The attic was still. The stories had been told. The betrayals laid bare. The seal pulsed quietly in Ivy's chest.
She stood. Eyes sharp. Voice steady.
"I understand now," she said. "Everything. The seal. The vow. The betrayal."
Her fingers curled into fists. "I'm not just stitched to this legacy. I am it. And I'm not running anymore."
She looked at Tieran. Then at Orie. Then at Nia.
"I'm going to help. We're going to fight. We're going to avenge ourselves."
Silence. Then—
Orie raised an eyebrow. Nia sighed.
Orie spoke first. "You're fierce. I love that. But vengeance needs fuel."
Nia added gently, "And we're running on fumes."
Orie nodded. "Tieran's still poisoned. We need to recalibrate his casting threads. Stitch back his emotions."
Nia continued, "And Orie and I—we need to restore our powers. The seal drained us. We're not ready yet."
Ivy frowned. "But we have to—"
And then—
Her stomach growled. Loud. Echoing. Undeniable.
Everyone blinked.
Ivy flushed. "…Okay. Maybe food first."
Orie smirked. Nia chuckled. Tieran looked away, but his lips twitched.
The storm could wait. For one bite
The attic had settled into silence.
The storm of memory had passed.
And Ivy's stomach had made its demands known.
Tieran stood, brushing dust off his sleeves.
"I'll cook," he said simply.
He just moved.
Ivy watched, curious.
Tieran glanced at her.
He chopped quietly. not enough to cast, just enough to soothe.
The scent filled the attic—warm, earthy, nostalgic.
Nia stirred from her cushion.
"That smells like the old threadhall kitchens."
Orie closed her eyes.
"Like before the seal."
Tieran ladled the soup into mismatched bowls. Handed one to Ivy.
She took it, fingers brushing his.
They ate in silence.
The broth was rich. The herbs hummed gently against the seal in Ivy's chest. Tieran's poison dulled, just slightly.
The attic pulsed.Not with magic.But with memory.
And for the first time in years, they all felt just a little more stitched together.
The lights had drifted into rest.
Orie sat in meditation, her casting threads dim and tangled.
Nia leaned against the wall, eyes closed, her breath shallow.
The book spirit stood silent, guarding memory.
And Ivy found herself beside Tieran.
Alone.
She glanced at him.
He looked pale. Tired. But his eyes still burned.
"I meant what I said," she whispered. "I want to help."
Tieran nodded.
"I know."
They sat in silence.
Then Ivy leaned closer.
"There's a forest near Elian's old cottage. She used to talk about herbs. Ones that could cleanse casting poison. Ones that could stitch back emotion."
Tieran's eyes flickered.
"Moonroot?"
Ivy nodded.
"And whisperleaf. And something called embervine. She said it only grows near grief wells."
Tieran frowned.
"Grief wells?"
"Places where memory sinks. Where magic mourns."
Tieran looked at her.
"You think they'll help Mom and Aunt?"
"I think they'll help you."
He didn't speak.
Just stared at the floor.
Then—
"Ivy," he said softly. "If we go… we go alone. No council. No court. Just us."
She nodded.
"Just us."
Outside, the wind stirred.
The thread pulsed.
And somewhere in the forest, the herbs waited.
The attic had dimmed into a hush.
Outside, the wind curled around the eaves like a lullaby. Inside, the hearth glowed faintly, casting soft amber light across the floorboards.
Orie and Nia were asleep—finally. Their breaths shallow but steady, their casting threads flickering like candle wicks in a storm.
Ivy tiptoed into the kitchen, her bare feet silent against the worn wood. Tieran was already there, leaning against the counter, arms folded, eyes distant.
He didn't turn when she entered. He didn't need to.
"I'm thinking what you're thinking," Ivy whispered.
Tieran nodded slowly. "Forest. Herbs. Before the seal tightens again."
She stepped beside him, close enough to feel the tension in his shoulders.
"They won't recover on their own," she said. "We can't wait for the court to remember how to care."
Tieran's jaw clenched. "I should go alone."
Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"It's dangerous. The grief wells aren't stable. If something happens—"
She touched his wrist, gently. "We're bound, Tieran. You see, I feel. You fall, I do too."
He didn't answer. Just stared at the spice rack, as if it held a solution.
"It's useless to leave me behind," Ivy said softly. "You know that."
He looked at her then. Really looked. And something in his eyes—tired, fierce, loyal—softened.
"Before sunrise," he said.
Ivy nodded. "No goodbyes. No explanations."
They moved like shadows.
Packing in silence.
Tieran pulled out a satchel from the storage chest—old, worn, stitched with protective thread. He added a small blade, a casting ring, a folded map drawn by Elian in her younger days. A flask of water. A bundle of dried fruit. A vial of sleepdust, just in case.
Ivy gathered her own things: A thread compass. A strip of cloth from her mother's old robe—stitched with calming sigils. A pouch of embervine seeds. A charm Elian had once pressed into her palm and said, "Use this only when the forest forgets you."
They packed slowly, deliberately. Avoiding creaking floorboards. Breathing shallow. Every movement a spell of silence.
Orie stirred once, murmuring in her sleep. Tieran froze mid-step. Ivy held her breath.
But Orie settled again, her casting thread dimming into rest.
They met at the attic door. The sky outside was still dark, but the horizon held a whisper of silver.
Tieran looked back once. At his mother. At the woman who had stitched the seal and paid the price.
Ivy did the same. At Nia. At the woman who had planted the Mystic Mellow inside her, trusting her with the future.
"They deserve to heal," Ivy whispered.
"They deserve to remember," Tieran replied.
And then, without a sound, they slipped into the dark.
Two threads.
Bound.
Determined.
And stitched with love.
The attic door closed behind them with a soft click.
No fanfare. No farewell. Just the hush of pre-dawn air and the weight of what they carried.
The sky was still dark, but the edge of it had begun to pale— a faint silver seam stitched between night and morning.
They stood at the edge of the path, where the cobbled court stones gave way to moss and root. Beyond them, the forest waited. Dense. Breathing. Ancient.
Ivy looked back.
The tower windows glowed faintly behind them, like the last embers of a fire. Somewhere inside, her mother slept— weakened, sealed, but alive. And Orie, too—her casting threads frayed, her strength buried beneath years of sacrifice.
Tieran looked back as well.
His jaw was tight, but his eyes shimmered. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
They had grown too much for words.
In the last few days, they had unraveled truths older than their names. They had watched their mothers fall, not from weakness, but from love. They had seen what power could do— and what it could cost.
Ivy had stopped being the girl who ran from her seal. Tieran had stopped being the prince who waited for orders.
They had become something else. Not rulers. Not rebels. But threads—stitched together by grief, by memory, by choice.
They stepped forward.
The forest air was cool and damp, laced with the scent of moss and old magic. Leaves whispered above them, as if the trees remembered who they were.
Ivy glanced at Tieran.
He met her gaze.
And in that look was everything they hadn't said:
I'm scared. I'm with you. We're doing this. Together.
They didn't hold hands. But they walked in rhythm. Step for step. Thread for thread.
The path narrowed. The trees thickened. The light dimmed.But they didn't stop.
They had no map for what came next. No promise of return. Only the hope that somewhere in the heart of the forest, the herbs waited. The grief wells stirred. And healing—slow, stubborn, stitched in love—was still possible.
There is a silence that comes before dawn. Not peace— but pause. The world holds its breath, and the threads begin to stir.
Two figures step into the dark, not as heirs, not as rebels, but as children of the seal— bound by memory, and stitched by love.
They do not know what waits beneath the leaves. Only that healing must be found before the light breaks.