Chapter Twenty-Eight – Written in Flame

You were not born. You were written.

The words echoed in my bones, reverberating deeper than thought. I staggered back from the stone, but the runes stayed lit—glowing with the hue of old flame, not fire, but the idea of it.

Riven caught my arm. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know," I whispered. "But it feels like something's remembering me before I ever existed."

Kael knelt before the marker, examining the runes with narrow eyes. "These symbols aren't just Threadweaver. They're from the First Loom. The original tongue. The language used when the world was… made."

I stepped back, heart racing.

"You mean someone created me?"

"No," Kael said slowly. "Someone crafted your fate. That's different."

"Not much," Riven growled. "Still sounds like she's a puppet."

Kael ignored him. "There's more here—beneath the marker. This isn't just a grave. It's a lock."

A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the clearing. The trees groaned, bending away again. And then, from the split earth, a low hum began to rise—deep, vibrating, ancient.

The ground trembled.

A circle of symbols erupted around the marker, and then with a shuddering sigh, it sank into the earth.

And a staircase appeared.

Dark. Spiral. Dripping with magic.

Riven stepped in front of me, hand on his sword. "We're not ready. We don't know what's down there."

Kael's eyes glowed. "We're already inside the story. This is just the next page."

I stared into the stairwell, heart thundering. The voice had stopped. But I could feel it waiting.

The truth was close. Close enough to taste.

So I took the first step down.

And as my foot touched the ancient stone, a line of fire lit the wall beside me—one word etched into it over and over.

Desire.

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