Calla's POV
The temple gate screams when I touch it.
The sound rips through the night—metal shrieking against metal, loud enough to shatter glass. I jump back, heart hammering, certain that everyone in the village heard it.
But the festival music keeps playing. Laughter drifts on the wind. Nobody's coming.
Nobody ever comes when I need them.
I slip through the gate into the Temple of Hours courtyard. Dead weeds crunch under my feet. The air smells like rot and old magic. My witch-sight shows me traces of power clinging to the stones—ancient spells that have faded to whispers.
This place was important once. Now it's a graveyard.
The temple door hangs crooked on broken hinges. I squeeze through the gap and step into darkness so thick it feels like walking into black water. My eyes adjust slowly. Moonlight filters through holes in the roof, creating pools of silver light among the shadows.
The main hall is massive and empty. Broken pews lie scattered like bones. At the far end, I see what Papa described—the altar. It's made of black stone and covered in strange symbols that hurt to look at.
Under that altar is the hidden chamber. The Forbidden Archives.
My father's words echo in my mind: "You're the last Guardian. The last one who can touch the Loom without breaking it."
What does that even mean?
I cross the hall, my footsteps echoing too loud. Every shadow looks like it's watching me. Every sound makes me flinch. But I force myself forward until I'm standing before the altar.
Up close, I can see the symbols aren't just carved—they're burned into the stone, like someone branded them with fire. My magic tingles uncomfortably. These aren't decorations. They're warnings.
Turn back. Danger. Death waits here.
I ignore them.
Papa said the entrance is under the main altar stone. I run my hands along the edges, searching for a catch or lever. Nothing. I push. Pull. Try to slide it sideways. The stone doesn't budge.
"Come on," I whisper desperately. "Please. I need to save him."
The moment those words leave my mouth, something clicks deep inside the altar. The symbols flare with green light so bright I have to close my eyes. When I open them again, the altar stone is sliding sideways on invisible rails, revealing a spiral staircase leading down into darkness.
Cold air rushes up from below, carrying the smell of old books and something else—something that makes my magic recoil in fear.
I should leave. Every part of me knows this is a terrible idea.
But Papa is dying.
I descend into the darkness.
The stairs go down forever. My hands trail along the stone walls, feeling carvings that weren't there a second ago. They appear as I pass, glowing faintly—images of people weaving golden threads, of hooded figures harvesting souls, of a massive loom stretching across the stars.
My family's history, written in stone and light.
Finally, the stairs end. I step into a circular chamber lit by floating orbs of blue fire that cast no heat. The walls are lined with shelves holding hundreds of books. Some are bound in leather. Others are wrapped in chains. One entire shelf is dedicated to books that seem to be made of metal, their pages reflecting light like mirrors.
In the center of the chamber sits a single pedestal. On it rests a book bound in black leather with silver chains wrapped around it three times.
The book Papa told me about.
I walk forward slowly, reverently, like approaching a sleeping dragon. The other books watch me—I can feel their attention, heavy as hands on my shoulders. But I only have eyes for the chained book.
Up close, I can see words burned into the cover: The Forbidden Thread—Spells of Life, Death, and Time's Theft.
My hands tremble as I reach for it.
The moment my fingers touch the chains, they uncoil like living snakes and drop to the floor with a clatter that makes me yelp. The book falls open by itself, pages flipping rapidly until they stop on a specific page.
The Thread Severance Ritual.
The instructions are written in blood-red ink. Diagrams show exactly how to cut a dying thread from the Loom and bind it to a living thread. The warnings are written in capital letters:
THIS MAGIC VIOLATES THE NATURAL ORDER. TIME REAPERS WILL HUNT YOU UNTO DEATH AND BEYOND. YOUR SOUL WILL BE SCATTERED ACROSS THE VOID. YOU WILL CEASE TO EXIST IN EVERY TIMELINE.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I feel calm. Almost peaceful.
Because I finally have a choice. I can save Papa. The cost doesn't matter—nothing matters except keeping him alive.
I memorize the spell, reading it three times to make sure I have every word correct. Then I notice something else written in the margin, in handwriting that looks familiar:
"To my daughter who will read this someday: forgive me for the burden I place on you. You are the last Guardian. When you perform this spell, you will awaken. They will find you. But you will also find your power—and perhaps, if fate is kind, you will find him. The one who balances Death with Life. Trust the bond, even when it burns. Trust your heart, even when it breaks. Love is the only magic that can rewrite destiny. —Your grandmother, Elara Thorne"
My breath catches. Grandmother Elara died before I was born. Papa rarely spoke about her, except to say she was powerful and brave and died protecting our family.
She knew I would come here. She knew I would perform this spell.
She knew everything.
"They will find you."
Who? Who's looking for me?
Before I can think more about it, the blue fire orbs suddenly flare bright and start spinning wildly. Books fall from shelves. The ground shakes.
Something is wrong.
I grab the chained book and run for the stairs. Behind me, I hear shelves collapsing, books screaming—actually screaming—in voices that sound almost human. The chamber is coming apart.
I take the stairs three at a time, lungs burning, clutching the forbidden book to my chest. The walls are cracking. Dust rains down. The temple is waking up, and it's angry.
I burst out of the staircase into the main hall just as the altar stone slams shut behind me. The green symbols are glowing so bright they hurt to look at. The entire temple is shaking.
I run.
Through the hall, through the broken door, across the courtyard. The iron gate slams shut the moment I'm through, missing my back by inches.
I don't stop running until I'm halfway home, gasping for air, my heart trying to break through my ribs.
Only then do I realize what I'm holding.
The black book is ice-cold in my hands. The silver chains are moving again, slowly wrapping tighter around the cover. And written across the first page in new, fresh blood-red ink are words that weren't there before:
"The spell is yours, last Guardian. But know this: the moment you sever a thread from the Loom, you will be marked. He will come for you. The Reaper Prince shows no mercy. Choose wisely, Calla Thorne. Choose knowing that there is no path back from this."
The book knows my name.
And somewhere in the darkness, I swear I hear wings—massive, terrible wings beating against the fabric of reality itself.
Coming closer.