The soft light of Martha’s cottage glowed like a lantern in the dark, a fragile beacon in the forest’s endless silence.

 

Kael staggered into the clearing, Liz half-asleep on his back, arms limp. His cloak was torn, blood drying on his cheek.

 

The door burst open.

 

“Liz!”

 

Lirael rushed down the steps, skirts snapping in the wind, Ezryn close behind. Their eyes froze when they saw them—Kael bruised, Liz pale, her breath shallow.

 

Lirael’s voice cracked. “What happened?”

 

Kael didn’t answer. He lowered Liz carefully into a chair near the door, his hands gentle as if she were made of glass. She blinked faintly, eyes finding Ezryn.

 

“…Ez,” she whispered.

 

Ezryn didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only nodded, his jaw tight, face unreadable.

 

“You vanished,” Lirael whispered. “Three days. No tracks. No sound. Even my winds couldn’t find you.”

 

Kael finally looked up, exhaustion etched deep. “We’re back now.”

 

“That doesn’t explain—”

 

“Not tonight.” His tone cut. “Let her rest.”

 

Martha stepped forward quietly and ushered them inside. Warm stew simmered on the hearth, but no fire could thaw the weight clinging to Liz’s chest.

 

⸻

 

Morning

 

Sunlight seeped through thin curtains. The scent of herbs curled in the air. As always, Martha’s voice rang out—gentle, certain:

 

“Wake up, little birds. Breakfast’s getting cold.”

 

They gathered at the table. Steam rose from bowls of stew. Wooden spoons clinked. It should have been comfort.

 

But Liz didn’t lift her spoon. Her hand trembled. Then, she raised up from her chair.

 

“Enough, Martha.” Her voice was calm, but carried a breaking edge. “Stop pretending. Who are you? No—what are you? What are you trying to lead us toward?”

 

The others turned, startled.

 

Liz’s gaze didn’t falter. “What were those visions Kael and I saw? Was that your doing? Was it all some test?”

 

Across the table, Martha sipped her tea. Not startled. Not flustered. Just quiet. Then she set her cup down with a sigh.

 

“One question at a time, child.” Her voice still held warmth, but underneath it was something older—sadness, weariness.

 

“I am no enemy to you. That much you must believe, even if you don’t understand yet.” Her gaze softened. “A long time ago, I made a promise to a man. Brilliant. Stubborn. A fool, really. He spent his life pretending not to care for the one thing he loved most.” Her lips trembled with a faint smile. “And when he was dying, he left me this place. A sanctuary, hidden inside the forest. A world that folds to protect you.”

 

Ezryn leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Who was he?”

 

Martha didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted past them, lost to ghosts.

 

Ezryn turned, his voice hard. “Then tell us—what did they see? What was it?”

 

Kael’s voice was rough. “A memory. Or a vision. Soldiers with the red crest of flame slaughtered a village, dragging girls to the pyre. One man stopped it—looked like Ezryn, but colder. A killer.”

 

“Yuan,” Liz whispered. “Then… a palace. An old man reading stars. He spoke to Yuan as if… as if he held the strings of everything. I don’t know him, but my bones do. I feared him.”

 

Ezryn’s hands curled. “So I was this Yuan?”

 

“No,” Martha said gently. “You are Ezryn. But threads bind you and him. Threads deeper than flesh.”

 

Lirael slammed her palm against the table, her composure breaking. “And us? Kael and I—what are we? Just passengers in someone else’s cursed fate?”

 

Martha’s eyes met hers, kind but unyielding. “No. The four of you were meant to find each other. Not chance—design. There are patterns older than kingdoms at work here.”

 

Kael’s fist struck the wood. “Then stop with riddles! We’re tired of shadows. If you know the truth—say it!”

 

Her smile faded. For the first time, her tone sharpened like flint. “And if I told you all of it—would you believe? Truth is not bread to hand across a table. It must be lived, step by step.”

 

Ezryn’s voice was low. “So, am I carry what Yuan stained?”

 

Martha held his gaze, sadness in hers. “You carry his weight. But you also carry the chance to choose differently.”

 

Silence. Heavy, suffocating.

 

Then Martha froze. Her head turned to the window.

 

“…We’ve run out of time.”

 

Lirael stiffened, her fan snapping open with a metallic snap. “Something’s approaching.”

 

Martha rose. “The barrier is collapsing. The moment she awakened, the seal began to crumble. This place will not hold much longer.”

 

Kael’s blade hissed from its sheath. “Who found us?”

 

“The ones who should never cross.” Martha’s eyes shifted to Liz. “The ones who hunt what they fear. The ones who call you—”

 

Liz’s whisper cut her off. “…Devil.”

 

The forest screamed.

 

From the cracks in the barrier poured the first wave—creatures twisted by shadow. Horned wolves with bone jutting from their backs. Serpents with too many eyes. Things that should not walk but crawled anyway.

 

Kael met them with fire and steel, his blade cleaving arcs through scaled hide. Lirael spun like a dancer, fans unfurling gales sharp enough to sever heads from necks. Ezryn’s lightning cracked through the clearing, splitting monsters apart in flashes of white-blue.

 

Liz stood at their backs, vines bursting from the ground at her call. Roots wrapped claws. Stones buckled spines. The power came raw, instinctive—like her body remembered something her mind could not.

 

But for every beast that fell, two more surged forward. The ground was painted black with ichor. Their breaths came ragged, weapons heavy. Still, they did not break.

 

Then—the forest stilled.

 

The mist drew back. The beasts stopped as if commanded.

 

And he walked in.

 

A towering figure, armored in obsidian plates, a jagged crest burned into his chest: Zakereth.

 

The air itself recoiled.

 

Kael’s knuckles whitened around his sword. His face hardened in a way Liz had never seen.

 

Lirael’s breath caught—her usual composure cracked, fan trembling in her grip.

 

Even Ezryn, always sharp, always calculating—went pale. His voice was barely a whisper.

“An upper fiend…”

 

Liz blinked between them. “What is he? Why do you all look—”

 

“Run,” Kael growled. “You don’t understand. One of him takes a company of warriors.”

 

But there was no running.

 

Zakereth’s halberd cut through the air with a sound like ripping sky. He moved faster than something his size should. Kael charged—and was thrown aside like a rag doll, his blade splintering. Lirael’s cyclone shattered against his swing. Ezryn’s lightning fizzled, dispersed with a flick.

 

Liz froze. Their strength meant nothing. Every strike broke like glass. The three who had fought so fiercely a moment ago now looked like children against a storm.

 

Zakereth raised his weapon high. The killing blow fell—

 

And stopped.

 

Threads.

 

Glowing threads, gold and silver, weaving into existence from nothing, binding the halberd in midair. They coiled around his arms, his chest, his very shadow—threads too fine to be rope, too strong to be broken.

 

Martha stepped past them all.

 

Her eyes glowed faintly, not with flame, not with lightning, not with storm. But with something older. Deeper.

 

“Enough.”

 

Zakereth roared, wrenching against the bindings. But the threads only tightened.

 

Liz stared, breathless. “What is this…?”

 

Ezryn’s voice shook. “Not mortal magic. Not even elemental…”

 

“No,” Lirael whispered. “It’s fate itself.”

 

Martha’s voice was steady, though her hands were trembling, already fraying into light.

“These threads are the paths of destiny. The choices unmade. The endings unwritten.”

 

Zakereth lunged. The threads shifted. His strike curved—not toward her, but back into his own flesh. His halberd carved a gash across his armor.

 

The bindings twisted again. He swung to kill—and slit his own side.

 

Each motion became his undoing. Each attack bent back upon him. His fate, rewritten, turned inward.

 

The others could only watch, stunned.

 

Liz pressed a hand to her chest. She could feel it—not just magic, but inevitability. Martha wasn’t forcing him. She was changing the story mid-sentence.

 

But with each thread spun, Martha’s body unraveled. Her hands disintegrated first, then her arms, breaking into motes of gold. Her voice faltered with effort—but she smiled through it.

 

“I promised I would protect you,” she whispered. “For as long as I could.”

 

Liz stumbled forward. “No! Stop—you’ll disappear!”

 

Martha’s gaze softened. “Child… I’ve been fading for a long time. Decades, waiting for this moment. Don’t cry for me. You were worth it.”

 

Her last threads pulled taut. Zakereth screamed—a sound like steel torn apart—before collapsing under the weight of his own fate. His halberd pierced his chest, driven by his own hand.

 

Silence.

 

Martha swayed. Her form cracked with light. She turned to Liz, lifting what little remained of her hand to brush a tear from her cheek.

 

“My dear girl. I’ve watched over you longer than you know. I wish… I could stay to see the woman you’ll become. But remember this—” Her voice dimmed, eyes glowing faint with sorrow and love. “You are not alone. You never were.”

 

Her body dissolved fully, scattering into threads of light that wove upward, vanishing into the sky.

 

The clearing was quiet.

 

The forest exhaled—like it had been holding its breath. Birds stirred. Leaves rustled.

 

But to the four who remained, the world suddenly felt colder.