THE WEAVER'S WARNING

The Threshold seemed heavier, as though the Loom itself bore the weight of what Mildred had uncovered. The shard within her pulsed faintly, a steady rhythm that felt more like reassurance than urgency. Yet, as she stood before the tapestry, her eyes were drawn to a thread unlike any she had seen before.

It was not dim or severed, nor did it shimmer with vitality. Instead, it was black—a void amidst the vibrant weave. Its presence sent a shiver down her spine, its energy cold and unyielding.

"What is this?" she murmured, reaching toward it.

Before her fingers could touch the thread, a voice stopped her.

"Do not touch that one."

Mildred turned sharply to see the Weaver emerging from the shadows of the Threshold. Their expression was grave, their usually serene presence now tinged with unease.

"What's wrong with this thread?" Mildred asked, lowering her hand but keeping her gaze fixed on the void.

The Weaver approached slowly, their eyes never leaving the thread. "It is not like the others. This thread belongs to a realm that chose to sever itself from the dance."

Mildred frowned. "Sever itself? How is that possible?"

"The dance is a choice," the Weaver explained. "Every realm, every thread must willingly remain part of it. This realm rejected that choice long ago. It cut itself off, retreating into isolation. What you see here is not imbalance—it is absence. A void where connection should be."

Mildred felt a chill run through her. "Why would a realm do that?"

The Weaver's gaze softened, though their voice remained firm. "Fear. Anger. Despair. The forces that lead some to believe that harmony is impossible. They sought to create their own order, free from the influence of the Loom."

Mildred took a step closer to the thread, her curiosity outweighing her apprehension. "What happens to a realm that severs itself?"

The Weaver hesitated, their hands clasping tightly before them. "It falls into chaos. Without connection to the dance, the realm cannot sustain itself. Its people, its essence, everything within it begins to fragment."

Mildred's heart ached at the thought. "Then we have to bring it back. If the thread is part of the Loom, it means there's still hope."

The Weaver's expression darkened. "You misunderstand, Guardian. This thread remains only as a warning. To reach for it is to invite the chaos of that realm into yourself. Even the shard cannot protect you from what lies beyond."

Mildred stood in silence, her mind racing. Every part of her training, every instinct she had developed, told her to heed the Weaver's words. But the thread's presence gnawed at her, its void a reminder of what could be lost if she turned away.

"What if they want to return?" she asked finally. "What if the realm regrets its choice?"

The Weaver sighed, their form seeming to waver. "That is not for you to decide, Mildred. The dance is eternal, but not all threads can be mended."

Mildred met their gaze, determination burning in her chest. "If there's even a chance, I have to try. Isn't that what being a Guardian means?"

The Weaver studied her for a long moment, their expression unreadable. Finally, they stepped aside, their voice heavy. "Very well. But know this—if you take this path, you will face a darkness unlike any you have encountered. The void does not yield easily, and it will test every part of you."

Mildred nodded, her resolve unshaken. "I understand."

With a deep breath, Mildred reached for the thread. The moment her fingers brushed its surface, the Threshold erupted in chaos. The Loom shuddered, its vibrant colors dimming as the void's energy surged outward.

Mildred felt herself being pulled into the thread, the shard within her flaring brightly in response. The Weaver's voice echoed faintly in her mind.

"Do not lose yourself, Guardian. Remember who you are."

Mildred landed in a realm unlike any she had seen before. The sky was an endless black void, punctuated by faint glimmers of light that flickered like dying stars. The ground beneath her was cold and lifeless, its surface cracked and crumbling.

The shard within her burned brightly, its energy pushing back against the oppressive darkness. Mildred took a cautious step forward, her senses on high alert.

In the distance, she saw a figure—a lone silhouette standing amidst the ruins of what must have once been a great city.

"Who are you?" Mildred called out, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.

The figure turned slowly, their face obscured by shadows. But their voice was clear, sharp, and filled with a bitterness that sent a chill through her.

"I am what remains,

" they said. "And you should not have come."