill through the chamber.
Ashlyn looked sharply at Maera. "Are you saying Kael is writing his own fate into the Loom?"
"No," Maera said. "Worse. He's allowing something else to do it for him."
Fira stepped forward. "The old gods," she whispered. "Or something like them."
Maera turned to her. "You were trained well."
But Corin wasn't listening anymore. The golden Thread was pulling — subtly, softly, but definitely. A gentle tug that urged motion. His fingers twitched around it.
"We need to follow it," he said.
"To where?" Ashlyn asked.
Corin turned. "The Spindle."
Maera gave a single nod. "Then I will open the path."
She stepped to the center of the chamber and raised both hands. The air warped, and new Threads unfurled from her palms — sharp and silver, cutting across the space in a perfect vertical line. Light spilled out, revealing a corridor lined with floating platforms and arcane symbols. It shimmered like a mirror of stars.
"This gate will take you to the Archive base of the Spindle," she said. "But be warned: it is not abandoned."
Fira tilted her head. "Threadborn?"
"No," Maera said. "Worse. Those who remain within the Archive believe the outside world has already fallen. Their minds have not aged. Their fears have festered. And they do not take kindly to intrusions."
Ashlyn exhaled sharply. "Paranoid weavers. Wonderful."
"They are called the Remnants," Maera said. "They are the last living scholars who directly accessed the original Threads. Many were marked as unstable. Dangerous. Some were left behind… intentionally."
Corin stepped toward the portal. "If they've seen what's coming, we need to talk to them."
Maera nodded once more. "Then go. But remember, Corin Thorne — the Thread you carry may awaken more than answers. Not all truths wish to be known."
Without another word, Corin stepped through the gate.
—
The transition was cold.
One moment, Corin was in the Heart, surrounded by warmth and light — the next, he emerged into a space of pure geometry and silence. The world around him seemed frozen in perpetual dusk. Stone towers floated in air like islands drifting in a forgotten sea. Loomlines stitched across the sky, holding the shattered architecture in gravity-defying place.
Ashlyn and Fira appeared behind him moments later, staggering slightly from the shift.
"Gods," Ashlyn muttered, brushing frost from her shoulders. "It's like walking into a dream drawn by a dying architect."
Fira was already scanning the surroundings. "No movement. But the Threads here… they're thick. Ancient."
Corin nodded. The air buzzed with power, but unlike the Heart, this was static — unmoving. Like a well of magic that had forgotten how to flow.
Before them loomed a narrow stone bridge leading to a squat tower, blackened with age. Runes pulsed faintly across its surface.
"That's the Archive," Corin said.
They moved forward cautiously. Every step echoed through the void. The bridge did not sway, but it pulsed — as if sensing their presence, acknowledging them in silence.
When they reached the tower's threshold, Ashlyn touched the door. It was cold. And then… it opened.
Inside, the Archive was a spiral of shelves and floating books, all suspended by thin strands of Loom energy. It should have been beautiful.
But it wasn't.
Figures moved between the shelves — robed, hunched, whispering. Their eyes glowed faintly beneath their hoods. Their movements were jerky, as though responding to invisible cues. Not Threadborn. Not Hollowed. Something in between.
"Remnants," Fira whispered.
One of the figures turned toward them — and froze.
A long moment passed.
Then it spoke, its voice distant, layered with echo:
"You do not belong."
Corin stepped forward. "We come seeking the Weave. The Thread of the Beginning."
The figure's glow dimmed. "The Map has stirred?"
Corin held out the golden Thread.
The Remnant recoiled. "That Thread… was not meant to return."
Another figure approached from the shelves — this one taller, with Loomlines etched into their skin like living runes. Unlike the others, they walked with certainty.
"Give it to me," the new Remnant said.
Ashlyn moved between them. "He's not giving you anything."
The taller figure ignored her and stepped closer to Corin. "You do not understand what you carry. That Thread is not memory. It is a summoning. And the thing it calls is already listening."
Corin looked down at the Thread.
And felt it warm.
Not just warm.
Alive.