The Vault's silence gave way to a strange hum, low and living, as Krael stepped into the chamber beyond. This was no mere room—it was a crucible of raw creation. Rivers of unspun reality flowed through the air like silver veins, pulsing in rhythmic strands that wove the very essence of time and fate.
At the center stood the Cradle of Threads, a floating lattice of interwoven light and shadow, slowly rotating like a dying star. Each thread shimmered with impossible color, each strand a living possibility—some yet to come, others never meant to be.
Krael approached, every instinct screaming caution. But he was not alone.
"Careful, traveler," a voice drawled behind him, calm and soaked in mischief. "The Cradle doesn't take kindly to false intentions."
A figure emerged from the strands—a man dressed in a cloak of paradox, stitched from moments that shouldn't exist. His eyes flickered like broken glass, and his grin carried the weight of ten thousand regrets.
"Name's Erisin. Reality thief, sometime prophet, full-time nuisance." He bowed theatrically. "And you, I presume, are the famous Krael Virex. The knight who walks between truths."
Krael's hand twitched toward his side, though no weapon remained. "Why are you here?"
"To stop you from doing something stupid," Erisin said brightly. "Or to help you do it better. Depends on how the threads fall."
Krael studied him, wary. This man felt like a paradox made flesh—impossible, yet necessary.
"The enemy," Krael said slowly. "The one pulling the strings. Do they lie at the heart of this place?"
Erisin's expression darkened, the grin slipping. "Not here. But what you're looking for… starts here. Someone—or something—is rewriting the Loom of Origins. Realities are collapsing in patterns too precise to be natural."
He pointed to a fraying thread, glowing faintly crimson. It pulsed with a slow, steady beat—like a heartbeat echoing across a dying world.
"This thread belongs to a place called Mirevale. It fell last cycle. But now—it's pulsing again. Being... rewound."
Krael frowned. "Time doesn't run backward."
Erisin shrugged. "Unless someone is cheating."
Together, they stared into the Cradle, watching the thread unravel… then knit itself back together in violent spasms.
"The one you seek," Erisin said, "has found a way to weave backwards. Not just through time, but through choice. They're unmaking regrets, rewriting decisions. They're building a world where they always win."
Krael felt the gravity of it—the desecration of destiny, the arrogance of control. It wasn't just destruction; it was erasure.
"We need to go there," he said.
Erisin tilted his head. "You do. Me? I'm already there in three versions of myself. But sure, I'll tag along."
As Krael reached toward the thread, the Cradle resisted—testing him, tasting his intent. His vision flooded with flashes: a city sinking into obsidian rivers… a child crying beneath twin moons… his own face, old and broken, whispering "It wasn't enough."
And then, with a surge of heat and color, the Cradle accepted him.
The thread coiled around his wrist like a living serpent, and with a blinding pulse, the world fell away.
---
When the light faded, Krael stood in the center of a marketplace under violet skies, surrounded by people who did not see him. Mirevale lived once more. But something was wrong.
The city was perfect. Too perfect. Laughter rang too evenly, children played without flaw, and every face wore a smile that didn't quite reach the eyes.
Krael turned to Erisin, whose face had gone pale. "What is this?" he whispered.
Erisin's voice trembled. "A rewritten world. One where pain never happened. One where no choice ever had a cost."
And somewhere in that immaculate facade, a god played puppeteer.