The scent of rain lingered over Seryth, even though the skies remained dry. The storm, it seemed, had passed—but its echoes lingered like shadowed threads in the Loom. The Weavers of Unmaking were no longer a threat, but neither were they allies. They were... learners. Visitors to memory.
Kaelin stood in the Hall of Reckoning, watching one of the Weavers—once a faceless priest of oblivion—clumsily thread a memory strand into a loom-cradle. His fingers trembled, and his face held the stunned awe of someone seeing color for the first time.
“They’re like children,” she murmured.
Lethryn stood beside her, holding a lantern of braided flame.
“They never were allowed to be children. They were made to forget joy, pain, identity. Now they fumble toward it like newborns.”
“Do you regret going
