The forest beyond the portal was not quiet.
It pulsed.
With memory.
With thread.
With something ancient and unfinished.
Tieran walked ahead, cloak dragging through moss stitched with symbols. Ivy followed, slower, her breath shallow, the book pulsing faintly in her satchel.
Then he stopped.
Before a tree.
No—not a tree.
A seal.
Tall, twisted, stitched into bark and stone. Symbols glowed faintly across its surface, pulsing in rhythm with Tieran's breath.
He stared.
Then stepped closer.
"They buried her here," he said.
Ivy blinked. "Who?"
"My mother."
The air shifted.
"She was threadsbound. Like you. But stronger. Wilder. She opened something she couldn't close."
Ivy stepped forward. "She's sealed?"
He nodded.
"She's alive?"
"Barely."
His hands trembled.
The seal pulsed.
His emotions—grief, rage, guilt—pounded against the stitched barrier like fists made of fire.
The seal groaned.
Ivy gasped. "Tieran—stop."
"She's in pain," he said.
"So are you."
He didn't listen.
The seal cracked.
A scream echoed—not loud, but stitched into the air like a memory unraveling.
Ivy clutched her chest. "It's not safe to feel this much. Not with your emotions sealed."
He turned to her, eyes glowing faintly. "I can't stop."
"You have to."
Then he said it.
"She's not the only one sealed."
Ivy froze.
"What?"
He stepped closer.
"You. Your mother. She's here too."
Ivy's breath hitched.
"No."
"She was threadsbound. She tried to protect you. She failed."
"No."
"She's stitched into this realm. Like mine."
Ivy staggered back.
Her heart pounded.
Her vision blurred.
The thread between them pulsed wildly—grief, rage, confusion, pain.
Then—
She collapsed.
Tieran caught her before she hit the moss.
Her breath was shallow.
Her skin pale.
The seal pulsed once.
Then again.
And somewhere, deep in the forest, two mothers waited.
Bound.
Buried.
Stitched into silence.
The forest held its breath.
Tieran knelt beside Ivy, her body limp against the moss, her skin pale as threadlight. The seal behind him pulsed—slow, steady, like a heartbeat stitched into bark.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
His emotions were pounding against the seal, against his own stitched silence, threatening to unravel everything he'd buried.
He leaned close, his hand hovering just above Ivy's nose and lips, careful not to touch. He waited.
A faint warmth brushed his palm.
Her breath.
Shallow, but real.
Relief stitched itself across his face—quiet, trembling, fragile.
He sat back, exhaling slowly, trying to seal himself again.
But the forest wouldn't let him.
The moss beneath Ivy began to glow—faint symbols rising like breath, stitched in the language of grief. The book in her satchel pulsed once, then opened on its own.
Pages fluttered.
Then stopped.
A single line shimmered across the parchment:
"Two threads. Two mothers. One must be unstitched."
Tieran stared.
"No," he whispered.
But the forest didn't care.
The seal groaned again.
A whisper echoed through the trees—soft, broken, stitched with pain.
"Tieran…"
He turned.
The voice was his mother's.
He stood slowly, trembling, and faced the seal.
"I'm here," he said.
The symbols pulsed.
"She's not ready."
"I know."
"But she's stitched to this now."
He looked back at Ivy.
Her fingers twitched.
Her breath caught.
Then—
She woke.
It wasn't sudden.
It was slow.
Like thread being pulled gently through cloth.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, catching light and shadow and the shimmer of moss. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest rising like something learning to live again.
She blinked.
Then turned her head.
"Tieran?"
He was already beside her, kneeling, eyes dark and unreadable.
"You're alright," he said softly.
She sat up slowly, wincing. "What happened?"
"You fainted."
She looked around—the glowing moss, the pulsing seal, the book open beside her.
Her voice was hoarse. "Where are we?"
He hesitated. "The sealed grove."
She frowned. "The what?"
He didn't answer.
She looked at the seal—twisted bark, glowing symbols, the air around it humming like a held breath.
Then back at him.
"What is that?"
He looked away.
"Tieran."
He didn't speak.
"Tieran, tell me."
He sighed. "It's a seal. A threadsbound lock."
"Who's inside?"
He paused.
Then said, "My mother."
Ivy's breath caught.
She stared at the seal. "She's alive?"
"Barely."
She turned to him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to carry it."
"I already do."
He looked at her.
Then said, "She's not the only one."
Her heart stuttered. "What?"
He swallowed. "Your mother. She's here too."
Ivy froze.
"No."
"She was threadsbound. She tried to protect you. She failed."
"No."
"She's stitched into this realm. Like mine."
Ivy stood, staggering slightly. "You knew?"
He nodded.
"For how long?"
"Since before I hired you."
She stepped back. "You used me."
"I needed you."
"You lied to me."
"I protected you."
She turned away, breath shaking, hands trembling.
The seal pulsed.
The book shimmered.
She looked at him again, eyes wet. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He didn't answer.
Because there was no answer that wouldn't unravel them both.
She sank to the moss, head in her hands.
The forest pulsed around her—soft, sad, stitched with memory.
And somewhere, deep in the seal, two mothers waited.
Bound.
Buried.
Unspoken.
The forest pulsed softly, as if listening.
Ivy sat on the moss, knees drawn to her chest, eyes fixed on the seal. Her breath was steadier now, but her thoughts were tangled—threaded with disbelief.
She spoke slowly, voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't remember having a mother."
Tieran looked up.
"I've been with Master Elian since I was… I don't know. Since I could speak, maybe. Since I could stitch."
The moss shimmered faintly beneath her.
"He never mentioned my family. Not once. Not even in passing."
Tieran didn't interrupt.
"He taught me everything. How to thread emotion, how to cast silence, how to seal pain. He said I was born for it. That I was meant to serve the thread."
She looked at her hands—burned, bandaged, trembling.
"He was arrested two years ago. Illegal stitching. They said he broke the laws of balance."
Tieran nodded slowly. "I know."
She blinked. "You know?"
"I met him."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"Before I found you. Before I hired you. I went looking for threadsbound casters. He was on every blacklist. But he knew things. About the sealed realm. About the mothers."
Ivy's heart pounded.
"He told me where to find you," Tieran said. "He said you were stitched to something ancient. That you'd never remember unless the forest called you."
She stared at him.
"He knew about my mother?"
Tieran nodded. "He said she was sealed to protect you. That she gave you to him when the thread began to unravel."
Ivy's voice cracked. "He never told me."
"He wasn't supposed to."
She stood, staggering slightly. "So I'm stitched to this. To her. To all of it."
Tieran stepped closer. "You were always part of it."
She looked at the seal.
Then at the book.
Then at him.
"I want to remember."
The forest pulsed once.
Soft.
Steady.
Like a thread waiting to be pulled.
The forest had quieted.
Not stilled—never still—but softened. Like breath after sobbing. Like thread after tension.
Ivy sat beneath the seal, her back against the moss-covered bark, knees drawn to her chest. The book lay open beside her, its pages still glowing faintly, as if waiting for her to ask the next question.
But she didn't.
Not yet.
She was staring at Tieran.
"I want to remember," she said again, voice steadier now.
Tieran didn't respond right away.
He was watching the seal.
The symbols had dimmed, but the pulse remained—slow, steady, stitched with something ancient.
Finally, he spoke.
"Elian told me what it would cost."
Ivy's breath caught.
"He said memory isn't just a thread. It's a stitch. A binding. And some bindings were never meant to be undone."
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
Tieran turned to her, eyes shadowed. "He said your memories were sealed for a reason. Not because they were lost—but because they were dangerous."
She blinked. "Dangerous to who?"
"To you. To everyone."
He sat down beside her, not too close, but close enough that she could feel the weight of his silence.
"Elian said your mother stitched a memory into you. A living one. Not just a moment, but a spell. A protection. A warning. Something that reacts when remembered."
Ivy's heart pounded. "What kind of spell?"
"He didn't know. Only that it was threadsbound to your blood. That if you remembered too quickly, it could unravel you."
She stared at him. "Unravel me?"
"Emotionally. Magically. Physically. He said it could burn through your thread. Like fire through silk."
She looked down at her hands.
"I've already felt it," she whispered. "The ache. The pull. The silence."
Tieran nodded. "That's the edge of it."
She was quiet for a long time.
Then said, "Why did he keep me?"
"He said he owed your mother. That she gave you to him with one instruction: Keep her stitched. Keep her safe."
Ivy's throat tightened. "He never told me."
"He wasn't allowed to."
She looked up. "And you? Why did you come for me?"
Tieran hesitated.
Then said, "Because the seals are weakening. And the forest is calling. And you're the only one who can hear it."
The book pulsed once.
A new line shimmered across the page:
"To remember is to risk. To risk is to awaken. To awaken is to choose."
Ivy traced the words with her fingertip.
Then looked at Tieran.
"I want to choose."
He didn't stop her.
But he didn't help her either.
Because some stitches must be pulled by the one who wears them.
The forest pulsed.
The seal waited.
And somewhere, deep in the moss and memory—
A mother stirred.