The child did not kneel.
When Rien arrived in Nareya, Thera was already standing at the center of a quiet crowd—her bare feet dusted in ash, her palm held open, a flicker of gray flame dancing in her breath.
She looked at the Weavekeeper as one might look at a storm approaching from the sea—unafraid, but changed by it.
"You're her," Thera said simply. "The one who remembers what we chose to forget."
Rien's smile was tired. "And you are the one who remembers what hasn't happened yet."
A Flame Shared
They sat beneath a willow tree older than the Loom itself.
No ceremony.
No titles.
Just silence, and breath.
"How did you find the flame?" Rien asked softly.
Thera shrugged.
"I didn't find it. I just stopped lying about wanting it."
"Even when I didn't understand it."
Rien nodded, eyes glinting with the weight of recognition.
"That's the beginning."
Together, they lit a second gray flame.
Then a third.
By dusk, twelve children sat beside them, eyes wide, hands open, each holding a shimmer of fire not drawn from memory—but from possibility.
Naming the Circle
Kaelen arrived at twilight, sword at his back, having followed the flicker of the unwritten flame across two valleys.
He watched the children.
Watched Thera.
Watched Rien.
And for the first time in many chapters of war and burden, he allowed himself to hope.
"They're not ready," he said quietly.
Rien nodded. "Exactly why we begin now."
And so, they named the space not a school, nor a temple, nor a warband.
But a Circle.
A place of becoming.
A place where breath became voice, and voice became self.
Not dictated.
Not feared.
Only chosen.
The Lessons of Not-Knowing
Thera taught the first lesson.
She stood in the circle's center, her hair wind-tossed, her flame a quiet gray in her chest.
"Say something you don't know," she told them.
The children looked confused.
"We're not used to that," one admitted.
"We're used to answers."
"We're used to being told."
"Then let's change that," Thera said. "Together."
One by one, they spoke:
"I don't know if I'm strong."
"I don't know why my father left."
"I don't know if I'm worthy of anything."
"I don't know what I want."
The gray flame welcomed each word.
It flared brighter—not from certainty—but from honesty.
Nareon's Reaction
Across the Flamewound Divide, where Caerrin now burned with obedience, Nareon felt the flicker of Thera's new flame.
He did not flinch.
He did not rage.
He only smiled.
"She's chosen openness," he murmured.
"But the world hungers for structure."
"And when the storms come… they'll run from becoming. And beg for what's known."
He turned to his growing cult of red-lit followers.
"Let them build their circle."
"I will give them a kingdom."
The Call to Wanderers
Rien sent out a whisper into the threads—not as command, but invitation.
"To all those who don't know."
"To all those afraid to choose."
"Come to the Circle."
"Come not to be told who you are… but to begin becoming it."
The Loom shivered.
Not in fear.
But in recognition.
Across the continent, former weavers, unthreaded exiles, broken Codex faithful, and nameless dreamers stirred.
They didn't know why they moved.
Only that something inside them had begun to breathe.
Thera and the Flame
That night, under a moon wrapped in thin mist, Thera stood alone.
She looked to the stars.
To the flame in her chest.
And to the shadow that she knew was coming.
"You're not my story," she whispered into the dark.
"You're just a page that someone forgot to burn."
The Unwritten Flame glowed softly.
And the Circle of Becoming held steady.