The ground beneath them pulsed. Once. Twice. Like the heartbeat of something buried deep below.
No one spoke. Clara sat curled into herself, her wings wrapped tight, but she could still feel the heat. Not her heat. Not her flame. A different warmth—sharp, suffocating, like molten metal pressing against her veins.
The crimson threads.
They whispered in silence, threading their voices through her pulse. She couldn't make out words, but she understood the meaning. Yield. Become. Burn.
She clenched her fists so tight her nails dug into her palms. The sting grounded her, but it didn't silence them. Every breath she took, the threads stirred like they were part of her lungs. Every flicker of flame, they twisted in, staining the fire with their color.
"Clara." Yurin's voice cut through her spiral, calm and exact. His shadow fell over her, his threads faint but steady. "Breathe slower. Control starts with breath."
She obeyed, not because she trusted him—she wasn't sure she did anymore—but because she had no other choice. Her breathing steadied, but the threads remained. Waiting. Always waiting.
Damien leaned against the rubble, still burned and bruised, but his eyes never left her. "This is a mistake. You see what's happening. If she keeps this power, she's a liability. Worse than a liability—she's a weapon we can't control."
Evelyn giggled from her perch. "Oh, please. That's what makes it interesting. What's life without a little chaos? She's already more entertaining than you've ever been, Damien."
"Shut up." His voice cracked with anger, but there was exhaustion behind it too.
Clara hugged her knees, trying to keep herself small, but Yurin crouched down in front of her, his expression unreadable. His eyes studied her like she was both puzzle and threat.
"You said you don't want it," he murmured, low enough the others couldn't hear. "But want and truth are different things. You can't run from this. Not anymore."
Her eyes widened. "You think I'm supposed to accept this?"
"I think," he said quietly, "you have no choice. The threads don't leave. They root. You've felt it."
Her chest constricted. She had. And the admission, even in silence, was worse than any wound.
Before she could answer, the ground pulsed again. Louder. The cracked stone split with a hiss, and light bled from below—fissure-light. Not the pale glow they had seen before, but crimson, hot, alive.
Damien swore under his breath. Evelyn leaned forward, grinning wide. "Ohhh, look. The fissure noticed. Isn't that romantic? Your little infection just woke it up."
The fissure roared.
From the crack surged shapes—humanoid, but warped, their bodies woven entirely from crimson threads. Their faces were blank, but their movements were precise, coordinated, like puppets on invisible strings.
Clara's breath hitched. Because when they moved, when they lunged, she felt it inside her chest. Like she was moving too.
Damien's flames erupted immediately, burning through the first wave, but for every one he incinerated, two more clawed free. Evelyn leapt down, twirling through the chaos with blades flashing, laughing as if this was her favorite kind of party.
Yurin didn't move at first. He was watching Clara. Watching her reaction.
Her hands trembled, fire sparking at her fingertips—but crimson laced the sparks before she could stop it. When one of the thread-puppets lunged, her body reacted before her mind did.
She slashed.
Her blade wasn't pure flame anymore. It was fire threaded with crimson, the same twisted fusion she had used against Memory Yurin. The puppet didn't just burn—it unraveled, threads snapping as though cut by something deeper than heat.
The others froze, just for a second. Yurin's gaze sharpened. Damien's flames faltered. Evelyn clapped her hands together with glee.
"See? Perfect!" Evelyn sang. "She's not just fighting them. She's commanding them."
Clara staggered back, horrified. Because Evelyn wasn't wrong.
When she struck, the other puppets hesitated, as if they recognized her. As if they knew her threads.
And deep inside, the whispers grew louder.
Join us. Lead us. You are already ours.
She screamed, forcing her fire to flare, burning away the voices for a heartbeat. But when the light faded, the crimson lingered in her flames, steady, unyielding.
Damien's voice cut through the clash. "This is what I warned you about! She's not just infected—she's linked!"
But Yurin's expression didn't waver. If anything, he looked almost… intrigued.
"Clara," he said evenly, as another puppet lunged toward her, "show me if you can resist. Or show me if you can't."
The world seemed to hold its breath.