The Last Gurus of Kireval (Part II: The Thread Beneath the World)

Months passed after Soralen’s disappearance. Dr. Ellison Virell remained in Kireval, no longer as a guest or observer, but something closer to a student — though no one said it aloud. He took part in the tending of the moonroots, learned the songs that softened water from stone, and sat in the long circles of night-time silence.

And yet — a question gnawed at him.

He had seen things he could not explain: birds landing in precise formation around a speaking child, sap flowing uphill, stones that pulsed with low light when held by certain hands. He told himself these were tricks of perception, coincidences. But the question burned behind his thoughts:

Did the gurus possess real spiritual power? Or was it only myth, internalized so deeply it reshaped reality?

It was during the Night of Driftleaf — when the trees shed their star-shaped leaves that floated for days before touching ground — that he finally asked. He and three of the remaining gurus sat by a low circular pool. The moon did not show that night, but the sky glowed with scattered cloud-fire, a phenomenon Ellison never understood and never dared to name.

He turned to Maela, a woman older than memory, whose eyes seemed to watch from a vantage beyond time. “You’ve told me much of the patterns,” he said, “of listening and silence, of growth and balance. But I must ask — do you possess power? Not just wisdom, but the kind that shapes the world?”

She did not respond immediately. Nor did the others — Tervin, the dream-speaker with the cracked voice, or Oras, who carved maps that showed feelings instead of geography.

Finally, Maela asked softly, “What would it mean to you, if we said yes?”

Ellison hesitated. “I… I suppose it would change everything. My understanding of the possible. Of science, of mind, of… the world itself.”

Maela nodded slowly. “Then we will show you something.”

Tervin closed his eyes. “But you must agree: once you see, you cannot unsee. The thread once noticed cannot be forgotten.”

Oras placed his hand on the ground. “And once felt, the thread will pull you.”

Ellison, trembling slightly, nodded. “I’m ready.”

They led him deep into the glade beneath the Echoing Trees — a place even he had not been permitted before. The trees here were vast and hollow, not by decay, but by design. Within each trunk was a spiral stair made of living root. They entered the central one, and climbed.

The interior was filled with sound — not noise, but presence. A quiet hum, layered with a resonance that Ellison felt in his bones. He touched the wall. The wood was warm, pulsing slightly.

They came to a chamber — perfectly round, carved by hands long forgotten. At its center was a pool, black as void, but glimmering with threads of silver light that moved like ink in water. It did not reflect them, only the stars above — even though the canopy should have blocked the sky.

“This is the Vire Thread,” Maela said. “The place where thought touches form.”

Tervin knelt by it. “Each guru, before becoming what we are, must enter this pool. Not just bodily, but wholly — mind, memory, breath. It shows you the world beneath the world.”

Ellison stared, entranced. “Is it… conscious?”

Oras smiled gently. “It is aware.”

Maela stepped forward. “Place your hand in the Thread, Ellison. Ask no question. Do not search. Simply feel.”

He crouched beside the pool. His hand hovered above the surface. The air around it buzzed, as though a storm were gathering inside his skin. Then he touched it.

At once, the world fell away.

He was no longer in the chamber. He was standing in a field of light, with threads running through the sky and ground like an endless loom. He saw Soralen, standing miles away yet somehow inches from him. He saw his own life spread like a tapestry: his childhood, his loneliness, the cold lecture halls, his longing for something real. He saw how every moment had braided him toward this point.

He saw — or rather felt — that nothing in the world was truly separate.

The stars were not distant. They were seeds.

And the gurus were not just keepers of silence. They were weavers.

When he returned, gasping, drenched in quiet, Maela was still there. Watching.

“You asked if we had power,” she said. “Now you understand: we are the power, just as you are. But most forget. We remembered.”

Ellison wept, not from sorrow, but from a pressure relieved.

“How—” he began, then stopped. Words felt too heavy.

Maela knelt beside him. “You saw only a glimpse. Tomorrow, we will show you how we do it. How the thread moves when shaped with will and presence.”

Oras added softly, “And if you choose, we will begin to teach you how to do it, too.”

The tree around them hummed louder, responding to the moment.

Outside, the Driftleaves still hadn’t touched the ground.