The waves whispered.
Not gently.
But like breath caught in grief.
Tieran stood at the edge of the shore, sword still sheathed, boots soaked, cloak heavy with moss and memory. The cave behind them had collapsed hours ago—swallowed by water, silence, and the weight of what they'd survived.
Ivy slept nearby, curled beneath a stitched blanket of forest leaves, her satchel clutched tightly to her chest. The book lay beside her, closed but pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat stitched into parchment.
Tieran didn't look at her.
He was watching the seal.
It stood half-submerged in the shallows—twisted bark, glowing faintly, symbols rearranging themselves like breath. It hadn't spoken since the collapse. Hadn't pulsed. Hadn't warned.
But it was watching.
And so was he.
He didn't speak aloud.
But the forest heard him.
And answered.
The seal flared once.
Then again.
Then—
A message appeared.
Not in ink.
Not in thread.
But in blood.
It bled across the bark, rising like steam, curling into symbols Tieran hadn't seen since the war. Ancient. Threadsbound. Forbidden.
He stepped closer.
The forest held its breath.
The message read:
"One thread was spared. One thread must bleed. The bond is not yet paid."
Tieran staggered back.
Because he understood.
The trials weren't the cost.
Survival wasn't the payment.
The bond had saved them.
But now it demanded something in return.
He looked at Ivy.
Still sleeping.
Still sealed.
Still stitched to something she hadn't yet named.
And he wondered—
What had they truly paid?
And what was still owed?
The waves whispered.
Ivy stirred.
Not awake.
Not dreaming.
Threading between.
She stood barefoot in the shallows, the water cold and rising. The seal loomed before her—twisted bark, symbols pulsing like breath. It didn't speak. It opened.
Like a mouth.
Like a wound.
Inside, there was no voice.
Only memory.
She saw a woman—threadsbound, bleeding, casting a seal with her final breath. Not her mother. Not Elian. Someone else. Someone Ivy had never met.
But she knew her.
Knew the way her hands moved.
Knew the ache in her eyes.
Knew the stitch she cast.
Because it was the same one Ivy had used to seal herself.
The woman turned.
Looked at Ivy.
And whispered—
"You were never meant to forget."
The seal snapped shut.
The water surged.
Ivy gasped.
She woke.
Flustered.
Shaking.
Breath ragged.
Eyes wide.
Tieran was already beside her, kneeling, hands steady.
"Hey," he said softly. "You're alright."
She tried to speak.
Couldn't.
He touched her shoulder—light, grounding.
"You're safe. You're here."
She looked around—the shore, the seal, the book.
Then at him.
"I saw her," she whispered.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
She clutched her satchel.
"She stitched me."
Tieran's eyes darkened. "Another caster?"
She nodded. "But not Elian. Not my mother."
He frowned. "Then who?"
She looked at the seal.
It pulsed once.
Then stilled.
The book pulsed once.
Then again.
Then opened.
Not with ink.
With voice.
"Three days."
The words stitched themselves into the air—glowing, trembling, undeniable.
"In three days, if you wish to rescue someone, do it. Otherwise, be buried here forever."
Ivy sat up, breath catching.
Tieran stood, sword already half-drawn.
The seal behind them groaned.
The earth split.
And a portal opened.
It wasn't light.
It wasn't shadow.
It was stitched silence—threaded with blood, memory, and something older than grief.
They were pulled in.
Not gently.
But like thread through a needle.
They landed hard.
Stone beneath them.
Cold.
Wet.
Broken.
The palace loomed around them—shattered columns, bloodstained walls, stitched banners torn and hanging like ghosts. The air was thick with screams.
"Let me go."
"Please."
"I remember. I remember."
The voices echoed through the halls—some alive, some not.
Ivy clutched her satchel.
Tieran stepped in front of her.
The book hovered beside them, pages fluttering, glowing faintly.
Then—
A figure appeared.
Not whole.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Stitched.
Guided by thread.
It didn't speak.
It pointed.
Upward.
To the third-most floor.
Tieran frowned. "Why not the top?"
The soul turned.
And whispered—
"Because that's where the truth begins."
The third-most floor opened with a groan, velvet curtains parting like breath. The air was thick—fermented, smoky, stitched with the scent of old wine and scorched spices. Goblets lay shattered across the floor. Laughter echoed from nowhere, like a memory drunk on itself.
Then he appeared.
A man.
Old, broad, swaying slightly.
His robes were stained with wine and ash, his beard braided with thread-charms that clinked when he moved. He leaned on a staff carved from bone and bottlewood, eyes gleaming with mischief and madness.
"Martial or magical?" he asked, voice slurred but sharp.
Tieran stepped forward, jaw set.
"Martial."
The man grinned. "Good. I hate spells."
The duel began.
Fast.
Brutal.
Beautiful.
Tieran moved like a soldier stitched to purpose—his blade a blur, his breath steady, his stance honed by years of war. But the guardian was chaos incarnate. He danced between strikes, laughed through pain, twisted through logic. His movements were unpredictable, stitched with drunken grace and ancient mastery.
Hours passed.
Tieran faltered.
The guardian didn't.
With a flick of his staff, the old man sent Tieran sprawling.
"You fight well," he said, sipping from a floating goblet. "But you don't feel."
The floor shimmered.
And they were thrown out.
Tieran collapsed on the velvet-stained steps, breath ragged.
"I couldn't read him," he muttered. "He's stitched to chaos."
Ivy knelt beside him, thoughtful.
"No," she said softly. "He's stitched to indulgence."
Tieran frowned. "What does that mean?"
She stood, brushing moss from her cloak.
"It means he doesn't want to fight. He wants to remember."
She raised her hands.
Cast a spell.
The air shimmered.
And then—
Chaos.
Ingredients rained from the ceiling: wild herbs, fermented fruits, threadroot, mosswine, a single golden egg, and a jar of memory salt. Bottles rolled across the floor. Spices burst into the air like fireworks. A small fire started in the corner and politely extinguished itself.
Tieran blinked. "What are you doing?"
"Cooking," Ivy said. "And brewing."
They found a cracked hearth in the corner, stitched with old runes. Ivy whispered to it, and it flared to life. Tieran stirred the mosswine, adding a dash of memory salt. Ivy chopped threadroot with a spell-guided blade, her fingers moving like music.
"Add the egg," she said.
Tieran hesitated. "Now?"
"Now."
He cracked it. The yolk shimmered gold, binding the flavors like a seal.
The scent rose—sweet, spicy, nostalgic.
The guardian reappeared.
Sniffing.
Pausing.
Then—
He staggered forward, eyes wide.
"What is that?" he whispered.
Ivy stepped aside.
"A dish," she said. "And a drink."
He tasted.
Then—
He wept.
"You stitched my childhood," he whispered. "My mother used to make this. Before the war. Before the seals."
He sat down hard, staff clattering to the floor.
"I remember the kitchen," he said. "The steam. The laughter. She used to hum while stirring. I haven't tasted this in decades."
He drank deeply.
Got drunk.
Laughed.
Cried.
Then stood.
"You may pass," he said, voice thick with memory. "But remember—strength is not always the thread."
He raised his staff.
The velvet curtains parted.
The door opened.
They climbed.
The scent of mosswine lingered.
It was almost midnight.
And the second trial waited.
The second floor opened with a creak.
The air was colder here—stitched with whispers and riddles, the scent of chalk and candlewax. Toys lay scattered across the marble floor: broken dolls, threadbare plushies, puzzle boxes half-solved. The walls were scribbled with symbols, some glowing faintly, others twitching like they wanted to rearrange themselves.
Then—
He appeared.
A child.
Small.
Barefoot.
Eyes too old for his face.
He wore a cloak stitched from bedtime stories and broken promises. His voice was high, sing-song, and slightly mocking.
"You came to climb," he said, spinning a top. "But you must first fall."
Tieran stepped forward, sword sheathed, eyes sharp.
"Then give me the rules."
The child giggled. "Three riddles. All reversed. Truth is a lie. Lies are stitched with truth."
Ivy frowned. "What does that even mean?"
Tieran didn't look at her. "It means I answer what he doesn't ask."
The child clapped. "Ooooh, clever soldier! Let's begin."
Riddle One
"I am always behind you, but never chase. I hold your shape, but not your face. What am I?"
Tieran didn't blink.
"Shadow," he said.
The child grinned. "Wrong!"
Tieran smirked. "Reflection."
The child pouted. "Fine. One point."
Ivy whispered, "How did you know?"
Tieran shrugged. "I've fought illusions. They always lie with mirrors."
Riddle Two
"I speak without breath, move without legs, and vanish when held. What am I not?"
Tieran tilted his head.
"Not silence," he said.
The child blinked. "Ugh. Two points."
Ivy smiled. "You're good at this."
Tieran glanced at her. "I've had to read enemy code. This is just… play."
Riddle Three
"I am stitched to endings, but born in beginnings. I am feared, but also followed. What am I?"
Tieran hesitated.
Then—
"Life," he said.
The child froze.
Then smiled.
Then cried.
"I hate this game," he whispered. "Everyone always wins and leaves."
He curled into a ball, hugging a broken plushie.
"I don't want you to go."
Ivy stepped forward, unsure.
"What do you want?"
The child looked up, eyes shimmering.
"Spoil me," he said. "Like parents do. Just once."
Tieran blinked. "You want… affection?"
The child nodded. "I want to be tucked in. Told I'm safe. Given sweets. Lied to sweetly."
Ivy looked at Tieran.
He sighed.
Then knelt.
"I have no emotions," he said. "But I can try."
He conjured a soft blanket—stitched with warmth and moss.
Ivy summoned a sweetcake, warm and honeyed.
They sat beside him.
Tieran whispered, "You're safe."
Ivy added, "You're loved."
The child sniffled.
Then giggled.
Then vanished.
The door opened.
No riddle.
No warning.
Just warmth.
They climbed.
The air grew heavier.
It was past midnight.
And the final trial waited.
The next day rose slow and silent.
No guardian appeared.
No symbols pulsed.
No riddles whispered.
The floor was still—too still. Ivy and Tieran stood in the center of the chamber, surrounded by cracked mirrors and faded roses. The air felt stitched shut.
Tieran paced. "There's no seal. No summon. No fight."
Ivy frowned. "Then maybe it's not a fight."
Then—
She appeared.
A woman.
Dressed in blood-red silk, torn and trailing like grief itself. Her hair was wild, her eyes hollow, her voice—
Singing.
Not gently.
But in rage.
A song stitched with heartbreak and fury, echoing through the chamber like a curse.
She was the guardian.
But she was also broken.
She spotted them.
Paused.
Then spoke.
"You fight for survival," she said, voice trembling. "But do you fight for feeling?"
Tieran stepped forward. "If we must."
Ivy stepped beside him. "I already do."
The woman's eyes softened.
Then shattered.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice trembling.
Her gaze locked on Ivy.
Ivy hesitated. "I'm threadsbound."
The guardian's breath caught.
"You're threadsbound?" she whispered.
Ivy nodded.
The woman stepped closer, silk trailing like blood.
"Then you can summon," she said. "You can stitch the veil."
She knelt.
"I lost him," she whispered. "My bond. My thread. My love."
She looked at Ivy.
"Can you summon him? Just once. Just to say goodbye."
Ivy hesitated.
Then nodded.
She raised her hands.
Cast the spell.
The air shimmered.
And then—
He appeared.
A soul.
Faint.
Glowing.
He stepped toward the guardian, touched her cheek, whispered something only she could hear.
She wept.
He smiled.
Then—
He turned to Ivy.
"Live," he said. "Don't seal yourself in grief."
Then vanished.
The guardian stood.
Silent.
Then opened the door.
"You may go," she said. "The bond is paid."
They stepped toward the exit.
But behind them—
Flames erupted.
The chamber ignited.
The guardian stood in the center, arms raised, singing again—this time softer, stitched with peace.
She was burning herself.
Ivy turned. "No!"
She ran back.
Tieran grabbed her.
Held her.
Dragged her out.
She screamed.
Fought.
Cried.
But he didn't let go.
Outside, she collapsed.
Tears streaming.
"I could've saved her."
Tieran knelt beside her.
"No," he said. "She chose to end her thread."
Ivy sobbed.
Tieran wrapped his cloak around her.
"She gave you a gift. Now live."
The palace burned behind them.
But the bond was paid.
And the forest was waiting