24 #3
“I don’t like this,” I said nervously. Would the Weavers be alive, clinging to life in the dark? Or would they have suffered the fate of King Gabriel, becoming nothing but broken bones and scattered teeth? “I just hope they’re alive.”
“I hope they are, too.” And it was clear he meant it.
“They hurt me more than I ever thought possible. Abandoned me to the dark when I needed them the most.” He paused, jaw ticking.
“But despite everything, I want them to live. I can’t bring myself to wish they never existed.
And if they’re still breathing in there, then they need us now more than ever. And we need them.”
We stepped through the archway, ready to face whatever lay within.
Immediately, like magic, soft indigo lights fluttered to life within the walls, illuminating the path.
The passageway was narrow and winding, its walls pressing in on us from either side.
The air was heavy with the smell of wet stone, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed around us like a chorus of serpents hissing.
The floor beneath our feet was uneven, worn smooth in some places and jagged in others.
Erebus led the way, his tall frame casting a long shadow before us.
The air was stifling, its metallic scent overwhelming now.
My breathing grew shallow, my chest tight with the weight of the oppressive atmosphere.
When we finally emerged into a larger room, I stopped short, breath catching in my throat.
No.
The chamber was in ruins. The walls were cracked and crumbling, and the ceiling above was serrated with what looked like claw marks. Worst of all, the farther in we went, the more destruction appeared. My stomach churned, filling with dread.
They’re not alive.
But along the farthest wall, down a path so far removed that it was barely discernible, was an opening that led to a crescent-shaped room with seven doors.
The doors had been gilded once, crafted in silver, gold, and precious gems to resemble the phases of the moon.
But dust and decay had settled deep into the material, rendering them filthy and unsuitable for the hosts they held within.
A faint inscription could be read above each doorway:
The one who weaves the flames of desire,
Ignites the heart with eternal fire.
The one who weaves the tides that flow,
Unveils the depths where secrets grow.
The one who weaves the roots of earth,
Binds strength to form, and life to birth.
The one who weaves the breath of air,
Lifts dreams on wings beyond compare.
The one who weaves the echoes past,
Unfolds the truths that never last.
The one who weaves the present’s thread,
Holds fleeting moments, gold and red.
The one who weaves what is to be,
Shapes shadowed futures none can see.
“And there they are,” Erebus murmured. “The Seven in their immortal tombs. Let’s wake them up.”
I grabbed the nearest handle—Theia’s—and flinched when the door easily slid open.
I swallowed hard.
Please be alive.
Inside Theia’s tomb, the air was pristine, untouched by time or decay.
Several wardrobes, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns, stood against the walls, their doors ajar to reveal shimmering gowns in different colors.
Each dress caught the light in its own way, as if reflecting the stars.
Mirrors, tall and framed in delicate glass, lined the walls, their surfaces flawless.
The reflections of the chamber seemed endless, as though Theia had surrounded herself with infinite versions of her own perfection.
At the center of it all was a sumptuous bed, decorated with blankets of pure white and soft, downy pillows.
The bed’s canopy sparkled like a constellation.
Its gleaming threads caught the faintest glint of light, casting soft, fractured rainbows across the room.
But despite the splendor, the room was unsettlingly empty. There was no sign of the Weaver of the Future—no ethereal presence, no warmth in the air, only the cold gleam of glass and diamond.
Not even her bones.
Erebus’s voice, almost hesitant, broke the silence. “She’s not here.”
I shook my head, unwilling to believe it. Because if Theia was gone, then that likely meant the other Weavers were, too.
“But she should be here, right? Is there another place she could be sleeping?” Cold fear washed over me. “Could she have been taken?” Dead. She’s dead.
His brow furrowed as he studied the room. “If she were captured, there would be clues. But…” He trailed off, continuing to sweep his gaze over the pristine space. “Everything is in perfect order. There are no signs of a struggle. It’s as if she simply vanished.”
I didn’t like this at all. Something about the stillness of the room didn’t sit right, as if time itself had paused here. Even the mirrors reflected an unsettling perfection.
“We should search the rest of the tombs. There must be a reason for this. A sign, a trace—something.”
The next tomb was Xander’s. As with Theia’s, the door opened easily.
But unlike Theia’s, there was a body still inside.