The stars blinked out one by one.
Myla, daughter of the Vale, sat cross-legged upon air, her eyes still brimming with futures that no longer existed.
She saw it happen.
The choice.
The shatter.
The tremble in the loom of time.
Three threads — one made of sunlight scarred by shadow, one of tangled, humming brilliance, and one spun of obsidian sorrow now lined with gold.
"It bends," she whispered.
"But does not break."
She reached into the spire's fading echo and pulled out a sliver of unmade prophecy — still warm.
A riddle escaped her lips, meant for no one and everyone:
"The vampire weeps, but not alone.
The threadsmith teaches, though not from thrones.
The farmer falls, yet never bleeds.
The future's path grows tangled weeds."
She touched her cheek — where a tear had dried backwards.
She remembered what the timeline once was: ash, ruin, screams stitched into the wind.
Now?
Now the wind hummed differently. The birds sang a note higher.
"One seal changed," she whispered.
"Now fate must listen."
Then, with a blink, Myla stood — and vanished into the next possible world.