The Song of Kaari and Tzuren

[Tales from the Ballad of Light and Darkness]

Not here, not there, not anywhere. Not nowhere.

The air hums with the quiet murmur of spinning threads, the soft chant of the Weavers who tend the looms, hushed laughter, sadness, joy, and a million emotions that have no word yet, not in this tongue, in which I convey. Their hands move, lips intone, arms dance in graceful, deliberate motions, guiding each strand into the Tapestry; here no thread is left frayed, no story untold. In time, each will find a home.

The Hall is neither dark nor light, light and shadow dance in perfect harmony here, an eternal twilight, everdawn. Starlight from a million million galaxies, of countless universes, filters through windows that open to no sky, and yet the scent of old parchment fills the air.

Here we are, my friend, Walker, we stand in the Hall of Eteranl Weave, watch the threads glimmer and shift, watch this One, this thread that pulses faintly, watch it emerge from nothing — a familiar sight here, in this Hall, but always one of eternal deliight.

The Singers into the Dawn arrive there, from yonder plain, listen to their choral symphony.

“You walk beside the Weave. You carry the Lantern of Stories. Your thread, neither born nor unborn, unfolds. Weave, Weaver, Weave, let your story find your home.”

And the thread shimmered into view — slender and luminous, trembling like the breath of a long-forgotten name, as it wove itself through the twilight, threading patterns not yet seen, mot since the last turning of the Spiral.

The Sages stirred from their silent contemplation.

Sa’Mir Yaloraig, the Whisper of the Veiled Winds, opened his ancient eye, then listening to the thread’s faint murmur, spoke, “It speaks,” he said, his voice a breeze that barely touched the air. “Something ancient… something new.”

Rasya Lamgroi, the Weaver of Hidden Fates, emerging from Darkness, stepped closer, her fingers tracing the thread’s glimmer. “It carries the scent of dawnlight and duskfire,” she murmured. “A tale seeking to be told, though it knows not yet its own ending.”

Imrazael, the Keeper of the Ever-Turning Spiral, descended from on High, gazing at the pattern forming before them, his golden eyes, dazed from being ever fixed on the shifting cycles of time, now narrowed in contemplation. “This is no ordinary thread,” he said, his voice measured, each word weighted with the gravity of aeons. “It moves beyond time’s grasp. It is… the Ballad sung anew.”

Zorai Malsi’ghar, the Scribe of the Forgotten Dawn, stood silent, quill in hand, her gaze fixed on the thread’s dance. “A Ballad of Light and Darkness,” she whispered. “It stirs, a song that will echo far.”

Lamir Ghaiso’ra, the Guardian of the Veil, watched with his ever-present smile that sone through his, and said, “The cycle bends, yet the balance holds… for now.”

As the Sages gathered around this shimmering, unfolding thread emerging into being, something in the Hall seemed to awaken, something all Weavers felt, something at once, and then gone.

The Loom of Light, the ancient and eternal mother, began to hum, a silent song.

“It must be tended,” said Sa’Mir Yaloraig. “This story must be witnessed.”

“For what it portends,” Rasya Lamgroi added. “It will grow, unweave, fracture, and reform, it will carry both the hope of light and the burden of shadow.”

Imrazael stepped forward, his gaze steady. “Yahvin must take his place at the Loom, only he can watch it unfold, as it must be watched.”

The Sages, born of one mind, yet rarely all of one mind, concurred.

From the farthest reaches of the Hall, Yahvin emerged, in robes shimmering with starlight refracted through forgotten dreams, in his hands, the tools of his craft — a spindle of night-thread, a shuttle of dawn-fire, the parchment of the everlasting tale.

“I am here, and so I am,” Yahvin said.

The Sages bowed their heads as Yahvin approached the Loom of Light. He placed his hands upon it, feeling the pulse of the Tapestry, the thrum of destiny’s threads, a wonderful tale unfolding.

“Do you see, Yahvin, do you sense it,” Imrazael asked, a strange smile on his face.

With a solemn nod, Yahvin began his work, his fingers deftly guiding the threads, that were now two, one of brightness and the other of molten fire, as they twisted and turned, and entwined.

And so, it begins — a story, of light and shadow, of many beginnings and endless ends.

It would be a Ballad sung through ages.

It would be, yes Yahvin, it would be The Ballad of Light and Darkness.

1

The everpresent fog hung thick over the Sindana Delta, but in places the half-light of dawn broke through, the river’s surface gleamed, disturbed only by the gentle splash of the skiff’s oar — Kaari, moved with her waterdancer’s grace, yet her eyes scanning the swirling mists, for danger, for opportunity.

Kaari was no stranger to the Veiled Shores, she knew these shifting marshlands where the Sindana River met the Outer Sea, were home to many unnamed things, all the named ones she knew, and she knew to take care. Born to the riverfolk of the Sindana’s Upper Bend, from where the gentler Mirwan branched off to make its way to the lower shore, wary too off the Outer Sea, she had spent her life navigating all these labyrinthine waterways, trading with distant villages, and occassiuonally with the hidden folk, leaving goods at their assigned spots, returning to carry home what the mysterious ones had chosen to barter in exchange, at times merely barks and roots, but not so unoften, rarer, gleaming things. These she took to the secret spot, known only to her father and her once, so now, only her. She was a wanderer of paths others feared to seek. But today was different. Today, the air carried a weight she could not explain, as if something in the air, in the waters, in the world itself had frayed.

Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind, as she made her way, warily, down river: “When the fog grows heavy and the stars hide their faces, the unnamed are near. Be wary, child. The Spirit walks Unseen.”

Kaari wasn’t sure she believed in these Unnamed Ones — those mysterious, ethereal guardians of the Spiral, in some tales, in others, darker things — yet she had learned to respect the Delta’s mysteries. She carried her skystone-spear, and her grandmother’s lotus-shaped lantern, passed down for countless generations, its flame fueled by oils drawn out from sacred herbs. And quite often, unknowingly, she hummed an old riverfolk song under her breath, a tune meant to soothe restless spirits, a part of her hoping against hope, to glimpse beyond the veil.

The skiff glided into a small cove where the mangroves parted to reveal a patch of land, barely more than a few legspans wide. She saw it! Something glinted there, half-buried in the silt, this was not one of their usual dropping points, but Kaari’s pulse quickened as she anchored the skiff and waded to patch.

It was something embedded in the soil, and as she dug her fingers, faster and faster, finally she uncovered a fragment of metal, cold and smooth to the touch. She held it up to the pale light and gasped. It was a shard of some strange metallic thing, its intricate patterns faintly glowing with a golden hue. The patterns, lines and whorls, though broken, she had seen them on artifacts before, they were said to hold immense power, capable of opening paths between realms — or unraveling them. But mostly they were valued for their rarity, being relics of an older, perhaps distant land.

But as she studied this artifact, a sudden chill ran through her, and she turned sharply, sensing she was no longer alone. From the edge of the mangroves, a figure emerged, cloaked in shadows, its form shimmering, and as it spoke, its voice echoed as if spoken from within a vast chamber, from far far away.

“You hold what was lost, and since you hold it, it seems, it has been found,” it said, and paused, and said again. “But can you bear its weight?”

Kaari clutched the shard tightly. “Who are you?” she demanded, with wavering voice.

The figure stepped closer, revealing itself, its luminous eyes, shining from under a hood, held hers, and for a moment, she felt as if the entire Spiral, had paused to take a breath.

“I am. Who am. And you, child, have stumbled into a story greater than you know.”

The Being extended a hand, a hand that could have been a woman’s or a child’s, or something she had never seen before. Frail, slender, glowing, almost, from behind a skein of pale skin, that seemed to bear patterns not unlike those on the shard, and for a moment, Kaari hesitated. But she placed the shard in its palm.

The Eyes studied the fragment, their glow intensifying. “This thread is frayed, its story unfinished. It was torn from the Mandala during the Breaking, and its loss has left a scar upon the Weave. A story, that began, but remains unfinished.”

Kaari noticed a sadness in the voice. “What does that have to do with me?”

The Being fixed her with a golden gaze. “The Spiral turns, and the Tapestry waits. The story, it begs for one to take it home. It has found you, do what must be done.”

Before Kaari could respond, the Being vanished, leaving her alone in the mist. But the shard remained, its glow now faint and flickering, as if it, too, awaited her decision.

2

For some time, Kaari stood frozen, as if something had been ripped from her, the shard of the Mandala warm in her hand. The mists seemed heavier now, the world was even quieter, as if holding its breath. She stared at the place where the Being had vanished.

The shard pulsed faintly in her hand — when had the Being given it back to her? But there it was, like a heartbeat, alive. She watched it closely again, its patterns, etched in delicate spirals and lines, seemed to shift subtly under her gaze, forming something as she watched? She traced the patterns, saw the strange symbols, they seemed … familiar.

Follow the rivers, follow the stars… the words came unbidden, like an echo from a dream.

Kaari shook herself. She waded back to her skiff and set off upriver, her lantern casting a golden glow over the waters.

As the hours passed, the Delta’s familiar waterways grew alien. The mangroves seemed taller, their roots twisting like the fingers of a sleeping giant. The air grew heavier, filled with a deep silence broken only by the occasional splash of unseen creatures. As she moved out from the Delta, even the stars above seemed dim, their light veiled by a shroud Kaari couldn’t explain.

She kept humming her riverfolk song, the melody steadying her nerves. But as night fell, the shard in her hand began to glow brighter, its patterns shifting more urgently. In her dreasms that night, she saw again and again, a narrow channel, hidden among the mangroves. The waters here were dark, reflecting nothing, and Kaari hesitated, approached, but every time, she would wake.

And each time she did, the shard pulsed again, its light recognising her presence.

And so she set off. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the skiff into the channel that led down from her hut on the outskirts of the village. The air grew colder, and shadows danced on the surface of the water, as she entered the Delta, shapes that didn’t match the trees above. Kaari tightened her grip on the oar, her eyes watchful of the shifting shadows and the path ahead, she knew where she had to go.

Suddenly, the skiff jolted to a halt. Kaari looked down to see that the water had turned shallow, its bed littered with jagged stones. She stepped out cautiously, the shard glowing brighter now, illuminating a narrow trail that led deeper into the mangroves. In what seemed like a mere moment, she had arrived … so far away.

She entered the hidden path.

The trail ended at a small clearing, where amidst the forest growth, she saw the remains of a ruined shrine, crumbling in the undergrowth, and at its center, a fractured stone altar, chipped off at the edge, its surface etched with spirals identical to those on the shard. Kaari approached slowly, her breath catching as the shard’s light intensified, casting the entire clearing in a golden glow.

As she placed the shard onto the altar, the air trembled, and the spirals on the stone began to move, as if alive. A low hum filled the air, and then, a voice.

“Who… who… who…?”

Kaari stepped back, her heart pounding. “I … I am Kaari, Kaari of the riverfolk,” she stammered. “I found the shard in the Delta. I was asked to bring it … home.”

The voice softened, sounding not unlike the Being from Afar, but it was a gentler voice, a voice so beautiful, like a song.

“Kaari of the riverfolk, we are thankful to you, but our thanks comes with a burden, the shard has chosen to be found by you, the thread once unravelled is now woven into your life. This thread is bound to yours, its story entwined with the Breaking.”

“The Breaking…” Kaari whispered. She had heard the tales, of course — how the Great Beings of Light and Shadow, had waged war against the Gathachakra and had Shattered the World, of how folks like her were wanderers, survivors of that broken age. But they were just stories, weren’t they?

“You see it in your mind’s eye, Kaari, the world was not merely broken,” the voice continued, “its threads were scattered, their patterns lost. The shard you bear is one of many, and its return to the Weave is vital to the Spiral’s turning, for the story to begin anew.”

“But why me? I am just… no one.”

The voice paused, shifting now to a tone that was almost sad, as if it too had known doubt. “You are Kaari of the river-folk, a thread in the eternal weave, one that is all you, all your own. Every thread matters, Kaari, Kaari who is now of the river-folk. Kaari, who is tomorrow, tomorrow, what will she be?”

The spirals on the altar flared with light, and the shard began to dissolve, its glow seeping into the stone. Kaari felt a strange warmth spread through her, as if she, too, were part of this light, the energy, and the face she saw, a face she knew, but from a memory so old, so old.

Ayussha. A name she had never heard, but knew.

When the light faded, the clearing was still again, the altar whole once more. But Kaari’s tale had only begun, a new path unveiled before her, one that would take her far beyond the rivers she had always known as home.

Behind her, the shadows stirred. But above, the stars wove a path. As Kaari pondered her destiny.

3

The voice had gone, the ethereal light had faded, but the warmth it left behind steadied her. The altar still glowed faintly, its spirals whole once more, as if waiting for something — or someone. She turned to leave, but a sound stopped her: the crunch of footsteps on wet ground.

She froze, hand reaching for her spear, listening for more, and then, movement, her eyes darted to the edge of the clearing, where at first, there was nothing, only the mangroves swaying gently in the breeze. But then, from the shadows, two figures emerged — cloaked and silent, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods.

Kaari’s raised her spear. “Who’s there?”

The nearest figure stepped forward.

“We are the Taalmaan, the Watchers of the Threads. Guardians of what remains. You have known us, but not known us.”

The other… Taalman, as they were called, stepped forward, removing his hood, revealing the gentle, age weathered face of a mountains man.

“Come now, friend, we need not be so mysterious. Kaari of course is the one who has been bringing us all that deliocious fruit from the rivers-plain,” he spoke.

The other remained grave and still.

Kaari relaxed slightly but let her spear rest. “I was called,” she said quickly. “They told me to return the shard. It’s done now.”

The Taalmaan nodded in unison, their movements eerily synchronized, and the graver one spoke. “You have restored one thread, Kaari of the riverfolk, but the Tapestry is vast, and its wounds are deep.”

She frowned. “What do you mean? I’ve done what was asked. Isn’t that enough?”

The kinder Taalmaan stepped forward, revealing as if out of nowhere, a staff topped with a crystal that flickered like a dying star. “The frayed threads must be found. Each one holds a piece of the story lost during the Breaking. The Mandala will remain incomplete until all are restored.”

The Taalmaan raised the staff, and the crystal flared with light. “You will not walk this path alone,” they said. “Others are bound to the Spiral, just as you are. Seek the Golden Eye, for it sees beyond shadow and time. It will guide you to what you seek, you, Kaari, are one with the Taalman now.”

The crystal’s light grew brighter, and the two Taalmaan stepped back, their forms dissolving into the mist. Kaari blinked, and they were gone. But the warmth of the shard’s memory still pulsed in her chest, and with it came a faint pull — beckoning her to an unspoken direction.

She returned to her skiff, the mangroves now eerily quiet. Pushing into the main channel, she let instinct choose her path, her lantern’s light casting shifting patterns on the dark waters. The stars above pierced the mist, their reflections shimmering on the river’s surface like scattered jewels.

Days passed, she travelled the rivers unfolding course. Days, weeks, seasons.

One night, as she paddled deeper into a yet unexplored path, as the river narrowed, and the trees bent toward her, trees she had never seen before, their branches draped with silver moss that glowed faintly in the lantern’s light, faint whispers filled the air, singing fragments of words she couldn’t quite grasp, but their magical pull drew her in urging her forward, deeper and deeper into the Forest of the Silver Trees.

For how long did she travel, on and on, and on?

But then in the distance, she saw it — a golden glow flickering through the trees.

As the skiff rounded a bend, the source of the glow came into view: a great stone statue, half-submerged in the river, its beautifully carved face, of slender, serene beauty, yet weathered, old and forlorn, an ancient queen, deep in contemplation, had an intricately carved tiara resting on her crown, and it bore a single jewel, that as she approached, suddenly shone with an otherworldly brilliance. Around its base, the water rippled, rising in a glowing mist, as if alive.

Kaari felt the pull intensify, and she knew this was the Golden Eye the Taalmaan had spoken of, but as she approached, new whispers, of darker, dreadful things, grew louder, and from the rippling water, dark shapes began to rise, figures like the Taalmaan but twisted, their forms wreathed in shadow, as the forms of light glimmered out of existence, into the darkening night.

“The Frayed Guard,” something whispered in Kaari’s mind.

The dark beings moved toward her, their forms rippling like smoke. Kaari gripped her oar tightly, her heart pounding.

The Golden Eye pulsed, its light washing over the river. The shadows hesitated, their forms flickering, and Kaari seized the moment, guiding her skiff toward the statue, her lantern held high. If she could reach the Eye, perhaps it would protect her.

As the shadows closed in, their whispers turning into guttural growls, Kaari saiud a silent prayer to any force that might hear her.

“Guide me,” she whispered. “Show me the way.”

The Golden Eye flared, and the world turned to light.

Kaari shielded her eyes as the light from the Golden Eye engulfed the river, brighter than the dawn. The Frayed Guard let out an anguished cry, their shadowy forms unraveling in the glow until they were swept away like smoke in the wind. The river grew still once more, and silence reigned.

When Kaari lowered her hand, the golden light had softened to a gentle pulse. The statue’s single, radiant eye seemed to watch her, and as she stepped closer, the water parted beneath her feet, revealing a stone platform carved with spiraling patterns that mirrored those on the Mandala shard she had returned to the altar.

“You seek the threads that were lost,” the statue’s voice resonated in her mind, speaking in tones that were the rhythm of the river, the rustle of leaves, and the sigh of the wind. “The Tapestry is broken, and the Spiral falters. You seek what is broken.”

Kaari knelt on the platform, “I do not know what to seek. I’m just a riverfolk trader.”

The Golden Eye shimmered, its light casting intricate patterns across the water. “You are more than you believe. The Spiral does not choose lightly. The threads call to those whose stories are intertwined with the fate of the world.”

As the light shifted, Kaari saw visions dancing on the river’s surface — images of distant lands and forgotten places. She saw the jagged peaks of the Ayarpatta mountains, cloaked in mist; the golden spires of Kayanoor rising above the Red Desert; and a vast Mandala etched into the earth, its lines glowing faintly beneath the sands.

“The threads are scattered across the realms,” the statue continued. “Each one holds a fragment of the Mandala’s lost power. You must gather them and return them to the Tapestry. You are Taalman.”

Kaari watched the images, unravelling in her mind, as if an ancient memory was returning to her. “But where do I start? How will I find them?”

The Golden Eye’s light brightened, focusing on a single image — a mountain peak crowned with a crumbling stone fortress. “Begin where the first thread was torn. The ruins of Sha’Wud, the ancient monastery of the Ayarlords, seek it.”

Kaari, or something in her, knew. “Sha’Wud, where the Ayarlords first inscribed the Mandala. Ayarpatta, that was … what broke.”

“Seek the Bearer of the Lantern of Sarnath, the traveler who knows the ways between worlds, the Tathagattta. He will show you the wave.”

The light dimmed, and the water returned to its natural flow. Kaari stood, her hands trembling.

She bowed to the statue.

The Golden Eye shimmered once more before fading into the quiet depths of the river. The platform beneath her feet sank back into the water, leaving only ripples in its wake.

Kaari returned to her skiff, and as she set off upriver, the stars above seemed brighter, their light reflecting on the water like threads of silver in the Great Cosmic Weave.

The Tathagatta, the one who will take us across.

4

The river flowed, the wheel of time turned, one, two, and many cycles, raising and falling, the curtains of the seasons unveiled new paths, unexpected companions, and both stranger and unfamiliar things.

Kaari, no longer the child of the river, pushed her skiff towards a patch of rocky rubble, now far away from the river’s Delta, to the plains, from where the Sindana began its journey, descending into the broken foothills of what legends claimed was the Great Mountain Ayarpatta, but was now, a shattered land of cliffs, ravines and isolation. The night air, however, was clear, and the stars sharper, as if some power here had burned away the lingering mist that shrouded all the other lands. Kaari had travelled many seasons, to follow the river to Sha’Wud, to seek the ruins where the Mandala’s first fracture began. To Seek the Bearer of the Lantern of Sarnath, To Find Him Who Would Take Us Across.

Hours passed as the path she followed narrowed and twisted, the jagged rocks giving way to towering trees. Dawn broke, casting pale light over the dense forest that now surrounded her. The air here was cooler, and the river’s song had a softer, almost mournful quality, far away in the distance. Kaari’s lantern, still burning faintly, illuminated an overgrown path leading from the path’s edge.

The pull in her chest returned, insistent but not overwhelming. She walked up the path, following a trail, deep into the forest, stepping now onto mossy ground, where her boots sunk slightly with each step.

The forest was alive with sounds — rustling leaves, the distant calls of unseen birds — but as Kaari followed the path, the noise began to fade, replaced by an eerie silence. The trees thickened, their branches intertwining to form a canopy so dense it blocked out the sky. And then she saw it: a faint flicker of light ahead, steady and golden, cutting through the gloom, not unlike one she had seen so long ago.

She approached cautiously, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. The light grew stronger, revealing a figure seated on a stone beneath a gnarled tree. The figure was cloaked, its face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Beside them rested a lantern. Its flame burned golden, and the jewelled-panels shone with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and flow like water, casting a shimmering dance of light onto the world around it.

Kaari hesitated, then cleared her throat. “Are you… a Bearer of the Lantern?”

The figure tilted its head, and a soft chuckle broke the silence. “So the Spiral has brought another seeker to the path,” the voice said, in a low, melodic tone that was both amused and weary. “I am Varinak, Keeper of the Lantern of this Place. And who might you be?”

Kaari stepped closer, her unease fading slightly. “I’m Kaari, of the riverfolk. The Golden Eye sent me. It said I’d need your help to find the threads.”

Varinak rose, the lantern casting its dancing patterns across the forest floor. “The threads of the Mandala,” he murmured, as if testing the weight of his words. “A heavy task for one so young, now grown, so old?”

Kaari smiled. She had gimpsed at her reflection in the waters so very often, each time amazed that the riverfolks child still looked back at her from the waters.

The Keeper studied her for a moment, then nodded. “An answer, that is what you seek, Kaari of the riverfolk. To why, to why you. There is no answer. You were not chosen, you made the choice. The Spiral doesn’t call out to destiny, to fate, to prophecy, only to courage.” The Keper lifted the lantern, its light brightening. “The path to Sha’Wud is not an easy one, and your questions will not be the only shadows watching you. But with the Lantern’s light, we may yet find the way.”

“Why are you helping me?” Kaari asked.

Varinak smiled faintly. “Because the Spiral turns for us all.”

With that, Varinak gestured for her to follow. The forest seemed to part before the lantern’s light, revealing a hidden trail that wound upward through the trees. Kaari fell into step beside the Keeper, watching the dance of light onto shadow.

As they walked, passing many ruins, fragments statues and overgrown structures, spoke of the Mandala’s history, Varinak spoke of the Ayarlords and the Breaking, of the threads scattered across the realms, of things Kaari had heard fragments here and there in her wanderings. “Each thread is tied to a fragment of the Mandala’s power,” Varinak explained. “Some secrets are hidden in these ruins, other paths are guarded by forces even the Parees fear to name. And all are connected to the curse, to the Breaking.”

As they approached a statue fragment, a mere pedestal of what must have been a sky-soaring one, Varinak’s expression darkened. “The shadow lingers in the Veil.”

They moved on. Hours later, as the forest thinned and the trees gave way to rocky cliffs, they reached a ridge overlooking a sprawling valley. In the distance, nestled among jagged peaks, the ruins of Sha’Wud loomed, its towers broken but still proud.

Beside her, Varinak raised the Lantern, its light casting a golden beam across the valley. “The Spiral turns, Kaari,” they said softly. “Let’s see if we can still hear the strains of its song.”

And with that, they descended into the valley.

5

The young scholar of Sha’Wud — Tzuren, by birth name, was deeply shaken by his visions. In his meditations, he had glimpsed a fragment straying visions, seeing mountains that stood where rivers had once flowed, oceans swallowing whole forests, and entire cities collapsing into heaps of rubble and dust, as if the fabric of existence itself suddenly unraveled and broke, but then he would contemplate some more, and then he would see his visions reweaving themselves, mountains rising again, forests growing, lush and vibrant with life, new cities, nations and destinies unfolding, in endless variations.

Disturbed by this, Tzuren sought out the Master, who sat, as was usual, in the quiet garden beneath the Great Banyan Tree. The air was still, the scent of jasmine mingling with the soft rustle of leaves, and Master Ji’Wan’s eyes were closed, his breath in perfect rhythm with the wind.

But then, suddenly, his eyes opened and a beaming smile appeared on his face.

“Come, Tzuren, and what is it of which we must speak today?”

Tzuren approached, bowed deeply, and hesitatingly spoke. “Master, in my meditation, I saw a vision of a million worlds. Each one was like our own, but in each, something had shifted. I saw deserts blooming, rivers changing their course, mountains crumbling where once they stood tall. How can this be? How can the world be so many things at once?”

Master, for a moment looked into the distance, his gaze deep and serene, and then it returned and regarded Tzuren for a moment, as if he was weighing his words carefully, to reveal only what of necessity must be said, but then he spoke in a voice that carried the weight of ages.

“The world you see, young one, is but a reflection of One Possibility. What you see in your visions, are but other threads, differently woven into the same fabric. The rivers you know are but one path they may take. The mountains you see are but one way they may rise.”

Tzuren frowned. “But how can all these threads exist at the same time? How can the same world be both desert and rainforest? How can rivers flow both east and west?”

Master smiled faintly. “The Wheel, young Tzuren, is ever-turning. Time itself is a river with countless branches, flowing through the realms of what is, what was, and what might yet be. The Akaal Spiral does not weave a single, fixed pattern, but infinite weavings, why? Who knows, who can tell.”

He gestured to the banyan tree, “Know how the roots of this tree twist and split, young Tzuren. Each branch finds a different path, yet all are part of the same tree. The worlds you saw are like those roots — threads of the same existence, diverging and converging, shaping what is known and unknown.”

Tzuren’s brow furrowed in thought. “So… we walk but one thread, yet many others lie beside us?”

Master nodded. “Yes. And sometimes, in moments of deep insight, we glimpse those neighboring threads. We see the world as it might have been, or as it could become.”

Tzuren sat beside the master, gazing at the roots. “But, Master… what does this mean for us? For our choices?”

Ji’Wan’s expression softened. “It means that every choice you make weaves a new thread. Every word, every breath, has its place in the pattern. Yet, remember this: the Spiral does not judge one thread as better than another. It only turns, endlessly weaving light and shadow. Your task, young one, is to find your thread, and see where it leads.”

The young scholar bowed his head, humbled, still having but only partly understood what was said, but having gained much to contemplate on. “Thank you, Master.”

As the breeze rustled the banyan leaves, Master closed his eyes once more. “Go now, Tzuren. Go, and get me some nice fresh berries, before the other dotards gorge on them all.”

6

That night, in his quiet bedchamber beneath the high eaves of Sha’Wud, Tzuren lay awake, staring at the carved beams above him. His mind turned endlessly, like the wheel of the Akaal Spiral. He thought of Kaari of the Riverfolk, a woman from a world he had never known, yet one who now walked through the corridors of his thoughts.

He had seen her shrouded in the mists, wandering in desert and forest, on mountains and cliffs, searching, and searching for something unknown.

He wondered how he had come to see her so clearly, to almost know her. In his visions, Kaari moved with the grace of water, her skiff cutting through the misty Delta as if she belonged to the river itself. He saw the glow of her lantern, the determined set of her jaw as she braved shadowed paths, her eyes gleaming with wonder, and the slightest hint of fear, ever seeking something that was lost to her.

Why do I see her? he wondered. Why do I see her, of all people, in worlds that are not my own?

The ache in his chest was strange and unfamiliar, a longing for something — or someone — unlike anything he had felt before. And yet, the more he thought of Kaari, the more he felt drawn to her, as if their threads had crossed in some unseen part of the Tapestry.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it swept him into a dream unlike any he had known before.

Tzuren stood on the banks of the Sindana River, but it was not the river of his own world. This Sindana flowed not through the lush valleys he knew, but through Sha’Wud that now lay in ruins. Its once-great towers were crumbled, their stones weathered by time, and the river now wound its way through the broken halls like a snake through a forgotten temple.

And there, in the heart of the ruins, stood Kaari.

She was older than he had first seen her in his visions, her face marked by the passage of time, but her eyes remained as fierce and curious as ever. Her lantern still glowed with that faint golden light, casting shifting patterns on the stones. She knelt by the river’s edge, tracing the spirals carved into the ruins, her expression one of quiet wonder.

Tzuren approached, his footsteps silent on the worn stones. As he drew closer, he heard her whispering to herself, words that carried the cadence of an ancient song:

“Follow the rivers, follow the stars,

Where light and shadow weave.

Through broken halls, the path unwinds,

To the story we must weave.”

Kaari looked up suddenly, her gaze locking onto Tzuren’s. For a moment, time seemed to halt. Her eyes widened, not in fear or surprise, but in recognition.

“You…” she whispered, rising slowly to her feet. “I’ve seen you before. In the river’s reflections. In the light of the Lantern.”

Tzuren’s heart raced. “And I’ve seen you… in dreams. But how can this be? We are from different worlds.”

Kaari stepped closer, her lantern’s light illuminating his face. “Perhaps the Spiral weaves our threads together. Perhaps you are a thread from a world I have never known. Or perhaps we are both dreaming.”

Tzuren laughed softly, the sound echoing through the ruins. “If this is a dream, it is one I never wish to wake from.”

Kaari smiled, a glimmer of warmth breaking through her weariness. “Then walk with me, stranger from another thread. There are stories still to uncover.”

And so they walked through the ruins of Sha’Wud, the river singing its ancient song as it flowed past them. They spoke of their worlds, their journeys, and the mysteries they sought to understand. And though they walked through the shattered halls of the ancient place, they felt as though they were stepping toward something whole — a story that had only just begun.

7.

When Tzuren awoke the next morning, his heart was racing, his soul both heavier and lighter. He could not explain what had passed in his dream, nor did he understand why Kaari seemed so real to him. But he knew one thing with certainty:

Somewhere, in a world just beyond his reach, Kaari walked the path of the Lantern Bearer. And though they were separated by time and space, their threads had crossed in the Weave. Whether in dreams or waking life, he would seek her again.

Thus, Tzuren, the young scholar, found himself caught between two worlds — his own and the dream of Kaari’s. But who’s to say which was more real? The Spiral turns, and in its dance, light and shadow intertwine. Perhaps love, too, weaves across the threads of many worlds.

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