Chapter 19 - Binding

“I came with my sisters. Across black rivers and through broken gates. Through the wound in worlds that Kullo made bright. But the Devourer… it clawed them back. Stole them from the threshold before their feet could touch new stone.”

“Kullo offered us hope. Not conquest. Not dominion. An alliance. We agreed. We crossed, to wait for her, to stand beside her, to fight—not only for our own, but for all.”

“I waited. But she did not come.”

“I waited longer than stars remembered their first fire. And still… she did not come.”

“But her whisper reached me. Even through rebirth. A promise etched in memory.”

“When she broke herself—split light from life—made of her body a new defiance. A strength born of shattering. And from that breaking… you were born. Daughter of her will. Daughter of her hope.”

“And now she has sent you to me. To remake. To shape you into what must come next. But this… this cannot be taken. It cannot be forced.”

“It must be chosen.”

“I ask you—Will you take what I offer?”

“Will you become more? Not only Kullo’s Daughter… but a tapestry woven of your design?”

Kleo stood within the low thrum of the barrier—the creature’s words still vibrating in the marrow of her bones long after her voice had fallen silent.

Will you become more?

Gods, it sounded simple.

Like stepping through a doorway into a sunlit room.

Like the effortless heft of a familiar sword.

But it wasn’t.

It never was.

This would be a death. Quiet or violent—the end of something small, something fragile. Of what she was. Of who she thought herself to be.

A girl with sharp knives and stolen smiles.

A girl who dreamed in vivid colors.

A girl who loved with a fierce, untamed heart.

Part of her wanted to laugh—a sharp, brittle sound. She had never asked for this inheritance and never asked to bear the weight of ancient wars on her young shoulders. Never asked to become.

And yet, here it was.

This moment—stripped bare and inescapable.

No more running into the shadows.

This was the fear that haunted Rugr’s eyes.

The secret Barto had tried to bury.

The cold truth the Kasad Shadoom whispered in the hollows of her solitary dreams:

You were never just a girl.

You were always becoming.

And still—standing here before something so ancient, so alien, so impossibly vast—Kleo felt achingly small.

Profoundly mortal.

Terribly afraid.

But not alone.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Behind her: Jack. Rugr. Maya. The messy, precious fragments of her life.

Before her: something ancient. Something that had waited longer than history. Something that had lost everything—and yet refused to yield.

Not for the hunger for power.

But for the fragile bloom of hope.

Kleo drew a breath—slow and steady—a girl and a gathering storm contained within the same skin.

You don’t have to want this, a small voice whispered within.

But you must choose it.

That was the immutable truth of her power.

Not seized.

Not granted.

Chosen.

Her fingers curled tight at her side—not in anger or fear, but to anchor herself to something solid in this dissolving reality.

And when she lifted her head—met those impossible, luminous eyes—she did not flinch.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of decision.

It didn’t need to be more.

“I will,” she said softly.

“If this is the price. If this is the path that lets me fight—for them—for him—then yes.”

Her breath settled, even and sure.

“I will become.”

Silence folded between them—not an emptiness, but a pregnant stillness.

Full of unspoken understanding.

Full of ancient approval.

Seh’mekath tilted her head, a movement slow as the pull of tides. The edges of her form shimmered like a deeper reality unfolding within a fragile shell.

“Daughter of Breaking.

Daughter of Becoming.

So it will be.”

She stepped closer—the barrier between them rippling like heat haze above glass—not shattering, but yielding as if eager for her passage.

Her long, delicate hand rose, and with a motion both gentle and absolute, she began to draw a shape in the air. But it wasn’t just light or energy—it was substance. Mana, raw and vibrant, braided itself from the air, thin luminous strands pulling from the rough-hewn walls, the cold stone floor, and the lingering memory of the cave.

And beneath it—beneath the silence, beneath everything—there came a sound.

Soft.

Low.

Ancient.

Not words formed by tongue and breath.

Not yet.

A pulse.

Like the beating of hearts in the spaces between worlds.

Like the rhythmic tap of loom weights shaping destiny.

Seh’mekath’s voice was a vibration of matter, resonating through Kleo’s bone and skin:

“I will show you the Pattern.

I will bind it to you as I was once bound.

Knowledge for freedom.

Strength for the path ahead.

Pain for the shadow of betrayal.

Never to be broken by another.

Never to be taken without your will.

Only chosen.”

The weaving grew—a vast, spiraling symbol hung between them, luminous and intricate. The shape defied human understanding. It echoed nothing of Demana. It was older—folding inward upon itself, rising in impossible angles, a forgotten geometry glimpsed once in the deep currents of a dream.

Kleo’s knees threatened to buckle.

Not from the tremor of fear.

From the profound weight of knowing.

This was not only a promise whispered in the dark.

It was a covenant etched in the fabric of existence.

One forged before the first stars were named.

Seh’mekath lowered her hand, the woven light still shimmering in the air.

“Will you give of your strength, Daughter of the Mortal Coil?

Will you take of mine, Child of Shattered Worlds?

Will you bind with me as Ally across the gulf of ages?”

Kleo’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her throat felt like sand.

But her gaze remained locked on those luminous depths.

She did not hesitate.

“I will.”

Seh’mekath extended her hand—palm upward, the delicate claws retracted.

Not a command.

Not a demand.

An offering.

“Give.”

Kleo raised her hand, slow and deliberate. A tremor of terror ran through her, but a fierce willingness bloomed beneath it.

She pressed her palm against Seh’mekath’s—bracing for cold, for the touch of something ancient and alien.

Instead, warmth flooded through her.

Like standing in sunlight filtering through the deep ocean.

The woven light folded—not collapsing into nothingness—but closing around them like a knot tightening from within.

Energy surged—slow at first, a hesitant trickle—then faster, a torrent of power flowing both ways, intertwining their essence.

Kleo felt it—a rush of memories not her own, echoes of forgotten ages. Shapes of thought that could bend mana like pliable cloth. The raw architecture of magic laid bare before her inner eye.

But Seh’mekath shuddered too—a deep, primal ripple running down her strange, elegant frame.

For the first time in an eternity—she fed.

Not on the fragile spark of fleeting life.

But on the vibrant, untamed strength of a living soul.

Kleo’s raw, fierce mana—so unlike the cold, dry power of ancient, dying races.

New fuel.

A flicker of something akin to joy in those ancient eyes.

And bound within Kleo’s energy… the stubborn, undeniable presence of Jack. Jack’s unwavering love. The messy, unpredictable chaos of humanity woven into her very being.

Seh’mekath’s voice hummed in the very stone beneath their feet.

“We are bound. Woven together,” And then—quieter, a resonance of profound weariness, “Until all Threads reach home.”

The light collapsed inward—gentle, final. The weave folded itself into Kleo—leaving no visible mark save for a faint, intricate sigil that pulsed beneath her skin, unseen except when she willed it.

Behind her, the others exhaled as if surfacing from a long-held dream.

Maya whispered, her voice thick with awe: “…Gods.”

Jack looked at Kleo. And in the silent language of their bond, he knew—without needing words—

She’s not the same.

Not entirely.

Not ever again.