She dreamed of fire.
Not the fire of destruction—the fire of creation. Worlds being born, stars igniting, threads of gold weaving themselves into the fabric of reality. She stood at the center of it all, her hands glowing with light, her face lifted toward a sky that had no end.
The First Weaver.
She remembered now. Not just flashes, not just feelings. Everything.
She remembered building Eryndor from nothing, weaving its towers from threads of light and shadow. She remembered creating the two moons, silver and crimson, to watch over the world while she slept. She remembered the first sunrise, the first rainfall, the first flower that bloomed in the garden she had planted with her own hands.
And she remembered him.
Dorian had appeared in her world like a wound that refused to heal—a tear in the Tapestry, a shadow where there should have been light. She had tried to mend him, to weave him into the fabric of her creation, but he wouldn't stay. He was darkness, and darkness couldn't be woven.
But she loved him anyway.
She had loved him from the moment he appeared—this creature of shadow who had no place in her world of light. She had woven a thread between them, silver instead of gold, and bound their fates together.
"You shouldn't have done that," he had said, his grey eyes darker than any shadow she had ever seen. "I'll destroy everything you've built."
"Then I'll build it again," she had replied. "As many times as it takes."
The dream shifted.
She was standing in the throne room of shadows, the same room from Adrian's dreams. But this time, she saw it clearly—the black stone pillars, the obsidian throne, the crown of darkness that floated above Dorian's head.
And Malakai.
He had been beautiful once. Before the darkness consumed him, before he became the monster he was now, he had been her most trusted advisor. He had helped her weave the Tapestry, had shaped the threads alongside her, had loved her in a way she couldn't return.
"You chose him over me," Malakai had said, his voice breaking. "You chose the shadow over the light."
"I chose love," she had replied. "You chose power."
The dream shifted again.
The Great Fall. The moment everything ended.
Malakai had cut the heart-thread of the Tapestry—the thread that connected all worlds, all lives, all fates. The moment it broke, reality began to unravel. Worlds collided. Lives ended. The darkness spread faster than she could mend it.
There was only one way to stop it.
She had to scatter herself across worlds.
Her power, her memories, her soul—she broke herself into pieces, each piece falling into a different world, a different life, a different body. The Tapestry healed, the darkness receded, and Malakai was trapped in the space between worlds, unable to follow her.
But Dorian had followed anyway.
He had given up his throne, his power, his memories. He had fallen into the world without magic and waited. For a thousand years, he had waited for her to be reborn, to grow, to find her way back to him.
And when she was finally ready—when she was finally Elara—he had found her.
Forced her to marry him.
Dragged her into another world.
He had kept his promise. In every life, in every world, he had found her.
Elara woke with tears streaming down her face.
Adrian was there, his hand clasped in hers, his grey eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and fear. The moment she opened her eyes, his breath caught.
"Elara."
She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. He reached for water, helping her drink, his hands trembling against her skin.
"How long?" she whispered.
"Three days. You've been unconscious for three days."
Three days. The battle. The mending. The years she had lost.
"I remember," she said, her voice cracking. "Everything. The First Weaver. Malakai. You." She looked at him, really looked, and saw the weight of a thousand years in his eyes. "You waited for me."
He didn't deny it. "I told you I would."
"You didn't tell me you would become a Mafia King to find me."
His lips twitched into something that might have been a smile. "I had to get your father's attention somehow."
She laughed—a broken, tearful sound. "You forced me to marry you."
"I knew you wouldn't come willingly. You never did." He pressed his forehead against hers. "In every life, you fought me. In every life, I had to convince you to love me again."
"And in every life, I did."
"Yes." His voice was thick. "You always did."
The silver thread between them pulsed with light—stronger now, brighter, the bond between their souls unbreakable.
"What happened to Malakai?" she asked. "After the battle?"
Adrian's expression darkened. "He retreated. But he won't stay gone. He knows you're weak. He knows you used most of your power to save Eryndor." His jaw tightened. "He'll be back. Soon."
Elara closed her eyes, reaching for the Tapestry. It was there—faint, flickering, but there. Her power had not abandoned her.
"How much time do I have left?"
Adrian was silent.
"How much, Adrian?"
"Thirty years," he said finally. "Maybe less. Aldric isn't sure."
Thirty years. A lifetime for some. A heartbeat for others.
"That's enough," she said.
"Elara—"
"It's enough." She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. "I don't need forever. I just need you."
He kissed her then—soft, reverent, a promise sealed with the silver thread that bound them together.
"You have me," he whispered. "For as long as you'll have me."