The wind surged, hot and dry like a breath from a dying god. The lanterns flickered, casting frantic shadows across the stone walls. The golden thread on Ahri's wrist tightened, reacting not just to danger but recognition.
Miran stepped through the temple's shattered threshold, bare feet silent on the floor. Her fox mask had split down the center, revealing one eye—soft, human, and unbearably sad.
"I was like you once," she said, her voice low but clear. "Tied to the loom. Obedient. Afraid."
Ahri felt the pull of the thread between them. It quivered faintly, not in fear, but in mourning.
"You were one of the Weavers," the Elder said, his voice edged with grief. "We thought you were lost."
"I was lost," Miran answered. "And then I was found—by the Hollowed. They showed me the true shape of the weave. How it bleeds. How it binds us."
Jin moved in front of Ahri, talisman raised. "You're not here to talk."
"No," she admitted. "I'm here to tear open the veil."
With a gesture, Miran raised her hand, and the temple groaned. Threads erupted from her fingertips—dark, frayed, whispering like teeth in the wind. They stabbed into the stone walls, the roof, and the sacred trees beyond.
The Elder moved first. His palm struck the floor, igniting a ward beneath their feet—a spinning ring of ink-threaded sigils, older than language.
"Ahri. Jin. Run to the Hall of Veins. Find the Heart Loom."
Ahri hesitated, torn between the rising storm and the old man who had raised her.
He looked up, a soft smile on his lips. "You must reach the core of the weave. Only there can you sever her hold."
"But you'll—"
"Go!"
Jin grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward the corridor. Behind them, Miran's threads clashed with the Elder's warding symbols, the air rippling with thread-light and shadow. A memory screamed through the corridor walls—an echo of a past unraveling, as if time itself protested what was coming.
They ran through a hidden passage, the ground tilting subtly downward. It grew colder with each step. The temple above was alive with the sound of struggle—stone cracking, threads shrieking, names called and swallowed by silence.
Ahri's breath fogged as they entered the Hall of Veins.
She had never been there before—few were allowed past the outer sanctum—but the moment she stepped inside, something shifted in her. The walls pulsed faintly. Glowing roots of thread extended from ceiling to floor, threading through crystals, bones, and old paper charms.
The Heart Loom stood at the center—vast, suspended like a spider's cradle. Threads from every direction converged into it, vibrating with the weight of countless fates.
"It's… beautiful," Jin said, stepping forward.
Ahri didn't move. The golden thread on her wrist was humming now—resonating with the Loom. She could feel its pull in her ribs, in her teeth, and even behind her eyes. This wasn't just the temple's heart. It was the convergence point for all memory, all possible futures.
"I think it's alive," she whispered.
As she reached toward the loom, the vision hit.
She was inside it.
The world unfolded in spirals—threads woven into cities, wars, births, and betrayals. The fox spirit hovered nearby, watching her with eyes made of dusk and fire. It didn't speak. It simply extended a single claw and touched her thread.
Ahri saw her mother's face. Saw her vanish in a storm of unraveling silk. Saw the same black threads that now followed Miran.
And then she saw something worse.
A child—not yet born—tangled in a snarl of broken timelines. Screaming soundlessly, trapped in a cocoon of decaying memory.
When she snapped back, Ahri was kneeling. Blood dripped from her nose. Jin steadied her, but his eyes were wide.
"I saw it too," he murmured. "This place—it's showing us what's at stake."
The Heart Loom shuddered.
A crack splintered across one of its main threads. Then another.
Miran had reached the inner sanctum.
The Elder's barrier had fallen.
Ahri rose, shaking.
"We have to protect it," she said. "Even if it costs us."
Jin nodded, but his voice was quiet. "Then we'll fight. Together."
The walls trembled again. The lights dimmed. And from the entrance of the Hall, a new presence stepped forward—
—but it wasn't Miran.
It was someone cloaked in gray silk, a mask of woven bark over their face. They carried no weapon, but every thread in the Loom recoiled at their arrival.
Their voice was neither male nor female.
"You shouldn't be here, child of the fox."