Chapter 103: Threads of Hope
The girls had never seen the village so broken.
Children wandered aimlessly, wailing from thirst. Empty pots lined the collapsed edges of the old riverbank, their clay mouths begging the sky for rain. Animals lay still, their ribs sharp under their thin skin. And yet… somehow, no one gave up.
Because now, they had Elara and Ariella.
"We need water," Ariella said, her voice low and raw. "If we don't find it soon, they'll start dying."
Elara nodded, her jaw tight. "We'll find it. We have to."
That night, as they huddled by the dead river, the cold wind swept through the air like a whisper of judgment. Just before dawn, the Queens came—not in form, but in vision.
"The river can only return," the Blue Queen said," if the wound is healed by the hand—or soul—that opened it."
" Albert is lost," the White Queen continued. " But even a thread of him may call the water home."
When the girls awoke, they barely spoke. They already knew where they had to go.
---
Mira's old hut stood at the forest's edge, half-swallowed by vines and time. The door creaked open to reveal nothing. No bedsheets. No bowls. No dried herbs. No toys. Just dust and silence.
"Someone cleared this place," Elara muttered. "It's like they knew we'd come."
They tore through the room. Lifted broken floorboards. Dug beneath the fire pit. Searched the rafters and the shadows. But nothing remained.
"It's useless," Ariella sighed, sinking to her knees.
Elara clenched her fists. "We can't leave without something. Anything."
Just as they were about to leave, Ariella paused. Something in the far corner caught her eye—a scrap of cloth, greyed with age, dirt clinging to its seams. It was half-buried under the hearth.
She pulled it free and turned it over in her hands.
"This…" she whispered. "This is it. This was his."
Elara stepped closer, eyes wide. "The wrap Mira used when she held him…"
They didn't waste another second.
---
Back at the river's edge, the cloth sat between them, the last thread that bound Albert to the place he once called home.
They stood in the riverbed, sun burning above them, the dead stones scorching their feet.
"Albert," Ariella called, her voice trembling. "If you can hear us… if even a part of you still wants redemption, come back. Come home."
The cloth shivered in the breeze.
Elara took it in her hands and pressed it to the cracked earth. "We believe in you."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the ground rumbled—just a little. The girls stepped back as the wind picked up and the cloth began to glow, faint and blue, like morning light.
But just as a trickle of water seeped from the cracks, a sudden quake split the riverbed—deep and jagged. A pulse of black mist erupted from the ground.
"Shaza," Elara breathed. "He's resisting it."
The river began to flow—but it twisted. Dark water, thick like oil, poisoned the first gush. Fish skeletons rose and floated before sinking again.
Ariella dropped to her knees. "We need something stronger. Something pure."
She clutched the cloth again and tore a piece, placing it over her own heart. "He was loved. We know it. Let that love be enough."
Elara joined her, pressing her hand over Ariella's. "Albert! Your mother believed in you! We believe in you!"
The river pulsed once more.
Then, suddenly… clean water burst forth. It gushed through the broken bed, washing away the black mist, rolling over bones and stone, until the river sang again.
The villagers cheered. Even the dying raised their heads. Parents cried as they cupped water into their children's mouths. The animals began to stir.
But the girls knew it wasn't over.
"Wherever Albert is," Ariella said quietly, "he's still trapped."
---
Far away, in the forgotten ditch, Albert was losing track of who he was.
Time meant nothing. He had no way of counting days. No way of knowing night from day. The darkness was always the same.
He heard voices. Sometimes they were his mother's. Sometimes the girls'. Sometimes—Shaza's.
"They'll forget you."
"They hate you."
"You killed them."
He screamed. Scratched the walls until his nails bled. Then, with a sharp stone, he began carving.
One mark for each memory he could hold onto.
Mira's voice.
The warmth of the pendant.
The girls' forgiveness.
The river.
He carved until his hands trembled.
"You won't take me," he whispered to the dark. "I'll remember who I am."
---
Then came the smoke.
It seeped through cracks in the soil like a predator hunting prey—thick, black, choking. It coiled around his legs and arms like chains and crept up his neck with a sickening hiss.
A voice rose from within it. Cold. Ancient. Twisted.
"Are you ready to obey, child?" it asked.
"Ready to listen without question? To do as I command?"
Albert's breath hitched. He didn't answer with words of defiance. Instead, he began to whisper—not his own thoughts, but Mira's.
"My son… if the world turns dark, remember that you were born in love. That no matter what they say, you are more than your pain…"
The shadow hissed louder.
"You cling to false comfort. They will betray you. They always do."
Albert raised his voice.
"You are light, my child. Even if twisted, you were not made for ruin. I loved you before you ever opened your eyes."
The smoke tightened around him, choking.
"You are alone. Forgotten. Say the words, and I will give you freedom."
But Albert kept going.
"The girls forgave me," he croaked. "They saw me. They called me home. I promised… I promised I would be better."
"Obey," the voice boomed.
But Albert closed his eyes and whispered the final line from Mira's old diary:
"You are not my monster. You are my miracle."
The smoke shrieked. Furious. It recoiled, lashing at the stone walls of the ditch as if wounded.
But Albert didn't flinch.
Even in the choking dark, he clung to love—and the shadow, though it lingered, found no opening in him.