The dungeon didn't collapse.
It exhaled.
Stone walls pulsed once, then stilled—as if the maze itself had been holding its breath.
Nia lay on the ground, her arms wrapped around Orie, her aura flickering like a dying flame.
Tieran knelt beside them, his hands trembling.
Ivy stood back, unsure where to touch, what to say.
Orie's eyes fluttered open.
She looked at Tieran.
Then at Nia.
Then at Ivy.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"You came."
Tieran swallowed hard.
"I thought I lost you."
Orie smiled, weakly.
"You did. But she found me."
Her gaze shifted to Nia.
Nia didn't speak.
She just nodded, eyes full of tears.
Ivy stepped closer.
She reached for Nia's hand.
It was cold.
Too cold.
"Nia?" she whispered.
Nia turned, her smile soft.
"I'm here, big storm."
But Ivy saw it.
The fading.
The cost.
Nia had walked through fire and thread and memory—and now, she was unraveling.
Orie tried to sit up.
Her body shook.
Tieran caught her.
"I've got you," he said.
She leaned into him, her breath shallow.
The silence stretched.
Not empty.
But full.
Of everything they couldn't say yet.
Ivy looked at the three of them—Tieran holding Orie, Nia fading beside them—and felt something twist in her chest.
She was part of this.
But also—
Outside it.
She turned away.
Just slightly.
Enough to hide the tears.
Orie's breath was shallow.
Her body trembled.
But her eyes—her eyes held light.
She looked at Nia, collapsed beside her, aura flickering like a dying flame.
"No," Orie whispered. "Not you. Not like this."
Tieran moved to help, but Orie raised a hand.
Her fingers glowed faintly.
A thread shimmered between them—thin, silver, pulsing.
Ivy gasped.
"She's threadsbound," she whispered.
Orie closed her eyes.
She reached inward—not for power, but for memory.
She saw Nia laughing in the garden, casting spells with rhythm and joy.
She saw the pact they made, stitched into firefly wings and lullabies.
She saw the moment Nia chose to carry her pain.
Orie placed her hand on Nia's chest.
The thread between them flared.
She whispered:
"By the bond we stitched, by the breath we shared—return."
The thread pulsed.
Nia's body arched.
Her aura flickered—
Then surged.
Tieran stepped back, shielding Ivy.
Light filled the chamber—not blinding, but warm.
Like a hearth.
Like home.
Nia gasped.
Her eyes opened.
She looked at Orie.
"You remembered," she whispered.
Orie smiled, tears falling.
"I never forgot."
They held each other.
Not as savior and saved.
But as sisters.
As threadsbound.
Ivy watched, heart full.
Tieran placed a hand on her shoulder.
"They stitched each other," he said softly.
Ivy nodded.
"And now," she whispered, "we're stitched into them."
The dungeon pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then screamed.
The walls shimmered with unstable magic—threads unraveling, runes cracking.
The book in Ivy's satchel flared with light.
A voice echoed from its pages:
"Leave now. The seal is breaking. You will collapse with it."
Nia tried to stand.
She couldn't.
Orie reached for her magic.
It flickered, then vanished.
"I'm drained," she whispered. "We both are."
Tieran turned to Ivy.
His voice was steady, but urgent.
"You have to open the portal."
Ivy froze.
"What? Me?"
"You're the only one left with power."
Ivy stepped back.
Her hands trembled.
"What if I—"
"You won't," Tieran said.
Orie nodded, her voice soft.
"You're threadsbound, You can do this."
Ivy closed her eyes.
She reached for the thread.
Cast.
Nothing.
The air flickered.
Then died.
She tried again.
Her voice cracked.
The thread snapped.
The dungeon groaned.
Stones fell.
The seal pulsed violently.
Ivy gasped.
"I can't—"
Tieran stepped closer.
"You can."
Orie reached out, placing her hand over Ivy's heart.
"You're stitched to us. Use it."
Ivy cast a third time.
The thread sparked.
Then—
Failed.
She fell to her knees.
Tears rising.
"I'm sorry."
Tieran knelt beside her.
"Star," he whispered. "You're not alone."
Ivy looked at him.
Then at Orie.
Then at Nia.
She stood.
One last time.
She cast.
Not with force.
But with memory.
With love.
With fear.
With everything.
The thread surged.
The portal bloomed.
A circle of light stitched into the air.
Tieran grabbed Nia.
Orie held Ivy's hand.
They jumped.
The dungeon collapsed behind them.
They landed—
Hard.
But safe.
In Ivy's attic.
The light faded.
The portal closed.
They lay there—
Breathing.
Alive.
Together.
The attic was warm.
Sunlight spilled across the floor, catching the edges of old spellbooks and potion jars.
Nia and Orie sat side by side, slumped against the wall like two exhausted ghosts.
Their robes were torn.
Hair tangled.
Faces streaked with soot and dungeon dust.
"I told you not to touch the flame seal," Orie muttered, picking at a thread in her sleeve.
"You were unconscious," Nia snapped. "I had to improvise."
"You always improvise. Usually with dramatic consequences."
"Oh, says the woman who stitched herself into a spiritual knot and made me walk through it."
Orie sniffed.
"You didn't walk. You limped. And cried."
"I did not cry."
"You whimpered."
"I cast through pain!"
"You cast like a drunk squirrel."
Tieran blinked.
Ivy raised an eyebrow.
"Are they… fighting?"
"Is this normal?" Tieran whispered.
Ivy shrugged.
"I think this is their version of affection."
Nia and Orie turned to each other.
Looked down.
Broken robes.
Dirty nails.
Sand in their hair.
They groaned in unison.
"I look like a cursed scarecrow," Nia said.
"I look like I lost a duel with a compost heap," Orie added.
"I smell like dungeon soup."
"I smell like regret and moss."
Ivy stood, hands on hips.
"Then go wash up."
She walked to the wardrobe, pulled out two folded sets of clothes—soft, clean, untouched.
Her own.
"I was saving these," she said, handing them over. "But you need them more."
Nia held hers up.
Orie sniffed hers.
They exchanged a look.
Then nodded.
"Acceptable," they said together.
As they walked off, still muttering:
"Do these robes have pockets?"
"They better. I'm not wearing anything without pockets."
"I swear if you stretch mine out—"
"I'm not the one who sits like a gremlin."
Tieran moved to the kitchen.
He lit the stove with a flick of magic, pulled out rice, vegetables, and a jar labeled "Ivy's Chaos Blend."
Ivy joined him, tying her hair back.
She chopped while he stirred.
"Do they always bicker like that?" she asked.
Tieran smiled.
"Since before I was born."
"And now they're wearing my clothes."
"You're threadsbound now," Tieran said. "You're stitched into all of this."
The attic had quieted.
Orie and Nia were finally clean, wrapped in Ivy's robes, still bickering softly over who got the robe with the better stitching.
Tieran and Ivy sat on the floor near the kitchen, backs against the wall, the scent of rice lingering in the air.
Ivy's fingers traced the edge of a chipped tile.
Her voice was low.
"I don't remember anything about my mom."
Tieran turned.
She didn't look at him.
Just kept tracing.
"I mean… I know she existed. I know she loved me. But I can't remember her voice. Or her face. Or how she held me."
Her throat tightened.
"I don't even know if she liked soup."
Tieran didn't speak right away.
He reached out, gently placed his hand over hers.
"You don't have to remember everything to be loved."
Ivy blinked.
Tears welled, but didn't fall.
Tieran smiled.
"Tomorrow morning, I'm making your favorite soup."
She looked up.
"What?"
"Breakfast. Soup. The one you always ask for when you're tired and pretending not to cry."
Ivy's face lit up.
She jumped to her feet.
"Wait—are you serious?"
"Completely."
"With the crispy bits?"
"And the lemon twist."
She spun once, arms flung wide.
"I'm not crying, I'm celebrating!"
From the other room, Nia called out:
"Is she dancing?"
Orie replied:
"She's definitely dancing."
Tieran stood, brushing rice off his shirt.
"You're stitched into us now, Ivy. And tomorrow, you get soup."
The attic door creaked.
Ivy turned.
And froze.
Orie and Nia stepped into the light.
Clean.
Hair brushed—mostly.
Faces still freckled with dungeon dust, but glowing.
And wrapped in Ivy's robes.
They looked—
Beautiful.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
But radiant.
Like women who had walked through fire and thread and still remembered how to laugh.
Orie's robe hung slightly off one shoulder, her silver hair braided loosely down her back.
Nia's robe was cinched tight, sleeves rolled up, her eyes sharp and playful.
They bickered as they entered.
"I told you this robe was stitched unevenly."
"It's not uneven, you just have lopsided shoulders."
"I do not!"
"You absolutely do."
Ivy stared.
Mouth slightly open.
She'd never seen anyone look like that.
Like power and softness stitched together.
Like memory walking.
Tieran leaned close.
His voice low, teasing.
"You can't possibly have a crush on your own mother."
Ivy blinked.
"What—no—I wasn't—"
Her face flushed.
Tieran grinned.
Orie raised an eyebrow.
Nia burst out laughing.
"Oh stars," Nia said, wiping her eyes. "That's the best thing I've heard all week.
Orie smirked.
"Ivy, darling, if you ever do develop a crush on me, just make sure it's after I've brushed my hair."
Nia snorted.
"Please. If anyone's crush-worthy, it's me. I survived a thread maze and still look radiant."
"You look like a magical raccoon," Orie said.
"Ivy's robe is doing the heavy lifting," Nia shot back.
Ivy covered her face, laughing so hard her shoulders shook.
Tieran leaned against the counter, grinning.
"I'm just saying," he teased, "you looked at them like they were glowing."
"They were glowing!" Ivy said. "And also covered in dungeon soot!"
Orie walked over, ruffled Ivy's hair.
"You're allowed to be stunned, sweetheart. We're a lot."
Nia joined her, looping an arm around Ivy's shoulder.
"And you gave us robes. That's basically a love confession."
Ivy groaned.
"You two are impossible."
Orie kissed her forehead.
"And you're stitched into us now."
The attic filled with laughter.
Steam curled from the kitchen.
And Ivy, for the first time in days, felt like she belonged.
The attic smelled like soup.
Warm, lemony, with crispy bits floating on top.
Ivy sat cross-legged on the floor, bowl in hand, steam curling around her face.
Across from her, Tieran stirred the pot with practiced ease, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the morning mist.
Orie and Nia were already bickering.
"I told you not to add extra salt."
"It needed salt. You have the palate of a rock."
"I have the palate of a goddess."
"You have the ego of a thunderstorm."
Ivy giggled into her bowl.
They were ridiculous.
And radiant.
And hers.
Tieran handed her a second helping.
She looked up.
He was smiling.
Not the polite kind.
Not the tired kind.
But real.
Soft.
Stitched with something she couldn't name.
Her breath caught.
"You're smiling."
Tieran blinked.
"Am I?"
"You never smile like that."
He shrugged, still stirring.
"I guess I'm home."
Ivy stared at him.
Her heart did something strange.
Like a thread pulling tight.
"How can you smile like that?" she whispered.
Tieran looked at her.
Then at Orie and Nia, still arguing over soup ratios and robe folds.
Then back at Ivy.
"Because you're here."
Ivy blinked.
Steam rose.
Her bowl trembled slightly in her hands.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Outside, the moonlight stitched itself across the attic floor.
Inside, four threadsbound souls shared soup, laughter, and silence.
And for the first time, Ivy didn't feel like she'd fallen into someone else's story.
She felt like she'd written her way in.
Morning crept in soft and golden.
Ivy stirred in bed, nose twitching.
Ginger.
Again.
She padded down the attic stairs, bare feet cold against the wood.
Tieran was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, stirring porridge with quiet focus.
Steam curled around him like a second aura.
"You know," Ivy said, rubbing her eyes, "you cook this every morning."
Tieran didn't look up.
"Because it's good."
"It's predictable."
"It's boring."
"You still eat it."
"I still complain."
He turned.
Smiled.
Ivy blinked.
That smile.
Soft.
Real.
Her breath caught.
"You're smiling."
Tieran paused.
Touched his own face.
"I… am."
Ivy stepped closer.
Her voice dropped.
"But your emotions are stitched."
Tieran's hand fell from his cheek.
His brow furrowed.
"I know."
They stared at each other.
The porridge bubbled.
The attic held its breath.
From the other room came the usual chaos.
Orie's voice, sharp and amused:
"I told you that robe was stitched crooked."
Nia's reply, full of mock outrage:
"It's your shoulders! They're uneven!"
"You said that yesterday!"
"And I'll say it tomorrow!"
Ivy didn't laugh.
Not this time.
Tieran looked down at the pot.
Then back at Ivy.
"How can I smile?" he whispered.
Ivy didn't answer.
She couldn't. Because Tieran's emotions were stitched. Bound. Muted. And ye— He smiled.