The stairwell curved down into the earth, the temperature dropping with every metre they descended. The forge-heat above faded, replaced by a damp, subterranean chill that settled at the base of Elias’s lungs.
He ran a hand along the wall. It was no longer stone, but glassy obsidian slick with condensation. Under his palm, a faint vibration throbbed—thump-thump, thump-thump—like a pulse felt through a stethoscope.
"How far?" Elias asked. The heavy air swallowed the acoustics.
"To where memory sleeps," Harth said. His staff painted the black glass with streaks of orange light. "Before iron, there was remembrance. The Keep’s roots go deeper than the mountain." Elias rolled his eyes.
The tunnel opened into a chamber that stopped Elias dead.
It was vast—cathedral-sized—but not built for prayer, rather for suspension. Vertical columns of transparent crystal lined the walls, each pulsing with a faint, bioluminescent glow.
In the centre, suspended by thousands of golden threads, hung the Loom.
A massive wheel of iron and glass, turning in a slow, silent rhythm. It looked unnatural, like a suspended, mechanical heart, pumping light instead of blood.
[AREA DISCOVERED: THE HOLLOW LOOM] [SYSTEM ARCHITECTURE: ANCIENT]
The text flared in Elias's vision, accompanied by a spike of pressure behind his eyes. Photophobia, he noted, shielding his face. Classic migraine aura.
"It looks like a machine," Elias murmured, stepping closer. The air tasted metallic—copper and blood.
"Aye," Harth said, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Faith often looks mechanical when you scrape away the prayer."
Elias circled the central platform, examining the golden threads stretching from the pillars to the Loom. They weren't just light; they were data. Inside the filaments, blurred shapes moved—soldiers kneeling, flames rising, faces screaming in silence.
[VISUAL DISTORTION DETECTED]
"Are those... people?"
"Echoes," Harth corrected. "Every act of will leaves a scar on this world. The Loom keeps a record. Some call it mercy. I call it accounting."
"Why did you bring me here?"
"Because you carry a wound the Loom recognises." Harth turned, his eyes reflecting the golden pulse. "Two souls trying to breathe through one set of lungs. It can show you which breath belongs to which."
Harth pointed to a thread drifting near the edge of the platform. It glowed brighter than the others, agitated, crackling with static.
"Touch it," Harth commanded.
Elias hesitated, his hand trembling with a fine motor tremor—adrenaline withdrawal. He reached out.
His fingertip brushed the light.
The chamber vanished.
[SIMULATION: THE EXECUTION]
Elias was no longer in the cave. He knelt on black marble, the heat of a roaring fire blistering his skin.
He couldn't move, chains binding his wrists. His body felt heavy, battered, ribs grinding against plate armour with every breath.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Not my body, he realised, panic spiking his heart rate. His.
Around him, men in red armour chanted—a low, grinding, mechanical rhythm. A High Priest stepped forward, wearing a mask like a stylised sun.
"The flame demands loyalty," the priest intoned. "Surrender what remains."
Elias tried to shout, to struggle, but the Knight took over. The voice that came out of his throat was hoarse, resigned. "The flame remembers mercy."
"Mercy is rot," the priest spat.
He raised a blade of solidified fire and drove it into Elias’s chest.
[CRITICAL DAMAGE][CARDIAC ARREST IMMINENT]
The pain was absolute, severing the sternum and piercing the heart. Elias felt the cold wash of shock, the sudden drop in blood pressure as the system crashed.
Darkness. Cold. End.
Then—a voice.
Mercy.
Time stuttered. Through the roaring fire, a small hand reached out. A girl. Not a goddess, just a child with eyes full of sorrow.
She touched his forehead.
The pain receded, boxed away in a corner of his mind. The fire didn't consume him; it fused him.
Elias gasped, slamming back into his own body. He fell to his hands and knees on the Loom’s floor, retching dryly.
His chest heaved. He clawed at his breastplate, expecting a hole, but found only cold steel.
"You saw it," Harth said softly.
"I felt it," Elias wheezed, wiping bile from his mouth. "He died. They killed him."
"And she saved you both." Harth gestured to the dais in the centre of the Loom—a slab of black glass veined with dull red. "The Loom doesn't just show history, Elias. It lets you live it, bind it, and sometimes fix it."
Elias looked at the golden thread he had touched. It was still vibrating, detached from the web, waiting.
"You've drawn an echo out of time," Harth explained. "But if you carry it inside you, the dissonance will kill you. You need to ground it." He pointed to the sword at Elias’s hip. "Bind it to the steel."
Elias drew Dawnfall. The blade felt heavy, dead in his hand. He placed it on the dais.
"Take the thread," Harth instructed. "Guide it. Don't force it."
Elias reached for the golden filament. It hummed against his skin, resisting like a magnet pushing against the wrong pole. He closed his hand gently—the soft, firm touch he used for setting IVs—and pulled it slowly toward the sword.
The thread arched, contact sparking against the metal.
Light blossomed, the thread coiling around the blade, sinking into the steel grain by grain.
Then the feedback hit.
[WARNING: PSYCHIC SURGE]
It wasn't physical pain this time, but an identity crisis. The Knight’s memories—battlefields, prayers, the smell of rain on iron, the child's face—flooded Elias’s brain, threatening to wash him away completely.
I'm losing myself.
"Elias!" Harth’s voice sounded distant. "Anchor yourself! Find something real!"
Elias gritted his teeth, his vision whitening as he searched for an anchor, something that wasn't the Knight's memories. His own.
He thought of the tower block: the heat, the weight of the little girl in his arms as he threw her to the canopy below, the choice to save her at his own expense.
That was real.
The light imploded. Silence rushed back into the room.
Elias slumped against the dais, sweat dripping from his nose. Before him lay the sword, transformed.
It was no longer silver. The steel had darkened to a deep crimson, and veins of gold ran through the fuller like living circuitry.
He reached out and took the hilt. It was warm.
[MEMORY BOUND: BLADE OF MERCIFUL FIRE]
"What... did I just do?" Elias whispered, staring at the weapon. It felt balanced now, as if the steel understood the shape of his hand.
"You reminded the flame what mercy feels like," Harth said. "You completed the circuit. That sword carries the truth of your existence here."
Elias sheathed the blade. The clack of the guard against the scabbard felt final.
He looked up at the web of threads above, now dimming, returning to their slumber.
Then, the rhythm broke.
The hum of the Loom stuttered. The lights flickered, strobing violently. The air pressure dropped, popping Elias's ears.
< SYSTEM INTERRUPTION >< UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED >
A tremor ran through the floor. The text that flashed across his vision wasn't the standard blue interface; it was jagged, red, and angry, searing his eyes.
< QUERY: WHO ARE YOU? >
[CONNECTION SEVERED]
With a mechanical groan, the Loom slammed back into its normal rhythm.
"What was that?" Elias asked, his heart hammering against his ribs. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the red afterimage.
Harth was staring into the dark corners of the cavern, his grip tight on his staff. "The flame can stir in strange ways. The gods may be silent, but something else hears your footsteps now. Don't look too long when it looks back."
Elias nodded, though the unease settled in his gut like lead. He touched the hilt of his new sword—the only warm thing in the cold dark.
“What the hell is happening to me?” Elias thought, blinking as if to wake from a dream.
"Let's go," Harth said, turning toward the exit. "Next is the Runewell. You've got the weapon; now you need to learn the language."
