The land changed as Clara, Damien, and Evelyn pressed deeper into the chain of ruins. The trees were no longer trees; their bark twisted into spirals, their roots coiled upward instead of down, as though yearning for the sky. Birds did not sing. The only sound was the faint, steady hum beneath the soil, a heartbeat far too vast to belong to any living thing.
They walked single file through a canyon carved by fire. Ash fell from the cliff walls like snow, soft gray powder that clung to their cloaks. At times, Clara swore she saw the ash shift on its own—spiraling into patterns before dissolving again. She wanted to say something, but the words caught in her throat.
The Architect was breathing through the world. And she could hear it.
Her companions sensed her silence, though neither broke it at first. Damien stayed close, his sword hand brushing the hilt every few steps. Evelyn trailed behind, muttering to herself like she was rehearsing the moment she'd have to make good on her threat.
Finally, Evelyn spoke, voice sharp. "Tell me, Clara—when you stare at the ash like that, do you still see us? Or are we just shadows now?"
Clara stiffened but didn't turn. "I see you."
"Do you feel us?" Evelyn pressed. "Or do we just feel like weight slowing you down?"
Damien cut in, voice firm. "Enough."
But Clara forced herself to answer. "Both."
The word cracked in the canyon air.
Damien frowned, confusion flashing in his eyes. "What do you mean, both?"
Clara swallowed hard. Her hands trembled against her cloak, though she kept moving forward. "You're real. I see you, I hear you. But the Architect's voice doesn't fade. It speaks when you speak. It hums when you walk. I can't tell where you end and it begins anymore."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed. "That sounds like someone preparing an excuse for betrayal."
Clara stopped walking. She turned at last to face them, and for the first time Damien saw just how faintly her veins glowed beneath her skin—tiny crimson threads running like rivers just under the surface.
"I don't want this," she whispered. "You think I asked to carry this voice? You think I asked to dream in symbols and wake up screaming? Every step forward feels like I'm being rewritten. But if I don't keep moving, the rewriting will be for nothing—because the whole world will be erased instead."
The canyon air went still. Evelyn opened her mouth, but no sarcasm came.
Damien stepped forward and placed a hand on Clara's shoulder. His touch was warm against the chill of her skin. "Then we keep moving," he said simply. "Together. Even if the world doesn't trust you, I will."
Clara wanted to thank him. Instead, she nodded once and turned away. Words felt dangerous now—like every syllable she spoke could carry someone else's meaning.
They continued until the canyon widened into a plateau. There, at the center, lay another fissure—vast and yawning, its edges rimmed with spirals of charred earth. The glow was stronger here, pulsing like the veins of a living heart.
Clara staggered at the sight. Her chest ached in rhythm with the fissure's thrum. It was like seeing her reflection in the earth itself.
And then the whispers came. Clearer than before.
Closer. Step closer. The loom waits.
She clutched her head, teeth gritted.
Damien caught her arm. "Clara? What's happening?"
The hum turned into words only she could hear.
He waits. Crimson Weaver. Crimson Thread. You are the shuttle. You are the hand. You are the knife.
Her breath came ragged. Her eyes burned with faint light. "It's… calling me."
Evelyn drew her blade, pointing it not at Clara but at the fissure itself. "Then we kill whatever's inside before it finishes calling."
But Clara shook her head violently. "No. If we strike blindly, we strengthen it. That's how the threads work. Resistance feeds the weave. We have to—"
Her words cut off.
From the fissure's depths, something rose. Not a creature, not yet, but a shape of threads woven together—like a man built of crimson light, featureless but standing tall. It mirrored Yurin's silhouette, but its face was a blank canvas of glow.
Damien raised his sword. Evelyn swore under her breath.
Clara only stared. Because in her chest, the same hum echoed.
The figure opened its mouth. No sound came. Instead, her voice emerged, layered and distorted, speaking words she had never chosen:
"The Loom is almost ready."