The whisper followed Kaelen into sleep.
It wasn't a voice—not truly. Not one shaped by lungs or breath. It was a tremor along the Weave itself. A thread pulled taut behind his thoughts. Not intrusive, not demanding—just there, persistent, ancient.
And familiar.
He dreamt of strings. Of silver-black silk weaving through bones. Of hands that were not his reaching through time. A pattern half-formed. A loom unfinished.
When Kaelen woke, the whisper remained.
It was no longer just a memory.
It was a compass.
They broke camp in silence.
The world beyond the whispering ruin was harsher than before. The air had changed. Grew thinner. Edged with something that wasn't quite cold, but not warm either. A stillness—like the breath of a predator just before it moved.
Aelira moved beside him with measured grace, her blades hidden beneath her cloak, her gaze flicking to the shadows that stretched longer than they should.
"You're hearing it again," she said. Not a question.
Kaelen didn't respond at first. He was watching the horizon, where the grey skies gave way to a distant shimmer—an anomaly spiraling above a dead valley, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"The whisper's guiding us," he said at last.
"To what?"
"To the next stitch in the pattern."
Aelira narrowed her eyes. "You're certain?"
"No," he replied. "But I trust it more than I trust the silence."
The path was not a path. It was jagged, uneven terrain that had once been a mountain range and was now a series of craters stitched together by Rift-burned scars. Every step crackled with old energy. Plants didn't grow here. No creatures stirred. Only dust, the occasional shard of bone, and the hum of something deeper.
Halfway through the third hour, Aelira stopped.
"Something's tracking us," she said.
Kaelen nodded. "Two somethings."
He'd felt them since the last ridge. Hidden in the folds of space. Shadows clinging too close. He didn't react. Let them think he hadn't noticed.
They continued walking.
The shadows followed.
When they reached a dead tree shaped like a spiral, Kaelen stopped.
Without turning, he spoke.
"You've followed us far enough. Come out."
A pause.
Then two figures dropped from the high rocks above—feral, hunched, armored in stitched hide and bone. Their eyes glowed faintly. Not human. Riftborn hybrids. Intelligent.
The first was taller, his voice rasped through what remained of a jaw.
"You walk where only echoes tread."
"And yet," Kaelen said, "I find the path quite open."
The second spoke, female and sharp. "You carry the Loom's breath. The shadows smell it on you."
Kaelen's hand twitched, not toward a weapon, but toward the air itself.
The Weave shifted.
A ripple moved through the dust.
"I don't want a fight," Kaelen said. "Only passage."
The two looked at each other.
Then the female knelt.
"The Loom remembers you."
Kaelen frowned. "What?"
The male dropped to one knee as well.
"You are the echo that stitched the void," he said. "The Unwritten Thread. The one who was never woven—but still pulled the Weave."
Kaelen stepped forward slowly.
"You know what I am?"
"We remember," the female said. "In the quiet between Rift pulses. In the folds of failed timelines. You were the wound that made the loom bleed."
Aelira watched them, tense.
"You want to follow us," Kaelen said.
They nodded.
He studied them a moment longer. Then gestured. "Then keep up."
By nightfall, they reached the edge of the shimmer.
It was a dome—not a barrier, not visible in a normal sense—but a warp in air, a bend in how space should look. Beyond it lay ruins older than any they'd seen.
Kaelen placed a hand against the shimmer.
It pulsed.
Accepted him.
They stepped through.
Inside was a ruin suspended in the middle of collapse.
Buildings floated in the air. Some upside down, some sideways. Staircases led into nothing. Trees grew through stone. A clock tower ticked without gears.
The whisper returned.
Louder. Urgent.
This place wasn't dead.
It was paused.
Kaelen knelt by a well that reflected stars instead of the sky.
Aelira stood beside him. "This place… it's like a heartbeat waiting for a trigger."
Kaelen touched the well's edge.
The water rippled—and a memory surged up.
He was in this city.
Walking through it.
Being worshiped.
The vision lasted only seconds.
But Kaelen staggered.
He saw himself as a god. A ruler. A destroyer. People bowed. Some screamed. A tower crumbled at a gesture.
And behind him, always, was the whisper.
No.
The source of it.
The loom.
Not the one of thread and spool.
But of minds.
Of decisions.
Of will.
He stepped back from the well.
The whisper was not only calling.
It was learning.
Each ruin, each echo—it studied him. Measured. Tested.
Preparing him.
Or perhaps... reminding.
He turned to Aelira.
"We're not following the Weave," he said quietly.
She raised a brow.
"It's leading us back to where I began," Kaelen said. "Before I had a name. Before I had form."
"You think these ruins are… memories?"
"No," he said. "They're choices."
He looked up at the frozen sky.
"And we're running out of them."
The hybrids waited at the edge of the dome, unable to enter. Riftborn blood had limits. This place rejected paradoxes that hadn't been earned.
Kaelen and Aelira moved deeper into the city.
At its center was a mirror.
Not glass.
Not even reflection.
Just… presence.
It shimmered with every step Kaelen took.
He stood before it—and it showed him nothing.
No reflection.
Only shadow.
Then words appeared across its surface.
You stitched the void once.
Will you do it again?
Kaelen placed a hand on the mirror.
And the city breathed.
Streets realigned.
Stairs curled into bridges.
Statues turned to face him.
The Weave rippled.
He heard the voice—not just the whisper—but the source.
Not words.
Not language.
Just meaning.
It told him:
You are not a man. You are the pattern.
You are not walking. You are being written.
Become the author—or remain the ink.
Kaelen pulled back, breathing hard.
Aelira caught him.
His hand was burned. Not by flame, but truth.
They left the dome as it began to fold inward.
The ruin collapsing into itself.
Not destruction.
Storage.
The Loom had taken it back.
Kaelen knew what came next.
The next ruin.
The next choice.
The next thread.
That night, Kaelen sat alone while Aelira slept.
He stared at his hand—the lines glowing faintly, threads pulsing.
The Loom wasn't giving him power.
It was reactivating something that had always been his.
But what was the cost?
And what happened when he reached the final stitch?
What would he remember?
Who would he become?
The whisper answered from deep within his mind.
We are waiting.