The weaver’s eyes

The journey to the Weaver’s domain was unlike anything Celeste had experienced. The forest no longer felt like Earth. The trees grew too tall, their branches twisted into symbols that whispered in a forgotten tongue. The air shimmered with unseen things that watched without blinking.

Lucien walked ahead, his scythe strapped to his back, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t spoken much since the fire spoke to him the night before.

Celeste could sense the shift in him—more guarded, as if afraid the truth might cut deeper than any blade.

They reached a hollow tree, ancient and wide enough to swallow them both whole. Its bark pulsed faintly, like skin over veins of light.

“This is it?” Celeste asked, staring into the dark.

Lucien nodded. “The Weaver’s threshold. Once we enter, she’ll know why we’ve come. And she doesn’t give answers freely.”

Celeste stepped forward. “Then I’ll make her listen.”

Lucien caught her wrist gently. “Whatever you see inside… it might not just be memory. The Weaver has a way of showing truths not meant to be known.”

Celeste looked at him. “We deserve to know. You deserve peace. And I—I need to understand who I was… and what I’ve done.”

He held her gaze for a long moment before letting go. “Then we go together.”

They stepped into the hollow tree—and the world shifted.

⸻

The Loom Between Realms

They emerged in a realm untouched by time. The sky above was stitched from threads of gold and indigo, and the ground was an endless floor of black glass. In the center stood the Loom—an enormous spinning construct of silver, bone, and starlight. It moved slowly, eternally, and at its helm stood a woman.

Tall. Ageless. Eyes stitched shut with glowing thread.

She wore a dress made of night, and her fingers moved without pause, guiding strands of fate with a precision that sent chills down Celeste’s spine.

The Weaver.

She spoke without turning. “Two souls. Knotted by vow. Frayed by choice.”

Lucien bowed slightly. “We seek the truth.”

The Weaver’s voice was silk over razors. “Truth is the cruelest thread. Are you certain?”

Celeste stepped forward. “I need to know who I was. And why I broke the vow.”

The Weaver turned her head, the stitched eyes glowing beneath the thread. “Then bleed your memory into the loom.”

A strand of silver thread unraveled from the air and floated before Celeste like a waiting serpent.

Lucien stepped forward. “Wait—if she remembers too much—”

But Celeste had already reached for it.

The moment her fingers touched the thread, the realm spun.

⸻

The Memory Unveiled

She stood in a forest of flame.

Screams echoed. Smoke choked the air. Bodies littered the ground—villagers, soldiers, children. At the center of it all stood a man, cloaked in shadow and fury.

Lucien.

But not this Lucien. His eyes were gold, not silver. His face—contorted in rage. He raised a blade not shaped like a scythe but forged from fire itself.

She saw herself—her past self—emerge from the trees, clad in white, her face streaked with ash and grief.

“I begged you to stop!” she cried. “You said you wouldn’t hurt them!”

“You swore to love all of me,” he growled. “Even the parts that burn.”

Tears filled her eyes. “This isn’t love. This is vengeance.”

He turned toward her. “Then leave. Break the vow.”

And she did.

She dropped a silver ring—burning with magic—into the ash at her feet and walked away, heart shattering.

⸻

Back in the Realm

Celeste gasped as the thread recoiled, and the Loom’s spinning slowed.

She fell to her knees.

Lucien caught her. “What did you see?”

She looked at him, horrified. “You… you were a monster.”

He didn’t flinch. “I remember that life now. I told you to run.”

She shook her head. “You killed them, Lucien. You lost control. I loved you, but I was afraid. I broke the vow because I couldn’t stop you.”

Lucien’s voice cracked. “I never forgave myself. Every lifetime since, I’ve tried to be better.”

Celeste whispered, “That fire inside you—it’s still there. I’ve seen it.”

“And you?” he asked. “Do you still fear me?”

Celeste didn’t answer right away. Then softly: “I don’t know. But I’m not leaving.”

The Weaver’s voice rang through the chamber. “So the vow begins again… but know this: to reclaim the bond, both souls must face what they were—and what they still are. There is one life you have not yet remembered. The one that truly cursed you.”

Lucien looked up. “Where?”

The Weaver pointed her stitched gaze to the shadows. “Beneath the grave of the man you once were… lies the final key.”

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