Twilight bled into night, the forest behind Nora’s childhood home shifting into shadow and moonlight. Solas the kitten padded silently at her side, sleek fur bristling with anticipation. Nora’s twelve-year-old body tensed, but her consciousness spanned worlds, layered and vast. Threads of light pulsed through her veins, intertwining her multiple selves: the toddler hugging Solas the kitten, the adolescent practicing control, the cosmic warrior swinging swords, the Iraqi girl dodging gunfire, and the hollow blackened strand of 1957.
And now—the Unmakers struck.
They came not as single shadows, but as coordinated tendrils of darkness stretching through realities. One slithered along the forest floor, coiling around trees, absorbing the moonlight. Another shimmered in the dust of Iraq, reaching for the girl clutching her brother. A third struck the cosmic battlefield, twisting the sword arcs and shimmering light into jagged, chaotic lines.
Nora’s chest tightened. Fear surged—but she drew in a breath, letting the lattice hum beneath her skin. Focus. Feel all of you. Trust the weave.
Threads of light arced from her fingertips, cascading outward like molten ribbons. The toddler’s instinctive grip on Solas the kitten pulsed through the threads, a heartbeat anchor. The Iraqi girl’s terror coiled into determination, mirrored in the adolescent’s precision and the cosmic self’s practiced strength. Even the blackened strand of 1957—broken, hollow, dangerous—was folded into the lattice, its darkness redirected into defensive arcs that hardened the weave.
The first Unmaker tendril lunged at her. Nora’s hands rose, twisting the threads in an intricate spiral. The shadow shrieked, recoiled, and splintered, only to reform from another angle. Another tendril struck in Iraq, slamming into the alley wall behind the girl. Nora felt the pulse as if through her own bones, simultaneous, overlapping—the lattice bending space, bending perception, guiding both hands and consciousness to counter threats across centuries.
Solas hissed softly, running beneath her fingers. “Do not falter. Remember all of you. Use the blackened, use the fearful, use the whole. They cannot touch what is whole.”
Nora exhaled, extending her awareness further. Light threads arced from her mind like luminous webs, catching every shadow mid-lunge. The Unmakers twisted, fragmented, striking again and again, but each assault was anticipated, redirected, folded into the lattice.
She felt it—the tactile pull of multiple realities vibrating against her:
Each Unmaker tendril struck again, but the lattice bent, folded, absorbed, and reflected. Nora’s body shivered with exertion, her mind stretched across impossible expanses, yet the weave pulsed—alive, responsive, whole.
A final tendril struck simultaneously across three realities: the forest, the alley, and the cosmic battlefield. Nora’s hands moved instinctively, threads coiling in spirals, then exploding outward like starfire. The tendril shattered, screaming, fragments of darkness melting into the lattice, transformed, anchored.
Nora fell to her knees, chest heaving, fingers clutching Solas the kitten. The lattice pulsed faintly in exhaustion, shimmering with the presence of all her selves. She could feel the Unmakers recoiling, sensing the power, tasting the impossible coherence of a nexus fully aware of itself.
Somewhere in the shadows of the lattice, the blackened strand of 1957 quivered faintly. Hollow, yes—but alive, integrated, serving purpose rather than breaking the weave.
Nora whispered, almost in disbelief: “We… we held it. All of us… together.”
Solas the kitten purred against her hand, warmth grounding her across centuries, across realities. The lattice hummed in acknowledgment. The Unmakers had tested her—but she had survived, and more than survived: she had learned, integrated, and strengthened the weave.
Yet the lattice vibrated with a quiet warning. This was not the end. The tendrils would return, more coordinated, hungrier—hungrier for the blackened strands, hungrier for the living threads.
And Nora, breathless, anchored by Solas the kitten and every fragment of herself, understood the truth: she was no longer a single self, no longer a single life. She was the weave itself—and the weave would fight back.