In the hollowed chambers of the Tower of Echoes, Mireon stood alone—unseen, unchosen, unraveling.
His vessel had turned.
His voice had faded from the boy who once bore it.
And so, in desperation, Mireon reached not for influence…
But for weaponry.
"If I cannot shape the future," he hissed into the silence, "then I will bind the past."
He walked to the Mirror Crypts, where forgotten wars slept beneath dust and vine, their threads unspoken, unwritten, but still remembered by the earth.
And there, he began to forge something new.
Not from flame.
Not from breath.
But from grief.
Memory Turned Against Itself
He wove the cries of children lost to war.
The betrayal of kings and queens never named.
The final breaths of nameless soldiers buried in soil no one visited.
Each thread blackened beneath his touch.
Twisted.
Tangled.
Fused into steel that sang with sorrow.
"A blade of unhistory," Mireon whispered, cradling it.
"Not a weapon of the future."
"But a punishment for the past."
The Loom Feels the Strain
In Ashlight Vale, the Loom pulsed once.
Then again.
Faster.
Erratic.
The weavers paused, uncertain.
Lanterns blinked.
Threads flickered.
And then snapped.
"The loom is unraveling itself," Elyra gasped. "But why?"
Rien's eyes darkened.
"Because someone is reaching backward. Not to learn—but to erase."
She turned to Kaelen.
"He's not shaping a new future anymore."
"He's trying to burn the roots."
The Journey to the Loomheart
Rien, Kaelen, Elyra, and Thera stood at the ancient gate hidden beneath the base of the Vale—where the Loom's deepest fibers crossed through time itself.
Only one path led inward.
A narrow tunnel of whispering threadlight.
Few returned.
Most were unmade.
But this time, they must return.
"What do we do when we find him?" Thera asked quietly.
"We remind him," Rien said, "that pain does not earn the right to rewrite."
"It earns the right to heal."
Within the Loomheart
The Loomheart was a chamber with no floor, no ceiling—only threads suspended in endless space.
Each shimmered with a lifetime.
A forgotten truth.
A wound that once healed.
And at the center of it stood Mireon.
Holding the blade forged from screams.
The Blade of Unhistory.
Rien stepped forward first.
He did not look surprised.
"Come to protect your little dreams, Flamebearer?"
"They were never yours."
Rien's voice was steady.
"No. They were never mine."
"And that's what makes them true."
The Offer of the Blade
Mireon extended the sword.
It hummed with the voices of the silenced.
"One cut," he said, "and we sever the lies of history."
"The wars no one admits."
"The pain no one honors."
"One cut, and we begin again. Clean."
Thera's eyes filled.
Not with fear.
But with something deeper.
"That's not beginning," she whispered.
"That's running."
Mireon's jaw clenched.
"You have no idea what it's like to be forgotten."
"To watch the world move on as if you never mattered."
"I do," she said. "But I chose to build instead of burn."
Rien's Stand
Rien reached out—not for the blade.
But for the thread beside it.
One etched with the memory of a child's first flame.
She held it between her fingers.
It shimmered gray.
Then gold.
"You can't undo what hurt us, Mireon."
"But you can add to what comes next."
He stared at her.
At the thread.
At the sword.
And for a moment… the Blade of Unhistory dimmed.
The Breaking Point
But rage is not easily relinquished.
With a cry of pain, Mireon raised the blade.
Aimed it toward the Loom itself.
Toward every memory.
Every name.
Every choice.
And Rien—voice calm, hands glowing—whispered:
"Then let it remember you."
She released the gray thread into the air.
It wrapped around Mireon like light around shadow.
And the Loom remembered everything.
His loneliness.
His sorrow.
His longing to matter.
And it didn't erase him.
It embraced him.
The Blade shattered.
Mireon fell to his knees.
And the Loom… sighed.
Not in fear.
But in relief.