Milo's hands trembled as he hovered over the Loom. The golden threads vibrated faintly, almost as if alive, each one holding the weight of a life teetering on the edge of choice. Shadows shifted at the edges of the chamber, curling and slithering like smoke, the Weavers' eyes upon him. He could feel their patience and their hunger pressing into his chest.
"Do you understand what you're holding?" Liora's voice cut through the tension. Her silver hair shone under the chamber's light, framing eyes that were storm-gray, serious yet patient. "Every choice ever made, every path denied… it is all here. You can guide the threads, but you cannot command them. One misstep could unravel a life—or a hundred."
Milo swallowed, throat dry. "I… I don't want to ruin anything," he whispered.
"You won't," Liora replied. "If you stay aware. Let the Loom guide your hands, don't force it. Listen to it, as you would a friend whispering the truth."
His pulse raced. He reached tentatively, brushing fingers across a single golden thread. It quivered beneath his touch, a pulse echoing with the heartbeat of someone else. A boy at a bus stop, uncertain of which path to take. A woman staring at an unopened resignation letter. A man lying in a hospital bed, wondering whether to risk hope or cling to fear. Milo could feel their emotions twisting and turning like water in a storm.
The threads were alive. And alive meant fragile.
"Choice is awareness," Milo whispered, closing his eyes to focus. Letting the threads guide him, he slowly coiled them around the shadowy Weavers, not to harm but to redirect, to shield the fragile order from chaos. Sweat pricked at his temples, and his breath came in short, panicked bursts. Minutes stretched like hours, but slowly, the chamber stilled. The threads hummed gently, golden light pulsing rhythmically.
Liora's voice softened. "You've touched destiny without claiming it. Few humans can do this. Remember: responsibility has limits, but awareness… awareness can stretch as far as you allow it."
Milo exhaled slowly, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten for the first time. He had faced fate itself—and survived.