The cosmos of the Heartloom was unraveling.
That which had shone with the weight of immortality now trembled under rents of string, whirling wildly as destiny itself rebelled against the hands that would control it. Shards sheared across the crystal ground, spreading motes of shed time that shone and spilled into nothingness.
Kael stood at the edge of the great loom, chest heaving, shadow dashing in hectic bursts across his skin. The mark boiled with furious thrills—no longer a symbol, but a released power.
Elira knelt at the splintered foot of the Heartloom, her fingers tracing threadlines that flashed and bled. Blood above her temple shone like a scar, but her eyes—silver and fire—would not waver in their intent.
"We're too late," she whispered. "It's breaking from within."
"No," Kael said, stepping forward, his voice a blade of resolve. "It's waking. It's choosing."
From the shadows beyond the loom, the Warden's laughter echoed—a jagged, hollow sound.
