The coliseum began to unravel.
Not explode, not shatter—unravel, like a tapestry burned from the edges inward. The floating glyphs disintegrated into golden motes, drawn toward Cael as though pulled by some ancient gravity. His body hovered just slightly above the ground, robes fluttering in a wind that did not exist.
Elen shielded her face from the brilliance.
The Archflare, Lemarion, staggered.
Not from pain.
From memory.
"You shouldn't be possible…" Lemarion's voice was hollow now, as though echoing across centuries. "The First Thread was sealed before the Moonfall. Buried beneath the Dreamtomb. Not reborn…"
"I'm not reborn," Cael said. "I'm remembering."
The memories weren't his, not fully—not yet.
He saw flickers: white deserts under twin moons, a woman with a crown of feathers, and the Gate of Threads, standing open for the first and only time.
Each glimpse came with a cost. Veins of starlight branched across his skin like fractal tattoos. His body couldn't hold this power for long. But it didn't need to.
Just long enough.
Lemarion lunged again, this time slower—not from weakness, but reverence. His blade, once a lance of fire, now dimmed into glowing cinder. He struck with both hands, aiming for Cael's chest—one final blow, not as an execution, but as an offering.
Cael caught the blade.
With his bare hand.
And the sword didn't burn him. It sang.
A whisper of flame coiled around Cael's wrist, forming a bracelet of memory—a sign of acceptance.
Elen gasped. "You... you stole his weapon?"
"No," Cael replied, his voice distant. "It recognized me."
Lemarion fell to his knees, laughter shaking from his chest like dying thunder.
"Oh gods," the Archflare muttered. "I have tried for four centuries to open the Threads of Fire… and you, a half-lost boy, become the key without even knowing it…"
Cael looked down at his glowing hand.
No.
He wasn't just a key.
He was the lock. The boundary between the known and the forgotten.
And something was calling.
From deep within the Weave.
From the very bottom of the world's memory.
Meanwhile... In the City of Pale Bells
The Grand Knotspeaker knelt before a pool of silver water. Around her, twelve robed figures bowed, trembling—not in fear, but in awe.
"The Thread has awakened," she whispered. "And the Pattern is breaking."
One by one, ancient eyes opened in the walls of the temple.
Watching.
Listening.
Remembering.
Back to Cael...
The coliseum faded. Not crumbled—faded, like a dream slipping through fingers.
Only three remained:
Cael, wrapped in the remnants of fire and prophecy.
Elen, eyes wide with shock, holding the wounded memory orb.
Lemarion, kneeling… not as an enemy, but as the first follower of a forgotten lineage.
"I must leave you now," Lemarion said, staring into the golden thread coiled around Cael's wrist. "This world will not understand what you are. But the Ones Below will. And they are already waking."
Cael turned slowly. "Then I'll find them first."
And with those words, the light around him shimmered—reality warped—
And the world pulled him somewhere new.