Oryn had always dreamed in stillness.
Quiet forests.
Whispering wind.
A thread of gold uncoiling in silence.
But now—
Now he dreamed in black.
A thread, ink-dark and pulsing, coiled tightly around his wrist.
Not painful.
Not cruel.
Just present.
And from the void beyond it came a voice—not loud, but knowing.
"Oryn…"
"You named yourself too late."
The First Unraveling
He woke before dawn, sweat clinging to his skin.
The black thread was still outside the Circle's edge, unmoving, untouched.
But he could feel it—like a hook sunk into thought.
He didn't tell Thera.
Not yet.
Instead, he went to the flamepool and sat alone.
His flame didn't flicker.
It recoiled.
As if something older, deeper, darker was watching.
"Do I know you?" he whispered into the water.
The water did not answer.
But beneath its surface, a shape began to form.
A shadow.
With his own face.
Preparations for the Threadgrave
The Trifold Flame met beneath the Listening Willow.
Thera, steady but pale.
Lira, watchful and wordless.
Oryn, silent, distracted.
The envoy stood beside them, gaze fixed to the east.
"The path to the Threadgrave is not walked," they said.
"It is remembered."
"Each step takes something you once trusted."
Thera nodded. "Then we go prepared to lose comfort."
"And ready to carry what remains."
They packed no weapons.
Only flame.
Only breath.
Only names they had not yet spoken aloud.
The Dreams Deepen
That night, Oryn dreamed again.
This time the thread wrapped his shoulders. His throat. His heart.
And the voice—his voice, but not his—spoke from behind his eyes.
"You were never meant to lead."
"You were meant to watch."
"You are not a weaver, Oryn."
"You are a thread."
He woke gasping.
The room spun.
And for the first time since the Circle was born, he wondered if the Loom had made a mistake.
Lira Notices
Lira found him at the riverbend, arms submerged in cold water, face tight with questions.
She didn't speak.
Just sat beside him.
Waited.
Finally, Oryn broke.
"I think… I think something is pulling me."
"And I don't know if it's from inside me, or… into me."
Lira placed her palm on the surface.
A ripple formed.
A thin black thread curled beneath their reflections—then vanished.
"We go together," she said simply.
"Even if part of you was born in the Threadgrave."
Thera's Decision
That evening, Thera held a private gathering with Rien.
The Flamebearer and the Elder Weavekeeper.
Not as teacher and student.
But as two halves of a world still deciding how to be whole.
"He's changing," Thera admitted. "And I don't know if it's his becoming… or his undoing."
Rien exhaled.
"Sometimes, they are the same thing."
"Let him break if he must."
"The question is what he builds after."
Departure
At dawn, the Circle gathered in silence.
No farewells.
Only presence.
The Trifold Flame stepped onto the eastern path.
Behind them, the children breathed in unison.
Not afraid.
Just aware.
As if they, too, could feel the pull of something ancient awakening beneath the bones of the world.
And in the Threadgrave…
Far beneath stone and time, in a vault of threads too wild to be named, something smiled.
Not with malice.
With hunger.
And it whispered once more:
"Come home, little thread."
"Come be unwoven."