Chapter 26: Lies that Bind, Truths that Break
The wind howled as they emerged from the Spire.
It wasn't just exhaustion that clung to their bones—it was something heavier, quieter, as if part of them had been scorched away and would never grow back. The light in Loki's eyes flickered with something more than power now—something feral, unpredictable. The fire had not just tested him; it had rewritten part of him.
They made camp by the edge of a broken aqueduct, its stonework collapsed from an old war no one talked about. The air carried the scent of ash and the ghost of prayers left unanswered. Selena barely spoke. She cleaned her blade in silence, watching Loki from the corner of her eye, searching for signs that he was still the man she had once trusted.
Eira, crouched in the firelight, rolled a stone between her palms.
"Now we seek the third," she said, without looking up. "The lie you must turn into truth."
Loki raised an eyebrow, his tone half-joking, half-exhausted. "A convenient lie? Or one that could kill me?"
Eira's answer was a whisper: "Both."
She told them a story.
"There was once a woman who claimed she could speak to the gods. She said they were dying. That their breath had been stolen by mortal prayers. She built a religion on this lie, and people followed. Cities fell. Kingdoms shifted. And when the gods finally spoke, it was not to deny her—but to demand that she continue."
Selena frowned, brushing soot from her sleeve. "So the lie became true."
"No," Eira replied. "The lie became useful. Then it became worshipped. And when belief became law, truth was just another shadow."
Loki stared into the flames, their reflection flickering in his green eyes. "Then what makes a lie dangerous?"
Eira didn't blink. "When you believe it more than anyone else."
"And what happens when you stop believing it?" Calder asked quietly.
Eira smiled faintly, as if amused by the question. "Then the truth takes its revenge."
Silence stretched out between them, thick and trembling with implication.
They traveled east, toward the forgotten quarter where time was said to fracture. Old maps called it The Hollow Weave, a city-wound of collapsed temples, half-formed alleys, and whispers that wore skin.
The journey took two days. Roads warped behind them, turning into thorns or sand or tunnels of laughter. Trees shed their leaves in reverse. Once, they passed a girl playing with birds made of ash. She pointed at Loki and said, "You'll come back twice. One time screaming."
Another time, they met a beggar who offered them a mirror.
"It only shows who you were yesterday," he promised, his eyes milky. "But if you like what you see, you'll never wake up again."
The final trial was not a place.
It was a moment—and it would reveal itself only when Loki was ready to lie so deeply it bent the fabric of reality around him.
They entered the Hollow Weave at dusk.
Immediately, they felt it. Each breath slowed. Sounds came late. Their shadows lagged behind like reluctant children. Even time seemed unsure of itself here.
"This place doesn't obey time," Calder muttered. "We need to move fast and act slow."
Figures watched them from alleyways—some wearing faces too perfect to be real. Children who spoke backwards. Women with mirrors for eyes. Memory traders. Dreamsmiths. One passed by wearing Loki's old face.
"The Weave feeds on certainty," Eira warned. "Bring in too much doubt, and you unravel."
They passed a market with no sellers. Tables of empty cages. Broken lutes. Letters addressed to people who never existed. A painter sat at the edge of the street, painting a portrait of a man with no face.
In one corner, a blindfolded man whispered:
"I sold my name to become a truth. Now no one lies to me, not even the dead."
Loki paused beside him.
"What's the price of a perfect lie?"
The man grinned with too many teeth. "Belief. Yours. Hers. Everyone's. But mostly yours."
At the heart of the Weave, the trial arrived without warning.
A gate appeared—midair, shimmering, carved from bone and parchment. Beyond it, a city that shouldn't exist—perfect, gleaming, untouched by war or magic.
Selena froze.
"That's my home," she said, breathless. "As it was before the famine. Before the fire."
Eira said nothing.
Loki looked, and saw his mother.
Alive.
Waiting at the door. She wore the same shawl she died in, and her eyes held the same softness he hadn't seen since he was thirteen.
She opened her arms.
"This is the lie," Eira said. "The one you must shape. You must walk into it, claim it as your truth, and convince it to live in the world you left behind."
Loki stepped forward.
Selena caught his wrist. Her grip trembled. "And if it changes you?"
He smiled faintly, but his voice cracked. "Then maybe what I become is what the world needs."
She looked into his eyes—and for a moment, saw the boy he had been. Then the Trickster returned, cloaked in purpose.
He turned and walked through the gate.
As the light swallowed him, Selena whispered, "Come back to me."
But she didn't know if he heard her.
Or if he'd remember what he was coming back to.
And behind them, far in the dark folds of the Weave, something with no name smiled—and adjusted its mask.