Chapter 9: The Loom's End
The ancient vault groaned beneath the strain of time and burden, its stone walls echoing with every labored breath Kael took as he ascended the long staircase. The shard's dim light flickered feebly in his blood-slicked hand—barely more than a guttering flame now. Each step was a war against exhaustion, his muscles screaming beneath the weight of wounds and weariness. Behind him, Toren followed in silence, dragging his great hammer along the stone, its dull scrape a steady rhythm in the darkness—a grim metronome of survival.
Pressed close to Kael's side was Lirien, her steps quick despite her own fatigue, the spiritbound glow that once radiated from her now little more than a shimmer. She was trembling, but not falling—that spoke volumes. Mara limped behind them, her breath coming in ragged gasps, each movement leaving a crimson trail across the floor. Her blood mingled with the dust of the collapsing Loom below, the final gasp of the Sleeping Tyrant's prison still echoing in their bones like distant thunder. It wasn't just a sound—it was a warning.
Kael's body was a battlefield. Gashes across his back burned with every movement, his leg screamed, and his shoulder was numb—but the shard pulsing faintly in his grip gave him purpose. That sliver of power—dying, yet still present—was all that kept him upright. The Tyrant was dreaming again. Not dead. Not defeated. Dreaming. And dreams had a way of clawing their way back into reality.
"Soon…" The word crawled through Kael's thoughts, a whisper that felt etched into his soul.
At last, they reached the upper chamber. The mosaic floor—once a masterpiece of woven patterns and celestial colors—was shattered. Hairline fractures ran through it like veins, centered around the place where Toren had felled the rift-beast. Blood, debris, broken steel—remnants of war lay strewn about like discarded offerings. And amidst it all, the villagers stirred.
Jessa was the first to move. Her knitting needles clutched tight in her fingers, she sat upright with a start, as if awakening from a long and terrible dream.
"Kael…?"
His name was barely a whisper, but it struck him harder than any blade.
"You're awake," Kael murmured, his voice rough, dry, but filled with a swell of relief. He knelt beside her, gently helping her sit up. Her fingers trembled, still clutching the needles like they were daggers.
Toren moved past him, checking on Korrin. His big hands worked gently, carefully, his brow furrowed in worry.
"It's over," Kael said, glancing at them all. "The curse… it's gone."
Torm groaned nearby, his lined face creased with confusion. "Felt like I was drowning… threads… everywhere."
"You were," Lirien said softly, kneeling beside him. Her voice was steady despite her trembling limbs. "But it's done. You're safe now."
Mara limped to the center pedestal, wincing with every step. Her hand pressed against her torn thigh as she looked up. The rift—once a gaping wound in the world—was little more than a thread-thin scar now, its violet glow fading like twilight.
"The Tyrant's bound again," she muttered, almost to herself. "Its hold severed."
She looked back at Kael, her eyes meeting his. "You did it."
"No," Kael said quietly, stepping toward her. "We did it. But it's not gone. Just… dreaming."
Her jaw tightened. "It's Aetherial. You don't kill something like that. You trap it. Delay it. But it remembers. It waits."
Toren hefted his hammer with a grunt, the veins in his arms taut with renewed fury. "Then we find a way to crush it. To grind it into dust. No more waiting."
"No." Mara's voice cut through the air like a blade. "The Loom's tied to the vault. Destroy it, and this entire chamber collapses. We'll be buried under stone and screams."
Kael glanced down at the shard. Its glow had dulled. The runes etched across its surface were fading like ink in rain. "Then what? Just leave it? Let some poor fool find it a century from now and unleash this all over again?"
Mara's face hardened. Her cane struck the stone with finality.
"I'll seal it," she said. "Properly, this time. With blood. With runes. Like the old ways."
"Blood?" Toren stepped forward, concern written across every line of his face. "You're half-dead already. One bad step and you'll fall."
She ignored him and pulled a small blade from the folds of her shawl. It was a cruel little thing—jet black metal, runes crawling along its edge like living things.
"I sealed it once, as a priestess," she said, not looking at them. "But I was too weak. I made mistakes. I woke it."
Kael reached out and grabbed her arm. "Mara, no. You've done enough. Let me—"
Her eyes met his, fierce and calm all at once. "You're Unshackled, Kael. Free to choose. I'm not. This… this is the thread I was meant to cut."
He stood frozen, the weight of her words pressing against him like the vault ceiling itself. Behind them, the floor cracked again. Dust drifted down like snow. The rift pulsed, a whisper rising from it—"No…"
Lirien stepped forward, her eyes wide, voice small. "Mara… please. You don't have to."
The older woman smiled—soft, sad, and full of fire. "I do, lass. For you. For all of them."
She turned to Kael again and placed the blade in his hand. Her fingers were cold, yet steady.
"Help me finish it."
Kael's throat tightened. He nodded once.
They moved to the pedestal. Mara knelt, wincing, her wounded leg nearly giving out beneath her. She took a deep breath, then slashed her palm. Blood dripped onto the stone, and with trembling fingers, she traced a spiral—a jagged rune of binding. Her chant was low and guttural, ancient words that resonated through the stone, laced with agony and hope.
The rift twisted violently, a shadow roiling within it. The whisper returned, louder now—"No…"
"Now!" Mara gasped, her voice trembling.
Kael stepped forward and pressed the shard into the Loom's faint silhouette, its outline barely visible through the dying rift. The shard flared. The rune lit up, its glow matching the lines on Kael's palm. For a moment, the room became pure light and thunder.
Then silence.
Mara's breath hitched. She slumped forward, and Kael caught her. She was feather-light.
"It's done," she whispered, her voice faint, distant. "Sealed… for good…"
"Mara?" Lirien rushed to her side, voice breaking with fear. "Mara!"
She fell to her knees, grabbing the older woman's hand. But it was limp. The cane clattered to the floor, echoing like a bell tolling for the fallen.
Toren knelt beside them, brow low. His voice came thick and rough. "She's gone, lad."
Kael said nothing. He laid Mara down gently, brushing the hair from her forehead. Her face was peaceful now, free from pain. A warrior's peace.
The vault hummed no longer. The rift was a scar. The echo was gone. And Mara's fight—her life—had sealed the Tyrant's dream.
The villagers gathered slowly. Dazed. Silent. But alive. Jessa wept openly, clutching her needles like prayer beads. Korrin and Torm sat beside each other, heads bowed.
Kael looked down at the shard. Its light had died. But the runes had branded themselves into his palm. They glowed faintly—Weaver marks, ancient and strange. He wasn't sure what that meant. Not yet.
Toren broke the silence. "This place won't hold. We need to leave."
Without a word, Kael led the way. They passed the pedestal, the statue's base—now cracked and crumbling—and emerged into the dusk above.
The Shattered Crown lay quiet. The fountain at its heart still trickled water, but the rift above it was no more. Just fading mist and silence.
One by one, the villagers emerged. They coughed. Some wept. All breathed. Alive.
Kael stood still for a moment, letting the air fill his lungs. Cool. Real. Free.
Toren clapped his shoulder. "You did good, Kael."
Kael didn't reply. He stared at the shard. Its runes were whispering to him again, in their silent, haunting way.
Lirien wrapped her arms around his leg, hugging him fiercely. A silent thank you.
He looked around at the people, the broken stones, the fading sky. The Shattered Crown still stood—scarred, changed, but unbroken. A monument to their defiance.
But in the back of his mind, the whisper lingered.
"Soon…"
Kael closed his fist around the shard. The fight was not over. The Tyrant dreamed, and dreams were dangerous things. But now he had more than power.
He had people to fight for.
He had a choice.
And he would be ready.