The Weft's Center was not a glamorous thing.
It was drab—a glinting loomstone altar floating amidst a boundless spiral of descending threads. Each glowed with moments—births, deaths, first kisses, betrayals, wars. Every heartbeat ever recalled resonated here in shimmering strands.
Kael approached it with wonder.
The threads pulled him inexorably like iron filings to magnet, drawn to the thumping mark above his heart.
Nyven stood still, stunned. "This is where the Loom first sang the world into being. And where it can be unsung."
Elira's gaze was steady. "We don't unsing it. We sing a new harmony."
Kael placed his hand on the Core.
And it responded.
The air separated with a silent chord. Threads unwound and rewound at impossible velocity. Visions flashed through him—things that never were, moments to come. A thousand versions of himself, of Elira, of war, all flashing in and out.
And then—
A pulse.
The Loom knew his purpose.
