Dawn in Seryth came heavy with silence. Not the sacred silence of remembrance, but one that throbbed with tension—like a harp string drawn too tight. The events beneath the Spiral Tree had left the people shaken. The Remnant—Lethryn—though now wearing the form of a child, had unsettled the fragile peace they’d just begun to rebuild.
Kaelin stood before the Loomspire, watching the memory threads swirl sluggishly. She sensed the hesitation in the flame’s dance, the hesitancy in the threads’ song. Something was wrong. Not broken—fractured.
“Have the threads ever… resisted you before?” Theron asked gently, coming up behind her.
Kaelin shook her head. “No. Not even when I was at my worst.”
“They’re afraid.”
“Not of me.”
“No,” he said. “Of what might come next.”
---
At the Spiral Council
