Kaelin stood at the heart of the Spiral Archive, her fingers trailing along a newly woven braid of silk threads pinned to the Memory Loom. The threads were vibrant—saffron, obsidian, sky-blue, and dusk-violet—and each one had a name.
No, not a name.
A moment.
One thread had been placed by a young boy from a broken threadworld where speech had been lost. His thread shimmered with echoes of hand-signs and laughter.
Another had come from an old Veydrax warrior who had begun gardening in Ashmark’s southern glade. Her thread smelled faintly of soil and fire.
And there were hundreds more.
Kaelin turned as Elira approached, her robes rippling like water.
“We’re running out of room on the Loom,” Elira said gently.
“Then we’ll build more,” Kaelin replied, her voice soft.
Elira smiled. “You
