Reality was a lie. Every return to the Sanctuary brought painful proof of this. I'vi had stopped counting the jumps. She only counted the failures. The fragments of reality slipped through her fingers like sand. She had become something she had come to despise: a hamster in the cosmic wheel, running breathlessly toward a salvation that receded with every stride. Her mind was numb from the absurd repetition of defeat.

- “What's the point?” whispered a voice inside her, growing more insistent with each failure. All these deaths to feed the ravings of a madwoman. Gix, the Weavers... their sacrifice only serves to fuel my own torture. I should throw myself into a rift and end it all.

She moved away from the Flower. She was driven by a visceral need to see. To really see. The Sanctuary was no longer a bubble of serenity, but a suffocating and precarious place. Beyond the barrier, the world was in tatters. The sky of Thanerth revealed the convulsive muscles of reality.

She passed by a herd of Graa-min, those gentle herbivores with changing coats caught in a loop of pure terror. Their bodies constantly reforming only to be immediately crushed by a temporal distortion gone mad. Their muffled cries echoed to her like a symphony of agony. This helplessness was a poison that gnawed at her insides

- What's the point?” whispered the voice inside her. You search, but the cliff is endless.

Anger rose within her. A burning anger against the Ancients and against Yulet. Her anger was directed at all those who had played with the Web. They had played with it like children play with something beyond their understanding. They thought they had woven this Song with the best of intentions. But here was the result: a world in tatters and a broken weaver running after an elusive Master Thread.

She moved further forward. Her gaze was drawn to a calmer, yet even more terrible sight. A small group of child weavers huddled under what must have been a house, now half-destroyed. They weren't crying. They were holding hands, whispering a familiar nursery rhyme, their little faces serious and covered in ash. Sometimes it was a song by Thanerth about forgotten constellations. Sometimes it was an praise to Al Khaliq. They were holding on. They were clinging to a fragment of normality amid total collapse.

- Look. It's her, whispered one of them.

The children paused briefly. They looked at I'vi curiously. What did they see in her? A symbol of hope? The one who would solve everything with her jumps to the Cosmic Labyrinth?

-Pay your respects to her,” said one of them, quietly. Go.

-You go first,replied the other. I'm afraid to approach her.

-What? he whispered. You're afraid to approach a sister?!

- Yes. You go. Aren't you afraid maybe ?

- Go on then, he added, encouraging him by pushing him.

-Not today. I am not worthy to approach her.

I'vi smiled at them. The children smiled back warmly and appreciatively. She approached them tenderly. Lowering herself to their level out of politeness, she comforted them and offered them a small gift: hand-woven bracelets. This small gift brought a semblance of light and joy to the young weavers. 

A little further away, a young Weaver held another younger one close to her. Their sparks were flickering faintly. Their eyes were wide open, staring into the void with a determination that tugged at I'vi's heart. They were holding on. They still believed. I'vi smiled at them too, as if to give them courage. Her own had crumbled with the jumps. The younger one smiled back at her. The contrast between this purity and the surrounding horror was a stark paradox. How could so much innocence coexist with so much atrocity? The question remained unanswered.

Then, her perception shifted, caught up in another nearby distortion. A Weaver. An adult this time. She was caught in a time loop so tight, so vicious that I'vi was left breathless. In a second, I'vi witnessed the entire cycle. The Weaver's belly suddenly became round, and she went through painful contractions. She saw her child being born with a muffled cry and the relief of this mother, a smile on her face. This child grew visibly in a few heartbeats, only to finally disintegrate into ashes in the arms of this mother, who also lost her existence. The Weaver's body instantly rejuvenated to start all over again. Birth, growth, extinction. Birth, growth, extinction. A perfect, infernal loop. The Weaver's face was a map of absolute suffering. Her eyes were wells in which all light had been drowned. She endured, again and again, the worst grief imaginable, condemned to be the eternal spectator of hope dying before her eyes.

I'vi couldn't bear it. The vision inflamed her mind. She turned away, a sob stuck in her throat. She staggered, blinded by tears and searching for refuge, any place to hide her collapse. She slipped behind a tree, out of sight. There, huddled against the warm bark of the dying tree, she finally let herself go. The sobs shook her violently. It wasn't just for the weaver, or for the young ones, or for the animals, or for Thanerth only. It was for herself, too. For her utter helplessness. For the horror of being a conscious witness to an inglorious end, condemned to a mission that she now doubted ever had the slightest chance of success. She wept for all the lives she would not be able to save, starting with her own.

The Sanctuary was now nothing more than an ironic name, a relic of a hope long since consumed. The air itself was heavy and thick, saturated with an unpleasant odor that stung the nostrils and stuck to the throat. The golden light that once bathed the Sanctuary had faded, becoming yellowish and flickering to the irregular and increasingly weak rhythm of the hundred Weavers.

The Hall of the Generous was silent. They were no longer singing. Their mouths had been sealed shut by the effort. Their bodies were frozen in the postures of ecstatic martyrs. From their wide-open eyes, no glimmer of consciousness filtered through, only an amber liquid—perhaps tears, perhaps blood—flowing in slow streams down their temples, tracing shiny paths on skin that had become waxy and translucent. Their veins, beneath their skin, were no longer blue or green, but black, projecting maps of suffering and exhaustion.

The sound that prevailed was a miserable crackling. A sound that escaped in bursts, like steam from a boiler about to explode. Sometimes a whisper escaped, so faint that it sounded like a dead leaf scraping the ground. A word, a syllable.

“Enough...” “Pain...” “Let go...”

It was a plea addressed to the Creator. They were the embodiment of abandonment. For them, this world was nothing more than the excruciating sensation of emptying themselves endlessly, drop by drop, into a bottomless well. Their minds, if any remained, could only perceive Thanerth's agony as an amplified echo of their own. A symphony of pain of which they were the broken instruments.

At the center of this canvas of desolation was Yulet.

Her self-sacrifice had become a form of self-harm. She operated at a higher pace, using her own willpower as a last reserve of fuel. Her ravaged body bore the scars. Her once smooth skin was now covered in deep wrinkles, as if cracked by an inner dryness. Her eyes, sunken into their sockets, glowed with a feverish light, injected with deep purple veins. A dry cough shook her from time to time. A black, viscous liquid, similar to tar, stained her lips. The vicious smell of this neural fluid mingled with that of the air, creating a scent of inevitable doom.

Yulet had become the painful keystone of the entire edifice. She held on by the sheer force of denial. Each of I'vi's failures was a flaw in her own theory, proof of her hubris. She instantly filled this flaw with contempt—for herself, for the situation, for the weakness of others. Did she regret it? The question no longer made sense. Regret was a luxury that her mind, reduced to its simplest expression—a machine calculating increasingly zero probabilities—could no longer afford. She had moved beyond regret. She had reached that of pure, toxic, self-destructive responsibility. She would go all the way, even if that end was nothing more than a black hole absorbing the last vestiges of their civilization. She was the captain stubbornly continuing to navigate when the ship was already nothing more than a wreck. She condemned her crew so she wouldn't have to admit she had taken the wrong direction. And she was hiding all of this in the depth of her own self. 

I'vi back at the Sanctuary called out to her. She refused to wait for things to return to normal through the manipulation of the Master Thread. She had convinced herself that she had to do something. Smile, sing nursery rhymes, cry alone, and even try to ease the suffering of her loved ones.

-I saw a sister trapped in a loop. Do you think you can free her?

-Free her?” asked Yulet. “From the loop?

-Yes. Her spark already seems weak. Wouldn't it be better to let her go?

-We don't have the resources for that. And I don't know what touching a loop might trigger.

-If anyone knows how to get her out of there, it's you.

-No, Yulet refused. Am'let can help you. Ask him. Send him a scroll or pay him a visit.

-I don't have time to go see Am'let. You're much closer.

-Yes. Except that my hands are full. I'm trying to save Thanerth.

-We're talking about a sister who is reliving the horror of her entire life, retorted I'vi. And everyone here is trying to save Thanerth.

-I'm trying to prevent that horror from happening to other sisters, replied Yulet. Besides that, where is all this sentimentality coming from? Stay focused.

Focused? I am focused, she said, as if to emphasize her state of mind. I'm tired, too. You and the Elders are responsible for what we're going through.

-This is no time to play the juge. And what do you know about our responsibilities? We're all tired. Yet we carry on.

-I know that thanks to your scheming with the Web, Thanerth is dying.

Yulet stiffened.

-I don't know what's gotten into you, but you'll have to change your tone with me. I'm trying to do what I can. I don't need useless lectures from a child who is shaken to see her own kind extincting. It's the cycle of life. You'll have to get used to it.

-Get used to it?

-Yes. Indeed.

-I refuse to let our kind continue to suffer and extinct.

-What can you do about it? We all die in the end.

-Not like this. Not with so much pain.

-Pain is part of our existence. Welcome to the world of responsibility. Departure is never a joyful occasion. This is not the harvest season.

-I don't want this responsibility anymore, I'vi sobbed.

All of this was too much for her. The repeated failures and this scenario of pure agony she had endured were the last straw for her. She wanted to be relieved of her responsibilities. Deep down, she wished none of this had ever happened.

- Then use the sixteen minutes I'm giving you to find the Thread-Master.

-What do you think I spend my time doing once I'm in the Labyrinth ?

-Only the result matters to me, I'vi, Yulet said coldly. Everyone is doing their part to resolve a situation that may be beyond us. Stop whining. I'm working hard. Go get some rest. The next jump sequences will be determined within two days.

Suddenly, a young Weaver entered Yulet's chamber, a scroll in her hand. She was one of Yulet's many assistants.

-Venerable Elder. I have received feedback from the Elders, she began.

-What do those old farts say?

I haven't opened it. Not yet.

-Well, do it. Hurry up.

-Venerable Elder. I have received feedback from the Elders, she began.

-What do they say, those old farts?

-I haven't opened it. Not yet.

-Well, do it. Hurry up.

The young assistant broke the seal. A little melody was released from the parchment. The young assistant read and her eyes widened in amazement. She stood there with her mouth open.

-What's wrong with you, asked I'vi, equally surprised by the young assistant's reaction.

-The next part, she stammered. The Elders say they have determined that the Broken Song will be sung in seven days.

-Already?” said Yulet nonchalantly. That's much sooner than originally planned.

-Yes. According to the calculations, we had two weeks.

-Is that all they say?

-They say they have begun the ritual to create another Temporal Charge to make the jumps smoother

-When will this one come, asked I'vi, invested.

-What are you still doing here?” interrupted Yulet. I thought I told you to go rest.

-This is no time to rest. The next one...

-I heard you,” she said calmly. But not resting won't delay the deadline.

-Yes. We have to do something, replied I'vi, panicking.

-May the Creator help me, she prayed. Where is all this imbalance coming from, I'vi? I need you in top form for the jumps. And nothing else. Keep that in mind. We are already doing something.”

I'vi had nothing else to say. As painful as it might be, she knew Yulet was right. Yulet grabbed the scroll and scanned the contents herself. A look of concern appeared on her face. She motioned for the two young Weavers to leave her room. The situation was much more dire than it appeared.