From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 63: Weavers and Warnings

Lucian waited until everyone had crawled into their tents for the evening. By now, the fire had dimmed to gentle orange coals, and his only audience were the tall and imposing trees. They nearly covered the night sky, allowing only the barest of dappled moonlight through.

He sat on a low log at the very edge of the campfire, his Echoheart Grimoire open and the Loom in his lap. Just like the Spinnermaid said, it would expand and contract as he needed it.

And he was surprised at how quickly it adapted to him. Inside its case, the Loom was compact, smooth, and silent. But within was a strong melancholy he understood all too well.

He ran his fingers across its carved surface.

The clasp opened with a soft click.

And in front of his eyes, the Loom slowly unfolded. The spool was no longer midnight black, but a kaleidoscope of bright colors and shades. Stretched across the bone teeth were thread: light-thin, half-visible, and writhing gently as if underwater.

A few shimmered gold, while others remained midnight black. One particular thread pulsed green and blue, like a bruise under moonlight.

Lucian stared and tried to make sense of it all.

Each thread vibrated with emotion, but when he reached toward one, a deluge of images filled his mind. He wasn’t just following one thread, but dozens within a thin line.

He wanted to pull away, but a mysterious force kept his mind from breaking. Instead, he heard a voice say softly, "Focus on someone you want to examine further."

Or else endless moments and feelings would arrive from everyone. Not just his companions. Every person and those in between. As long as they resided in this world, he could sense them.

The sheer volume of the emotions nearly overwhelmed him, but Lucian held fast. He could do this. He could explore grief as he needed.

It didn’t have to control him.

So he started with the simplest thread he knew: himself.

All of a sudden, the barrage of memories slowed, and he only saw his own memories. He knew it was his when he saw some gray areas, like photos that had yet to load.

I gave these up...willingly. For Rosa, and as a Tithe for Alice.

One thread showed the moment he rang the forbidden bell.

Another showed how happy he was after graduating from mortuary science.

He almost stopped at a particularly painful one: Lucian taking his diploma, graduation cap, and gown into the cemetery. His parents had to hear the news as well, after all.

+

But even if he thought about himself, a few unrelated memories still spilled through. Lucian saw a thread of Merry as a child, hiding in a closet. Inside, she quickly ate a cookie, adrenaline surging through her veins.

She had almost swallowed the whole thing when the closet was thrown open and a tall woman Lucian didn’t recognize yelled at her for eating the entire cookie.

A third—sickly pink thread—carried the memory of a boy he didn’t know watching his sister’s funeral through a frost-glass window.

Lucian pulled his hand back, heart racing.

"These aren’t all mine," he whispered.

"Rites are not remembered until they are felt."

The Spinnermaid’s words echoed in his skull.

Even if he focused on himself, it was clear: as a Loomspinner, other people’s memories would always peek through. Not every memory had to be his alone.

He wasn’t responsible for starting grief, after all.

But every thread was looking for a weaver, and he was here to answer. He suddenly understood why the Spinnermaid kept working for so long.

She must have been so excited to finally pass all of this on.

He sat quietly, watching the threads stir.

Eventually, one thread—copper and gray—drifted forward, slower than the others. Heavy with hesitation.

Lucian reached for it.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the Loom accepted his decision. There was a soft hum and as he worked, a pattern started to form.

His hands moved without training. The threads resisted, then yielded—tension, release, tension again.

The thread began to reveal itself.

He saw—

A corridor of white.

Himself, breathing hard, injured. Blood trailing behind him in uneven streaks.

A man stepped forward. He was tall, wearing a traveling cloak underneath blackplate armor. When he wasn’t armored, he wore a Victorian coat.

But what really shocked him was the mask.

Indents for eyes and no mouth.

The Loom gave him a name: Gabriel.

He kept watching, fear and curiosity both drowning his heart.

Within this memory, Lucian struck with glyphs—but they unraveled in mid-air.

The man didn’t speak. He simply moved. And he, unlike Elian, was precise.

Unstoppable.

Lucian fell.

He dropped the thread.

The Loom snapped closed.

The vision evaporated—but not the dread.

He gasped and clutched the wooden frame to his chest. His heart thudded like a second pulse.

That hadn’t been a memory.

That had been a glimpse into the future.

So I don’t only see past memories...I can also see the present and the future. It’s like the old belief...mother, maiden, crone? Yeah. That. But it’s only one future. I can still stop it, can’t I?

"Or worse," Lucian mumbled. "I just delay the inevitable."

He turned toward the fire and stoked its dying embers.

+

Cadrel stirred in his sleep, murmuring a prayer half-spoken. Alice had curled into her scarf like a cocoon, fingers twitching as though tracing glyphs in dreams.

Merry lay perfectly still.

Only the Loom hummed.

Lucian re-clasped it, stood, and took a shaky breath.

If the Spinnermaid had given him prophecy—why now?

And if that vision was truth... why did it feel so familiar?

+

Miles away, on the border of the Redwood Threadline, Gabriel paused.

He knelt by the snow, touching a bootprint still warm.

He did not scry.

He did not guess.

He knew.

The Code did not falter.

And neither did he.

Without a word, he stood and continued walking, and behind the mask, whispered a name:

"You will be found, Lucian Bowcott."