The apartment above the tailor's shop had become Eliara's sanctuary. After the collapse at Barrow Hill, Rowen insisted they lie low. No threads. No investigations. Just silence and tea and the occasional pulse from her pendant when the Weave grew restless.
But Eliara didn't know how to be still.
She sat by the open window, watching as the city moved far below—cars swarming like blood cells, people wrapped in their routines, never knowing how close they were to unraveling. The pendant sat heavy on her chest, cool now, but not dormant. It tingled faintly, as though whispering secrets she couldn't quite understand.
The Wake had changed her.
She had heard the voices of the forgotten, felt the threads of their lives tighten around her soul. They weren't just fragments—they were warnings.
Something was trying to stitch itself into reality. Something not born of the Veil, but twisted by it.
Behind her, Rowen paced, a thread-reader in one hand, his coat draped over a kitchen chair.
"You're not listening," he said.
"I'm hearing everything," she replied. "I just don't agree."
Rowen sighed. "The Wake is volatile. We don't know what happens if we enter again. That shadow… that man—if he even was one—he nearly killed you."
"He showed me the truth," she said. "We're not dealing with breaches anymore. This is infiltration."
Rowen turned. "And if we push too hard, we risk becoming the thing we're fighting."
Eliara stood, brushing a thread of dust from her sleeve. "Then we don't break—we adapt. We evolve."
He watched her quietly. "What do you have in mind?"
She walked to the wall and pulled down the chalkboard they'd been using as a map. Pins marked every known breach point from the last five years. Threads of red yarn connected the clusters—threads Eliara had placed herself. The spiral pattern was becoming undeniable.
"There's another echo near Oslo," she said. "A forgotten hospital. Closed after the fire in '94. Reports of disappearances. Children seeing people no one else can."
Rowen arched a brow. "You think another Weaving is active there?"
"I know it is," she said. "And I think it's connected to Kera. I think they all are."
Rowen crossed his arms. "You're suggesting Kera wasn't corrupted. She was recruited."
"Or born into it."
He was quiet a long moment. Then: "I'll pack."
They flew to Norway under forged names, their documents laced with shielding glyphs to avoid arcane detection. Oslo greeted them with gray skies and air sharp enough to bite. The hospital stood just outside the city's edge, surrounded by forest, abandoned but not forgotten.
It was exactly like the orphanage—whole, despite being long destroyed.
Rowen examined the ground as they approached. "Construct magic. Strong. Recent."
Eliara nodded. "We're not stepping into memory this time. We're stepping into someone's current world."
Inside, the air shimmered like heat waves. The hospital's interior was a maze of sterile hallways and flickering lights. Echoes of footsteps whispered through the walls.
They moved slowly, threads drawn and coiled in their hands like weapons.
In a children's ward, Eliara felt it.
The tug.
A pull on the edge of her mind—soft, like a child's hand trying to lead her somewhere.
She followed.
Rowen stayed close as they turned corner after corner, deeper into the old ICU wing. At the far end, a boy sat in a wheelchair, head bowed.
He couldn't have been more than seven.
Eliara stepped forward carefully. "Hi there. What's your name?"
He didn't answer. But slowly, he raised his head.
His eyes were wrong. Not possessed—not hostile.
Ancient.
He blinked—and suddenly she was standing in the Wake again.
No transition. No warning.
Just there.
Only this time, she wasn't alone.
The man was back. The weaver of forgotten things. Threads coiled around his arms like serpents, black and twitching.
"You shouldn't have returned," he said.
"I had to," Eliara answered, glancing behind her. The boy stood silently, watching. "He's a child."
"He's a vessel," the man corrected. "Like Kera. Like the others."
Eliara frowned. "Why children?"
"Because they forget so easily," the man said. "And yet hold so tightly to memory. They are perfect conduits. They don't resist the stitch."
She stepped forward. "You said your name was purpose. But you're not here to help. You're here to replace."
"To rebuild," he hissed. "The Weave is fraying. You patch. I create."
"You're building on broken thread. It'll unravel again."
He smiled—awful and wide. "Not if I cut away the rot."
He raised a hand—and the world bent.
Eliara fell to her knees, pain lancing through her skull. Memories surged—her mother's voice, her first time seeing the Veil, the death she had caused with a single careless tug. It all flooded her at once, too much, too loud.
The pendant on her chest flared violently.
"No more!" she screamed—and thrust her hand forward.
Silver thread burst from her fingers. Pure. Burning.
It lashed through the Wake like lightning, slicing the black threads holding the boy's image in place. The man shrieked, flinching backward as the child collapsed.
And then—silence.
The Wake crumbled.
She and the boy landed hard in the hospital hallway, real and cold. Rowen was already beside her, pulling her up.
The boy coughed. Looked around. Confused.
"He's free," Eliara said softly. "He's out."
Rowen stared at her. "You generated a cleansing thread. You shouldn't have been able to do that. No one can."
"I didn't know I could," she whispered. "Until I did."
That night, back in their safehouse, Eliara stood at the window again. Her thoughts wouldn't quiet.
There were more out there. Children used as needles in a broken loom. Rewriting the world, thread by thread. And something ancient guiding them all.
Rowen approached. "You broke a corrupted tether. That's new. That's evolution."
Eliara nodded. "I think the Weave isn't just reacting anymore. It's choosing."
"Choosing what?"
She looked down at her hands.
"New Weavers."