There was no falling.
No weight.
No time.
Just the slow, chilling unmaking of self.
Azael drifted in a space of endless gray—threads of light and shadow stitched across the void like torn pages of forgotten stories. His limbs were numb. His breath? Gone. And in the silence, voices whispered truths not meant for mortal minds.
"You are not one."
"You are many."
"You are a choice… left unchosen."
He floated toward a loom of impossible size, where a girl sat weaving strands of reality. The Pale Weaver.
Her stitched mouth never moved, but her presence pressed into his mind like cold iron.
She showed him threads—versions of himself:
Azael the tyrant, crowned in flame.
Azael the exile, bleeding for peace.
Azael the forgotten, buried beneath prophecy.
And one… who knelt beside a throne of bones, whispering prayers to something far older than fire.
Each thread pulsed with his face.
Each one… alive.
"Why are you showing me this?" he demanded, voice barely forming.
A silver needle drifted toward his heart.
And then—Selene's voice cut through the veil.
"Azael! I'm coming!"
The Pale Weaver froze.
The threads recoiled.
A tear ripped through the void—and through it fell Selene, her blade drawn, eyes wild.
She landed hard, cracked the strange floor—and stabbed the blade into the loom.
The entire realm screamed.
The threads unraveled. Time bent.
The Pale Weaver turned, and for the first time, her mouth tore open.
From it came a sound like sobbing stars.
Selene grabbed Azael's arm.
"Hold on," she whispered, "I don't care where this is. I'm not letting you go."
He clutched her hand, the world collapsing around them—
—And suddenly, they were falling through fire.
—
They landed on obsidian.
Back in Maerith—or what was left of it.
The city was in ruin.
The First Flame's chains were shattered, but he was gone.
Lyka appeared from the smoke, bloodied and coughing. "I found… a way out. But the palace is crawling with Veilborn now."
"Veilborn?" Azael asked.
"The children of the Weaver," Lyka said grimly. "Creatures made of threads she cut from fate. They live to replace what should have been."
Selene gritted her teeth. "She's not done with us."
Azael looked back at the fading silhouette of the Pale Weaver—her form distant now, but still watching through the broken sky.
"No," he said. "She's just getting started."
Suddenly, the ground split beneath them—and from below rose a spire of crystal and bone, pulsing with ancient runes.
An old, crumbling voice echoed from its heart:
"The twin heirs have awakened. The Thread War begins."
Azael turned to the others.
"Thread war?"
Lyka nodded slowly.
"It's not just about the Flame anymore."
Then came a sound—a child's laugh. Twisted. Familiar.
They turned—and saw a young boy, maybe eight years old, standing barefoot in the ash. His eyes were hollow. His smile was Azael's.
But younger.
Wrong.
"I've been waiting," the boy said softly. "I'm the Azael that never survived."
Selene stepped forward. "What the hell is this?"
The boy held out a hand.
"Join me," he whispered. "Or I'll take your place."
Stay tunued…