They slipped the collapse.
Snowsoul had taken the worst of it.
And now?

The rot… again.

They hadn’t landed so much as been let go. The thread had pulled—hard—and then stopped. No welcome. No warning.

No birds. No insects.
Just silence. The kind that meant something was listening.

One of them crouched where they landed, hand pressed to the earth, breath already steady.
The other hit harder. Stayed down longer. No cry, just a curse into the dirt before rising through the muck.

The ground sucked at their feet. The air was hot—wrong-hot—thick and wet, clinging to skin, pressing behind the eyes. It smelled like something had died here a long time ago and kept on dying. Sweet rot. Green turned black.

One of them wiped what they could from their face. Said nothing.
They both knew it wasn’t over.

A shape lay a few feet away.
Small. Still.

One of them moved first.

Snowsoul wasn’t gone—but wasn’t there either.
What fur remained was scorched, clinging in patches.
No glow. No motion.
Just weight. Bare breath.

They gathered Snowsoul into their embrace.

Not to fix. Not to change.
Just to hold.

The thread tugged again.
Not violently. Just insistently.
It didn’t care that they were worn thin—body, mind, and soul.

Only that they moved.

And they did.

One of them led, barely. The thread did most of the work—pulling at their wrist with that same steady insistence. Not stronger. Not weaker. Only enough to remind them: you don’t get to stop.

The other followed, boots sinking slightly with each step. Mud clung like it had a mind. The air stayed hot, but didn’t shift. Like the world forgot what wind was.

A shared glance passed between them once—brief.

Not comfort. Not blame.
Just the quiet admission of fact.

This is our new reality.

They moved like people who knew the direction wasn’t theirs.
The thread chose. Their job was just to follow.

And then the air turned reflective.

Not a shimmer. Not light.
Just the sense that something was staring back—but from inside.

And then, softly—

“You really think this means something?”

One of them caught their breath.

The thread at their wrist slackened—not released, just… forgotten for a moment.

The voice wasn’t cruel.
It didn’t have to be.

“One walks because it’s all they have left.
The other walks because they still believe it might save them.”

The forest didn’t change.
But the pressure did.

Like every horrible thing you’ve ever known, whispering all at once. Not screaming—just pressing. Soft and certain, like truth turning its back on you.

“That thread on your wrist? It’s not guidance. It’s a leash.”

Their jaw tightened—but they didn’t answer.

“You followed it this far because you needed to believe there was a plan. That there was a reason. But it never promised that, did it?”

They blinked. Once.

And for a moment, the thread felt like nothing at all—just a strand of heat, or a trick of the blood.

“What if this isn’t fate?”

The voice came closer still.

“What if it’s just movement?”

The one carrying Snowsoul didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t even look toward the voice.

Just said—

“If you’re done wasting time, catch up.”

No scorn.
No comfort.
Just forward.

The thread twitched at their wrist again. Not pulling. Asking.

They moved.
And the voice didn’t follow.
Because it didn’t need to.
It had already done its work.

But they carried it now—quiet, buried, breathing. A seed in the dark.

They didn’t speak.
The silence lingered—but not empty.
One of them walked slower now. The other didn’t look back.

And then—

One of them started to hum.

Low. Tuneless. Nothing pretty. Just a thread of sound in the rot-thick air.

Like maybe they used to do it when walking long roads alone.
Like maybe it kept the silence from settling too deep in their bones.

They didn’t look back.
But their grip on the thread tightened, just slightly.

The forest didn’t like it. That much was clear.
It didn’t move. Didn’t shudder. But something listened.
That stillness sharpened.

One of them hummed anyway.

A rough, quiet defiance. The kind that didn’t need volume to matter.

It didn’t ease the weight of the place.
Didn’t chase back the stink, or the heat, or the weight in their arms.

But it was theirs.
And it was alive.

They didn’t see the clearing until they were already stepping into it.

No border. No marker. Just one step forward—and suddenly, silence became different.

Not heavier. Not darker.
Just held.

The rot peeled back.

The ground grew firmer underfoot. Trees stood straighter, bark intact. No pools, no clinging stink. Just soft earth. Cool air. Not fresh. Untouched.

It wasn’t large. Barely enough space to breathe.
But it was enough.

One of them slowed first. The hum stopped.
The other followed a beat later, and the thread slackened—not gone, not forgotten. Just… quiet.

In the center stood something.
A figure. Maybe.
Or a tree too shaped to be wild.

It wasn’t moving.
But it watched.

Not with eyes. With presence.

Old. Not in years, but in understanding.
A part of this place—but not claimed by it.

Snowsoul stirred in their arms. Just once. A breath drawn deeper than before.

No one spoke at first. A pause in time itself.

Not because of fear. Not because of awe.
Just unease thickening in the chest.

They had reached out. Just a hand. Just a word.

“Don’t.”

But one of them stepped forward anyway.

Not out of defiance. Not in rebellion.
They moved because they chose to.

One of them fought the thread and the other walked past them—for something else entirely.

Not far. Just enough.

The air shifted around them—not colder, not warmer. Just aware.

They looked at the figure in the clearing, arms still wrapped around Snowsoul, and asked—

“Can you help?”

It wasn’t brave.
It wasn’t foolish.
It was need, shaped into a question.

The silence held.

Then—

A voice.

Low. Not in pitch, but in age. The kind of sound that comes from under mountains, or between stars.
Not loud. But it arrived everywhere at once.

“Do you think help is what you need?”

No cruelty. No kindness.
Just weight.

They didn’t look away. They didn’t move. Their arms tightened around the broken shape they carried.

And softer, barely louder than breath, they asked again—

“Will you help… please?”

The old one tilted its head.
Slowly. Not with curiosity. Not with judgment.
Just… weighing.

The way an ancient wind might weigh a leaf.
The way a mountain might consider whether to fall or not.

It said nothing.
Did nothing.
But something shifted in the air.

Not a threat.
Not a promise.
Just the sense that time had begun watching them.

And still, it did not move.

Because something that old does not answer with words— not until the shape of truth has fully formed.

The threadwalker stepped forward—hard. Anger in the motion, patience frayed, knuckles white where fingers gripped the thread. Just one step.

“Are you going to help or not?”

Their voice cut through the stillness like a rusted blade.

“We don’t have time for this.”

The old one turned its head.
Not fast. Not harsh.
Just enough.

And in that motion came a pressure—deep and cold and infinite.
Like the air itself stepped back.
Like time paused to see what would happen next.

There was no anger.
No wrath.
Just the kind of stillness that only comes from something that does not need to prove anything.

The forest, the thread, even the heat in the air itself—they all waited.

The voice returned—low, layered, and older than anger.

“Careful with your voice, walker. Not all things you rise to… will let you keep your voice.”

No fury.
Just recognition.
Of a pattern repeated too many times before.

The thread eased its pull on their wrist.
Not in forgiveness.
In consequence postponed.

The old one turned back to the one who had asked.

The moment held.

Then he moved.
Just enough. Not fast. Not far.

He knelt, slow. Laid Snowsoul down at the edge of the old one’s shadow. Brushed a hand once over their side. No words. Just a pause. Just care.

Then stood.
No words followed.
She didn’t look back.

And together, without being told, they walked on.

The thread led. The forest closed in behind them.

And Snowsoul remained—watched over by something that did not promise, but had never once forgotten…

---

❂ The thread winds this way.
Follow where it frays, tangles, or tightens.
Each part holds the next—and the next part is just below.