The bark of the tree creaked asunder in a sound that was deafening, and instead of wood—it revealed a shining center of threads, wound close around a bleeding crystal. It pulsed once more, but this time not with grief—with rhythm. With heartbeat.
"The Third Thread is not dead," Elira whispered, her eyes wide. "It's alive."
It always was," the Cradle replied. "It was the first strand tied to will, and not fate. It's the one the Loom feared. The one it slew in death.".
Kael took a step forward, feeling his pulse align with the other's. Each step agitated the center—memories not from his own past, but potential futures. A thousand Kaels, a thousand Eliras—lovers, enemies, strangers. Some perished in conflict. Others never crossed paths. A few incinerated worlds together.
He curled his fists. "And what if we take it?"
