The forest didn't speak.
Not at first.
It watched.
The palace had burned behind them—its screams stitched into the wind, its ashes folded into the soil. Ivy hadn't spoken since. Her satchel hung limp at her side. The book was quiet. The seal pulsed faintly, like a wound trying to close.
Tieran walked beside her, silent.
He didn't ask how she felt.
He already knew.
They reached a clearing.
Threadbare.
Still.
Then Ivy heard it—faint at first, a voice threaded through the hush.
Tieran felt it too, deep in the bond they shared—a stirring, a recognition.
A voice whispered softly, clearly, unmistakably: "It's your mother."
The voice lingered in the air like mist—soft, aching, stitched with memory.
Ivy froze.
Her breath caught.
The clearing around them felt suddenly alive, as if the trees had turned to listen.
Tieran stepped closer, his voice low. "You heard it too."
Ivy nodded, eyes wide. "It's her. I know it. I felt it in the seal."
Tieran touched her wrist gently, "Then we follow."
They stepped into the forest.
Not fast.
Not brave.
Just together.
The path wasn't marked, but Ivy didn't need it to be. Her feet moved as if guided by memory. The trees leaned inward, whispering in languages older than speech. Petals fell from branches that hadn't bloomed in years.
The voice came again.
Fainter.
But clearer.
"Ivy…"
She stumbled.
Tieran caught her.
"She's close," Ivy whispered. "But not whole."
Tieran looked ahead. "Then we stitch her back
The forest narrowed.
Branches twisted inward, forming a corridor of thorns and silence. Ivy and Tieran moved slowly, the seal on Ivy's palm pulsing faster now—like a heartbeat nearing its final thread.
Then—
A shimmer.
A wall.
A seal.
It wasn't drawn.
It was alive.
Etched into stone, guarded by runes that flickered like warning eyes. Tieran ran his fingers along the edge, searching for weakness.
"There," Ivy whispered.
A crack.
Thin.
Hidden.
They peered through.
Inside: a cavern stitched with shadow and flame. Chains hung from the ceiling like vines. The air was thick with enchantment—old, bitter, protective.
And in the center—
A woman.
Tied in chains.
Head bowed.
Hair tangled.
Breath shallow.
Tieran froze.
"I know her," he said, voice low. "I've met her. Several times."
Ivy turned to him, eyes wide.
"You're sure?"
He nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the chained figure beyond the crack.
"I'm sure," he said. "That's your mother."
The seal pulsed harder.
The cave groaned.
And the traps awakened.
Blades flickered from the walls.
Spikes rose from the floor.
The air shimmered with curses—threaded to trigger on sound, movement, emotion.
Ivy stepped back.
"We have to get in."
Tieran nodded. "We have to get her out."
The three-day thread was unraveling.
And the final rescue had begun.
Ivy raised her hands.
Tried to cast.
But the spell unraveled—her fingers trembling, breath shallow, panic stitching itself into every thread.
The traps hissed.
The seal pulsed.
Time was running out.
Ivy's spell faltered.
Her hands trembled.
The cave hissed with curses—traps awakening, time unraveling.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Her breath caught in her throat, panic stitching itself into every thread.
Then Tieran stepped forward.
Silent.
Deliberate.
He reached for the hilt at his side—not with haste, but with reverence, like touching a memory too sacred to speak aloud.
His fingers curled around the grip.
And the air changed.
The sword didn't just unsheathe.
It awakened.
Light bled from the blade—not golden, not silver, but a deep, pulsing crimson, stitched with threads of emotion and something darker.
The aura surged outward, brushing Ivy's skin like fire and silk.
She gasped.
Fell to her knees.
Pain bloomed in her chest—not hers, but his.
She saw it.
Felt it.
Through the bond.
Tieran's emotions weren't just stitched into the blade—they were sealed there.
Grief.
Anger.
Love.
And poison.
His mouth filled with blood.
But he didn't flinch.
The sword pulsed again, responding to his cultivation, his will, his ache.
"I'm breaking it," he said, voice raw, eyes burning.
Then he struck.
The wall groaned.
The cave screamed.
Each blow wasn't just steel—it was memory, sacrifice, and agony.
Ivy cried out—not from fear, but because she felt every fracture, every thread of pain.
They were stitched together now.
And the sword knew it.
The final blow landed.
Tieran's sword pulsed once—then shattered the wall.
Stone cracked.
Light spilled.
And the cave groaned.
The traps hissed.
Chains rattled.
The enchantments began to unravel, stitched too tightly to survive the breach.
Ivy stumbled forward, breath ragged, pain blooming in her chest—echoing Tieran's own.
The bond was bleeding.
In the center of the cave, the woman stirred.
Her head lifted.
Eyes fluttered open—clouded, aching, but searching.
She saw Ivy first.
Then Tieran.
And something shifted.
Tieran stepped forward, voice trembling. "Aunt Nia?"
The woman blinked.
Then gasped.
"Tieran?" Her voice was cracked silk. "You're Orie's boy. The little storm."
Tieran froze.
"I remember you," Nia said, tears rising. "You used to chase fireflies in my garden."
She turned to Ivy.
Ivy stepped closer, voice barely a whisper. "Are you… my mother?"
The woman blinked, eyes clouded but searching.
Then her breath caught.
"Are you Ivy?" she asked, voice trembling.
Ivy nodded, tears rising.
The chains rattled softly, as if responding to the bond between them.
Tieran gripped the chains.
His sword was cracked, his aura flickering, but he didn't stop.
With each strike, the cave groaned louder—walls splitting, enchantments unraveling.
Ivy reached for her spellbook, hands trembling.
She cast.
This time—
It worked.
A shield bloomed around them, stitched with light and threadsbound energy. Spikes hissed against it, curses shattered mid-air.
Tieran broke the final chain.
Nia collapsed into Ivy's arms.
The cave roared.
They ran.
Stone crumbled behind them.
The exit shimmered ahead.
But Tieran staggered.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
Ivy gasped—her chest burned, her vision blurred.
The bond was bleeding.
She collapsed beside him.
Both of them—
Fainting.
Then—
Nia rose.
Her chains gone, her eyes blazing with old magic.
She knelt beside Tieran, hands glowing.
"I won't lose another child," she whispered.
She cast.
The spell surged—silent, golden, stitched with memory and love.
Tieran's breath steadied.
His wounds closed.
The blood vanished.
He opened his eyes.
Ivy stirred beside him.
And Nia smiled.
"You're safe," she said. "Both of you."