Silence clung to the vault like ash after a wildfire.
The rings above, once spinning with purpose, now hung still—dim, wounded, exhausted. The boundary shimred faintly where it had healed, its surface rippling as if still rembering the force that had torn through it.
Erian stood frozen, arm still outstretched toward the empty air where the Loomchild had vanished.
Marra slowly pushed herself upright, wincing. “Tell I didn’t just watch the universe’s only hope get sucked into a void.”
Lun’s glow dimd to almost nothing. “Not just a void,” they whispered. “The Void. The Hollow’s core realm.”
Tovin’s arc-staff clattered to the floor. “But the boundary’s closed! How do we follow? How do we—how do we even survive in there?”
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
Erian finally lowered his hand, breath trembling. “We’re not leaving them.” His voice was quiet—but carried the weight of iron.
“The Loomchild didn’t just save the Weave,” he continued. “They trusted us to stand with them. We’re not stopping here.”
Marra nodded firmly. “Good. Because I didn’t nearly die three tis today just to lose a kid made of magic and destiny.”
Tovin opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I an... I agree? But we literally cannot open the boundary without tearing reality apart. Again.”
Lun stepped forward, silver gaze fixed on the still-shimring surface. “We can’t open it,” they said softly. “But the Loomchild changed it.”
Erian frowned. “Changed it how?”
“The sigil they forged—growth, preservation, dissolution... unified. That wasn’t just to seal the boundary.” Lun lifted a hand, hovering it an inch from the shimring wall. “It was to stabilize it. To bind it to the Weave.”
The boundary rippled in response.
Marra raised a brow. “aning?”
“aning,” Lun breathed, “there is now a safe path through the boundary. One woven by the Loomchild’s own essence.”
Erian felt a spark of hope crack through the despair. “A path only we can use.”
“Exactly.”
Tovin groaned. “You people do realize we’re about to willingly walk into the ho of the most horrifying thing in existence, right?”
Marra smirked. “Don’t worry. You won’t be walking. I’m dragging you.”
Lun placed a hand over the surface. “Stand close. The Weave will only recognize us as a group.”
The boundary pulsed—once, twice—before unfurling like a curtain lifting. Beyond it lay only darkness... but not the chaotic, swirling void of the Hollow’s assault.
This darkness was quiet.
Structured.
Waiting.
Erian held the Dreamfire’s mory tight. “The Loomchild is in there. And wherever they are—alive, trapped, or fighting—we’re going.”
He stepped into the darkness.
The world bent, folding around him like layers of smoke swallowing color.
Marra followed next, blades drawn.
Then Lun—glowing softly to keep them anchored.
Tovin took a deep breath, muttered several rapid apologies to future-him, and stepped through.
The boundary sealed behind them.
Silence returned to the vault.
But the Weave was no longer still.
Threads quivered—pointing toward the dark realm the heroes had entered.
As if whispering:
“Follow the Loomchild.
The final arc has begun.”
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