The wind stirred sharply through the Vale, tugging at cloaks and blades, as Elara stared at the mother she thought lost to Elsewhere.
Maris descended the broken lighthouse steps slowly, each footfall steady despite the shifting threads underfoot. Time had not spared her—her face bore the wear of years caught between worlds—but her voice held the same steel that once told bedtime stories of Keepers and their silent wars.
"You shouldn't have brought the Heart here," she said again, her gaze flicking to the pulsing light in Elara's hands. "Not until you were ready."
Elara swallowed. "I didn't come for the Heart. I came for you."
Maris smiled—but sadness softened its edges. "Then you came for both. You just don't know it yet."
Rin stepped beside Elara, tense. "Are we safe here?"
Maris looked at him. "In the Vale? Nothing is ever truly safe. But it still remembers my name."
Kael approached next. "Maris, the Queen is gone. The seal at the sanctuary is broken. The Ashes are rising again."
Maris closed her eyes briefly, as if that pain was an old, familiar companion. "Then we have less time than I hoped."
Sira pointed toward the threads shifting in the distance. "Something's moving."
Maris turned. "The second splinter stirs."
The threads at the far edge of the basin lifted, not by wind—but by breath. The land rose as something massive began to emerge from below, uncoiling.
It was not a creature. Not exactly.
It was a *memory*—alive, and wrong.
A massive figure, stitched from thousands of forgotten faces and voices. Its form was unclear—sometimes a man, sometimes a tower, sometimes a bird caught in burning flight. Its eyes flickered like dying stars.
Maris stood in front of them all now, hand raised, whispering to the threads around her.
"It's called the Seamwalker," she said. "It was once a Watcher like Kael. One who opened a gate too far and saw a world that couldn't forget."
Kael's face darkened. "I remember the name. Maaren."
Elara stepped forward. The Heart pulsed faster, harder. "Can it be *reached*?"
"No," Maris said. "But it can be *remembered.* And *that* is worse."
The Seamwalker spoke—and when it did, it spoke in voices stolen from the living.
"**Elara... daughter... lightbearer... unmaker... come. Come see what lies beyond the last thread.**"
Sira raised her swords. "What's the plan?"
Maris looked to Elara.
"You opened the Heart. Only you can *weave* with it."
"But I don't know how—"
"You *do*," Maris said. "You just haven't *remembered* it yet."
The Seamwalker surged forward.
And Elara, heart pounding, lifted the Heart into both hands—and for the first time, *sang.*
It wasn't a melody of notes, but one of memory. Her voice wove the light around her. Threads rose from the ground, answering, twisting toward her hands like loyal beasts.
The Heart began to spin, casting out beams that sliced across the Seamwalker's shifting body. Every light that struck him revealed a face—a soul—a forgotten truth.
He staggered.
Rin, Sira, and Kael surged forward, blades and flame and silence. Not to destroy—but to protect the one who remembered.
Elara sang louder.
And in the center of the storm, the Seamwalker *began to unravel.*
Not from violence. From memory.
---
At the end, what stood where the creature had been… was a man.
Kneeling. Weeping.
Kael stepped forward. "Maaren?"
The man looked up with empty eyes. "I dreamed too far."
And then he vanished, threads scattering into the mist.
---
The Heart dimmed again.
Elara fell to her knees, breath ragged.
Maris helped her up, voice low and warm.
"There's still two more."
Elara looked north—toward lands no map dared mark.
"I'm ready "