“When I was younger,” she said quietly, “I did not need it. I could tear a way through by force alone and pay the price later with my body. Strength, time, beauty, it did not matter. I had all of them then, and I spent them freely.”
A faint, sad smile curved her mouth.
“Now,” she went on, her fingers tightening against Aster’s muscled forearm as a tremor betrayed her effort, “I do not.” I nodded in understanding and respect. “The torch doesn’t make me stronger,” she said. “It is simply a helping hand. It shows me the seam, instead of asking me to rip the cloth apart.”
She lifted her gaze to mine, silver eyes bright and unwavering.
“Now that I have the torch, I can weave the way you need.” A pause, heavy with meaning. “And hopefully live long enough to close it.”
With Aster’s help, she stepped closer.
The closer I came to the Way Weaver, the heavier the torch felt in my hands, as though it had begun to recognize where it was meant to be and resented the delay. A faint warmth pulsed through the wood beneath my palms, sending a strange vibration up my arms.
I swallowed hard.
For a fleeting, irrational moment, I hesitated.
Suddenly, I was back at the edge of the Rift all over again. The memory slammed into me. The sound, the pressure, the way reality had felt thin and wrong. Like stretched skin about to tear. I remembered the pain, the fear, the certainty that whatever stepped through would never truly belong.
What if this was a mistake?
What if I were about to reopen something that should have stayed closed?
My fingers flexed against the torch, heart hammering as the scars along my wrist prickled, a sharp, warning sensation that made my breath hitch. I could almost feel the seam the Way Weaver had spoken of, not in the world, but in myself, a place that had never quite healed, never quite closed.
Aster noticed my pause instantly.
“Alex,” he murmured, low and steady, his hand brushing my elbow. “We don’t have another choice.”
I met his eyes, searching his face for doubt and finding none, only faith.
I nodded once, drawing in a breath. Whatever happened next, I would face it. I had already been the key once, whether I had wanted to be or not.
Better to turn the lock with my eyes open.
I held the torch out to her, and the instant her skin made contact with the wood, the flame erupted.
Light exploded outward, blinding in its intensity, so bright it felt as though it illuminated the entire world at once. I cried out, raising an arm to shield my eyes as my vision screamed in protest. My retinas burning until the brilliance finally collapsed inward, condensing into a single, fierce flame that flickered violently in the breeze.
“It knows a Weaver’s touch,” she said, awe softening her voice.
My mouth opened, ready to ask a million questions that her words prompted, but now was not the time.
The flame brightened again, and from it, threads of light began to unwind, pale and silvery, drifting upward like spun moonlight. Shapes stirred within the threads, slowly resolving,becoming more distinct until translucent figures stood before us. One’s half-formed and shimmering.
The Way Weaver inhaled sharply, her spine straightening, her posture easing as though time itself had loosened its grip on her.
“The others are here,” she murmured. “Those who wove before me.”
The figures circled her, moving with quiet purpose, before stepping forward and dissolving into her one by one. She stiffened as they did, her grip tightening on the torch as her eyes rolled back, silver flooding her gaze until no pupils remained. Light flared beneath her skin, veins glowing, her body seeming less solid, less anchored to the world, and a sudden, sharp fear seized me that she would burn apart right in front of us.
She raised the torch.
The ground shuddered violently beneath our feet. The breeze vanished, the air turning unnaturally still, and the flame roared brighter still, carving a shape out of nothing. An archway began to form where empty space had been moments before, its edges shimmering translucent, far too reminiscent of the Rift to bring me any comfort.
The strain hit her all at once.
She cried out, knees buckling, and Aster caught her instantly, bracing her weight against his chest as Stava rushed forward, gripping her arm to keep her upright.
