The earth trembled—not from marching feet or falling steel, but from something older. Beneath the battlefield, the threads began to hum like taut bowstrings. A deep vibration—felt, not heard—echoed through every soul still standing.
Lira staggered, eyes wide. She turned to Kaelen.
"Did you feel that?"
He nodded, teeth clenched. "That wasn't the Loom."
Ashrel's blade began to glow—then shiver, like it feared something.
"Whatever that was," he muttered, "it's waking up."
Overhead, the Severers froze.
Their heads turned in unison, looking downward—toward the ground beneath the Loom-threaded field.
And for the first time, they stepped back.
Far below, deeper than memory, deeper than the first stories, something opened a single golden eye.
Bound in roots and silence, she stirred.
The one the Weavers had tried to forget.
The one the Severers feared even to name.
Serythae.
The First Flame.
The one from whom all stories began.
Eren Tel'Vareen felt her stirring in his bones.
He dropped to one knee, not in reverence, but in recognition.
"They've pulled too hard," he whispered.
"And now she's coming to collect."
Back on the battlefield, a crack tore through the soil.
Not a seam of earth—but of reality.
From it spilled fire—but not flame as the world knew it.
This was threadfire—burning names, not wood.
Letters danced in its blaze. Forgotten languages sang as smoke.
A shape began to rise.
Not human. Not beast.
An idea, clothed in light.
Lira fell to one knee, clutching her chest.
"She's coming through me," she gasped.
Kaelen caught her. "Lira—what is it?"
"The First Story. She's been sleeping… beneath us. All this time."
Ashrel stared at the crack as it widened.
"You're saying this world has a god?"
"No," Davin said, eyes glowing red-gold. "Not a god. A witness. The first flame ever lit."
A new voice echoed across the torn sky.
It was neither male nor female. Neither kind nor cruel.
It simply was.
"You have torn the weave to suit your hearts.
You have bled names into battle.
You have remembered too deeply."
Myelren turned to the sky, arms wide in defiance.
"We did as we were made to do. To unmake. To bring order."
The voice answered, soft as a funeral bell:
"Then I will teach you to forget yourself."
Suddenly, every Severer stopped.
Some dropped their blades.
Others looked around, lost, as if waking from a dream.
One by one, they crumbled—not into ash, not into thread—but into story. Short, sharp, tragic stories… fading into the wind.
The field fell quiet.
And from the tear in the world, Serythae stepped through.
She was not a woman. Not a flame. Not a god.
She was the possibility of fire—the first warmth ever stolen from dark.
And she looked at Lira with something like sorrow.
"Child of memory," Serythae said, "you walk paths not meant for mortal feet."
Lira stood, trembling.
"Then make me something more."
The First Flame smiled.
And the world began to change again.