The threads trembled.
Not from fear.
From expectation.
Kael's blood no longer fell—it rose, reversing in time, congealing midair into sigils older than stars. The Loomheart pulsed once. Twice.
Then it shattered.
But not from failure.
From release.
A torrent of Weave-energy exploded outward, silent as eternity, folding reality into spirals of color and raw creation. The fragments of the Loomheart dissolved, threading themselves into Kael's veins, etching sacred scripts across his bones.
The broken body began to float.
Muscles reformed—stronger.
Bones realigned—denser, divine.
Hair turned white-hot, glowing like woven starlight. His cloak evaporated into dimensional mist, replaced by threads of living fabric—Weaveborne Regalia, a mantle forged by pure will.
His eyes flared open.
No longer human.
No longer Ascended.
Now—
He was the First Loom, Awakened.
From above, the Six Throneborne stirred.
Zeravon, the Ash Architect, raised his hammer. Solthren, the Flame Prophet, ignited the heavens. Velthra, the Siren of Ends, began to sing her ruinous aria. Draevos, the Dread Vine, grew thorns through time itself. Ilquorr, the Hollow, whispered a curse that melted stars. And Malqirion—returned once more—smiled like a dying universe.
"You should have stayed broken," Malqirion hissed.
Kael stood, unshaking, within a storm of silver strands.
"No," he said, his voice layered in infinity. "I was just threading my final form."
And then he moved.
The Weave screamed.
Kael became motion incarnate—Threadmancer Sovereign, wielding Loomheart Resonance, Oblivion Rebirth, and Rift Paradox in flawless harmony.
He weaved time blades from lost moments and hurled them.
He sang in the Voice of the Six—and their power wavered.
He twisted fate itself, causing Malqirion's next step to never happen.
One by one, he faced them.
Zeravon fell, armor melted into dust by paradox fire.
Velthra's song shattered as Kael wove silence around her voice.
Solthren was blinded by Kael's reflection—his flame consumed by mirror-light.
Draevos withered as Kael rewrote the age rings of his roots—turning him to seed.
Ilquorr screamed, undone by Oblivion Rebirth, pulled into a loop of eternal birth and decay.
And then—
Malqirion.
Still smiling.
Still standing.
"Come on then, Weaver. Show me your punchline."
Kael raised his hand.
Behind him, the Weave trembled open, revealing a tapestry—of every battle, every scar, every lesson.
"My punchline?" Kael said.
He clapped his hands.
The threads obeyed.
The Joke of Eternity unraveled—
And in its place, Kael rewrote the cosmos.
With one motion, Malqirion was bound by his own thread—trapped in an infinite jest of time. A prison of irony, power, and prophecy.
Kael exhaled.
The six lay defeated.
The arena drifted into stardust.
And the First Weave pulsed through Kael, now no longer a keeper...
…but its master