The threads swirl around Milo, weaving themselves into a cloak he never asked for but somehow fits perfectly. The Weavers recoil, their forms rippling as the Loom rejects their authority and gravitates toward him instead.
"Stop!" the first Weaver cries, voice cracking. "You cannot merge with the Loom—your mind will split!"
But Milo isn't splitting.
He's aligning.
He feels every thread brushing against him — a soft, fragile awareness. A thousand futures whispering, tugging, asking. They're not trying to control him; they're waiting to be understood.
The Loom glows brighter.
Milo closes his eyes.
He sees every person in Halcyon:
A boy choosing between college or running from responsibility.A woman deciding whether to stay or leave a relationship.A teacher wanting to quit but staying because she feels needed.A father debating a risky surgery.A girl standing at a bus stop, wondering if she deserves to be happy.
These aren't destinies.
They're questions.
The Loom remembers them all.
Milo opens his eyes — glowing faintly gold.
"This isn't about control," he says quietly. "It's about possibility. You forgot that."
The Weavers stiffen.
"You misunderstand the Loom," the second Weaver hisses. "Choice creates chaos."
"But no choice," Milo replies, "creates cages."
The Loom pulses at his words. A wave of gold light spreads outward.
The Weavers flinch.Threads slip from their robes.For the first time in centuries… they look afraid.
"He is rewriting structure," the third Weaver whispers. "He must be severed."
A jagged blade of threadlight forms in their hand.
Milo braces.
But before the weapon reaches him—
Someone else steps between them.
A figure woven from dark silver threads. Sharp, certain, confident.
Liora.
Except not the Liora from the café.
This is Liora's true form — ancient, powerful, bound to the Loom long before she became a barista.
She spreads her hands.
"You will not touch him," she says.
The Loom trembles with recognition.
The Weavers fall silent.
Because Liora Vex…was once one of them.