The sword burned in her hands until her skin blistered, but still the Unmakers pressed closer—endless, inevitable. Their shrieks ripped through the loom, shredding threads in cascades of sparks. For every shadow she cut down, three more surged forward, feeding on the fractures, drinking the unraveling like nectar.
Her breath tore in her throat. Her arms trembled. She swung again, and again, and again—until she realized her strikes were slowing. The sword’s blaze faltered, its light flickering like a candle starved of air.
The faceless being cried out, its galaxies dimming: “Hold! You must hold—!”
But Nora could not.
The tide broke over her. Tendrils of shadow lashed around her limbs, piercing through flesh, through bone, through thought. She screamed, but the sound dissolved into silence as the Unmakers dragged her down—not into darkness, but into absence. A place without light, without time, without self.
For an instant, she felt herself unravel. Memories scattered like ash—her childhood laughter, the faces of comrades, even her own name slipping from her grasp. The Unmakers fed, each piece of her soul devoured as though it were a thread plucked from the loom.
And then—something shifted.
The sword pulsed once, faint—a dying heartbeat. But instead of burning outward, its light turned inward, into her chest. A spark caught. Not brilliance, not triumph—just stubbornness. Just refusal.
The Unmakers recoiled slightly, their forms stuttering. But they did not retreat. They only tightened their grip, dragging her deeper into the abyss.
The last thing she saw before the light in her vision collapsed was the faceless being reaching for her—its galaxies flaring one final time.
Then all was swallowed.
And Nora fell into silence.