The Ruins of Neverwas did not breathe.
They remembered.
Each broken pillar, every inverted staircase, every whispering arch sang of timelines that had unraveled too violently to mend. The wind here sounded like an exhale that never ended.
And in its epicenter, she sat.
The girl, the Prophet.
The Oracle of the Threads.
The girl who spoke only of futures — futures already set.
She had never wept.
Not once. Not ever.
Because why would you weep for inevitability?
But today, the threads twitched.
And twisted.
And screamed.
A silence louder than any voice echoed through the Loom of All Things.
Then… it happened.
Three immortals — a night-born, a curse-wearer, a god-denier — chose.
Not just a path. Not just a seal.
They chose to defy what should have always been.
And in that moment, The girl cried.
Her eyes widened in shock as the first tear cut down her cheek like a blade. Another followed, and another.
Her lips parted.
"The thread… is fraying," she whispered.
Then, she spoke — not of the future, but of what now should never be:
"The bloodless shall bleed
where no wound was laid.
The sun will crack,
but the night shall be afraid.
The weaver unweaves.
The hero will burn.
And the boy of dusk
will beg time to turn."
The ground beneath her pulsed once.
Something ancient, buried beneath the Ruins, stirred. Not awake — but aware.
And the girl, for the first time, trembled.
"They've changed the pattern," she said, voice dry and distant.
"It no longer ends.
It waits."
Behind her, statues cracked. A breeze passed through the Ruins like a final breath.
The stars above flickered — as if unsure whether they should stay lit.
And in the distance, far beyond the scope of prophecy, something watched back.