They walked into a desert made of silence. No wind. No birds. Not even the satisfying crunch of gravel underfoot. Just air that hung like a question nobody wanted to ask.
Void said nothing for most of the journey, which meant Frederick and Ezekiel were stuck inventing theories about what this "Forgotten Spire" actually was. Ezekiel assumed it was an ancient tower full of mystical spiders. Frederick, less optimistic, guessed it was a law-forged pillar of bad decisions, probably built by someone trying to make time into a coat rack.
By the time the spire came into view—looming in the horizon like a finger pointed directly at God—neither of them were particularly eager to find out who was right.
It was massive. Black stone threaded with silver veins, covered in runes that looked like they were whispering even when you weren't close enough to hear them. And at the entrance, an arch carved with elegant spite:
"Here lie the threads of choices unmade."
Ezekiel read the inscription and turned to Frederick. "Do you ever feel like we accidentally joined a cosmic therapy group and forgot to bring snacks?"
Frederick didn't respond. He was busy squeezing Collapsey, the emotional support plush, like it owed him rent.
They stepped inside.
The Forgotten Spire didn't just look ancient. It felt older than memory. The walls weren't made of stone, not entirely—they pulsed slightly, as though breathing. As though remembering. Runes flickered as they passed, showing glimpses of other lives, other regrets, each more intimate than the last. A child who didn't say goodbye. A soldier who aimed too late. A scholar who burned their own work out of fear it wasn't good enough.
"You're seeing this too, right?" Ezekiel muttered.
"It's a museum of what-ifs," said Frederick. "Curated by trauma."
Void walked like he'd seen this all before. Maybe he had. Maybe this was one of the places left behind after the first world cracked, a scar no one bothered to stitch. Maybe that's why he didn't flinch when the whispers stopped and the shadows moved.
The Regret appeared as if it had always been there. Ten feet tall, faceless, made of smoke, stitched together with sorrow. Its presence was a gravity. You felt your spine hunch. You felt your lungs shrink. You remembered things you never wanted to.
"Who seeks the threads of fate?" it asked, in a voice made of endings.
Void stepped forward. "I do."
"Then face the Law of Regret."
Ezekiel didn't even get a chance to ask what that meant before the world folded around him like a cruel scrapbook.
He was twelve. He was standing in front of a fork in the road. One led to a boy who offered him friendship. The other led to fear and safety. He chose fear. The boy disappeared the next week, name forgotten, memory rotting.
Frederick saw his own forge. A sword unfinished. A name unspoken. He remembered why he stopped building things meant to protect.
Void stood before a hand he never took. A question he never answered. The moment when creation asked him not to destroy, and he said nothing.
Each of them stood in that space for what felt like days, hearts unraveling thread by thread. The Regret didn't speak again. It didn't need to. The silence said everything.
Then Void moved. Slowly. Deliberately. He stepped forward through the vision, through the pressure, through the shame.
"Our past choices shape us," he said. "But they do not define us."
Ezekiel followed. "We learn. We grow."
Frederick stumbled after, hugging Collapsey like a divine artifact. "And sometimes we panic-build trauma plushies and hope that counts as growth."
The world cracked.
The Regret screamed—not with malice, but with relief—and unraveled into silver ash.
The room changed.
The true Loom of Fate revealed itself not with fanfare, but quiet awe. A construct of light and shadow, threads extending endlessly into nothing. A loom built not just to shape reality, but to remember it.
Void approached it like one might approach a dying star.
"It's beautiful," whispered Ezekiel.
"It's humming," said Frederick. "Looms aren't supposed to hum."
Void touched it.
It did not reject him. Not yet. But it was wary. He wasn't supposed to be here. No one was. And that's exactly why they had to be.
"This is only the beginning," Void said. "This loom doesn't weave destinies. It untangles them."
Ezekiel exhaled, shaking. "Are we even supposed to be touching this?"
"Definitely not," said Frederick. "But has that ever stopped us?"
Void turned back to them, threads of raw law spiraling around his fingers.
"We're changing the pattern," he said. "Whether the world wants us to or not."
And somewhere, far away, someone whispered:
"It is forbidden."
Void smiled.
"Perfect."