The Hall of Threads was no longer silent.
Elara could feel it with every step she took—vibrations in the walls, the hum of energy rising, threads pulling taut in anticipation of something vast and violent. Idran had only been in the Hall for a single day, but his presence had already altered the weave. It wasn't his power alone, though that was formidable. It was the way his thread called to hers, not with love, but with kinship.
They were opposite poles of the same force—divine, mortal, and something else entirely.
In the echoing chamber beneath the loom, Caelum stood alone, his hands clasped behind his back. Elara found him there at dawn, as she often did now, watching the tapestry for signs.
"You didn't sleep," she said softly.
"I don't need much." His voice was even, but tired.
"You're worried."
"I'd be a fool not to be." He turned to her. "The High Twelve have begun to stir. Elion wasn't the only one watching. Two others—Vireon and Lysara—have moved their thrones. They're preparing."
"For war?"
"For reckoning."
Elara joined him, gazing up at the loom. The threads near the center were still vibrant with color—her thread golden and wild, Idran's silver and quiet, and Caelum's like a dark thread of night sky woven tightly between them. But around them, others frayed. Some snapped. The outer edges burned at the corners.
"You said I could choose my own fate," she whispered. "But it feels like every choice only makes things worse."
"No." Caelum took her hand. "Every choice you've made has revealed more of the truth. That the gods are not eternal. That the weave is not perfect. And that love… real love… is not weakness."
She leaned into him. "I don't want to lose you."
"You won't." He hesitated. "But if the Twelve demand trial, I can't protect you alone."
"I won't let you face them without me."
From the doorway behind them, Idran spoke. "You won't be alone."
They turned as he stepped into the light, his pale eyes unreadable.
"I've seen what comes if we run," he said. "The threads fray, the world collapses, and the gods descend not to rule, but to consume. They'll burn everything to keep their order."
Caelum crossed his arms. "Then what do you suggest?"
Idran looked between them. "We gather others."
Caelum's brows furrowed. "Others?"
"There are more," Idran said. "Mortal souls touched by divine power. Some were made through accidents. Others were hidden like me. If we can find them, if we unite them, we may have a chance to present a new vision to the Pantheon."
Elara nodded slowly. "A vision of change."
"A vision of choice."
—
Their journey began with whispers.
The Hall gave them a name: Aurelien, a warrior-priest from the ruins of Tharros who had been struck by the fire of Iros, the god of war, and lived. It was said he could bend heat and light with his will, and that he walked with a lion of stone.
He lived alone in the red canyons of the Blistered Expanse.
It took them three days to reach him, and every step through the scorching sands made Elara feel further from the Hall, from safety, from Caelum's quiet calm.
Idran moved ahead, scouting, never complaining. He never seemed tired, or afraid, but he also never smiled. His past, Elara realized, was still a wound that hadn't healed.
They found Aurelien atop a shattered column, carving symbols into the stone. He turned before they spoke, flame dancing across his fingertips.
"You're not of the sands," he said, voice like gravel. "What do you want?"
"To stop the gods," Idran said bluntly.
Aurelien raised a brow. "Finally."
That night, as they camped under the stars, Aurelien told his story—of how Iros struck him down in a moment of rage, only for the fire to bond to his soul instead of destroying it. He had fled, but the gods never pursued him. "Because they feared what I became," he said.
Caelum listened in silence. When Aurelien finished, he asked one question. "Will you fight?"
The warrior nodded. "If it means breaking the chains, yes."
—
From the red sands, they traveled north, to the Sunken Veil—an ocean of mist and shadow, where a girl named Nessa was said to commune with the dead. A child touched by Vireon, the god of endings, who escaped his grip by making death her ally.
Nessa appeared to them in the fog like a ghost. Small, pale, eyes as deep as night.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, but not unkindly.
"We need you," Elara said. "The gods will destroy everything if we don't stop them."
Nessa tilted her head. "I already know."
She agreed to join them. Not out of duty, but because she had seen too many pass into silence.
"They were afraid," she said softly, as they left the Veil. "Not of death. But of being forgotten."
Elara squeezed her hand. "You won't be."
—
By the end of two weeks, their number had grown to six.
Elara. Caelum. Idran. Aurelien. Nessa. And Terenna, a former oracle of the sky who had torn her eyes from her sockets to see the truth beneath the stars. Her sight now came from within, and when she spoke, even the wind stilled to listen.
In the Hall of Threads, they gathered around the loom once more. Seven threads pulsed in unity—not woven, but aligned. A constellation not yet drawn.
"We're not soldiers," Aurelien said. "We don't have weapons."
"No," Caelum said. "We have something stronger."
He turned to Elara, who stepped forward. Her voice was quiet, but steady.
"We go to the Court of the Twelve. Not to kneel. Not to beg. But to offer another path."
"And if they refuse?" Idran asked.
"Then we show them what love, will, and truth can do."
—
The Court of the Twelve lay atop the Pillars of Heaven—a floating realm far above the world, where the gods had withdrawn in the age of silence. Few had seen it. Fewer had returned.
Their arrival did not go unnoticed.
As they stepped onto the marble bridge that led to the court, a voice boomed across the skies.
"Elara of Mortara. Caelum of the Balance. You stand before the Divine Seat unbidden."
Twelve thrones loomed above—a circle of stone and fire, ice and wind. The gods appeared as avatars of their power: Elion in light, Lysara in shadow, Iros in armor of flame, and Vireon in robes of withered time. The others watched in silence, unreadable.
Elara stood at the center, heart pounding, every step an act of defiance.
"I did not come to ask forgiveness," she said. "I came to speak the truth."
Elion's voice cut through the air. "You defy the will of the Pantheon. You carry the blood of rebellion. You love where you should obey."
"I love," she said, lifting her chin, "because I am free. And that is what you fear."
Gasps echoed across the thrones.
She pointed behind her. "These are the children you abandoned. Touched by divine will, but cast aside because they did not fit your vision of control. We are not mistakes. We are the future."
Iros leaned forward, snarling. "You are chaos."
Caelum stepped beside her. "No. She is balance. The kind you forgot when you chose power over purpose."
Lysara's voice was soft, but cold. "Then prove it."
The space before them split—and from it emerged a simulacrum: a beast of pure unraveling, formed of broken threads, hatred, and fear. It roared, and the bridge trembled.
"This is the Unmaking," Lysara said. "Face it. Alone."
Caelum stepped forward. "You can't—"
Elara held up a hand. "I must."
The others stepped back.
The beast surged toward her.
She did not summon fire, or light, or death.
She opened her heart.
Threads of every soul she had touched—Caelum, Idran, Aurelien, Nessa, Terenna—wove around her. Not to shield, but to strengthen. She sang—not with voice, but with memory. Of her mother's laughter. Of Caelum's gaze. Of the moment she first chose to love instead of run.
The Unmaking faltered.
She reached forward, and touched it.
And the beast collapsed into light.
Silence.
The gods watched.
And for the first time in an age, they did not speak.
Because they felt.
Elara turned to them, breathless. "You don't have to rule with fear. We can weave something new. But it has to begin with trust."
No answer came.
But Lysara rose slowly from her throne. She walked down the steps, approached Elara, and knelt.
Followed, one by one, by five others.
Not all the gods. Not yet.
But enough to begin.
—
That night, Elara stood alone beneath the stars. Caelum joined her, silent.
"You could've died," he said quietly.
"I lived."
He turned to her, voice husky. "You changed everything."
"No," she said, reaching for his hand. "We did."
He pulled her into his arms, and this time, there was no hesitation. Their kiss was long, deep, full of aching need and timeless devotion.
Stars spun. Threads danced.
And in the Hall of Threads, a new tapestry began to form.
Not written by gods.
But by love.
— End of Chapter 6