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Violence flashes across Atticus’ face, tinging the gaunt, ashen flesh a blotchy red. His voice quavers with anger at my defiance. “As I say, so⁠—”

His words cut off. His jaw goes lax, his eyes widening before his pupils expand. Like a puppet on a string, his whole body jerks before his tall frame crumples like someone sliced through those strands holding him up.

The thump of his body hitting the floor echoes through the hall.

No one speaks. No one says a thing. My eyes are wide, and I pant behind the muzzle.

Luciana recovers first and hurries forward, gathering her skirts in her claws. The red silk flows around her when she kneels beside her lover, the train slipping down the steps like blood flowing down a river. She cups his face towards her, one hand on his chest. With a shriek, she flinches back, sprawling upon the stone and dragging herself away towards her son. “He’s dead!”

The Order gasps, the Guild shuffling back. Luciana stumbles, tripping over her own silk skirt before managing to get to her feet. Her eyes are blazing, her voice pitched high as she grasps Alasdair’s arm. “The Archweaver is dead!”

All the air sucks from the room, and I can barely feel the sting of the iron. Luciana’s proclamation rings over and over in my ears as my mind cycles through the sudden fall of the most powerful weaver alive. My eyes flit around the room, half expecting to see Emilia grinning in victory, but there’s nothing but weavers who are as shocked as I am and magicians shifting uncomfortably. I turn to Lucas, whose slack-jawed stare connects with mine as if I can give him the answers.

A bubbling laughter fills the room, becoming more manic and wilder the longer it goes. I turn back to the dais, feeling oddly light and prickly as I face the creature the Heir has become. I swallow in the face of this new, yawning horror that consumes my mind.

Surely, someone can see what I see. A weaver of power and principles must feel this terrifying shift. But no one moves. They all just stare at Alasdair as he laughs and laughs, his arm breaking free of his mother’s clutches to grip the throne for support.

He wipes his eyes as he tries to get his mirth under control. “I’ll give you this, sister. I did not see that coming.” One arm releases the throne to clutch his stomach while he heaves in breath. “Oh, this is too good. I was so sure you’d hear their cries of agony and return to me, but I should’ve known! You’d never make our game so dull and predictable. Such a masterful move, but, in the end, so shortsighted. You see, you’ve handed me a gift.” His eyes gleam. “Now things are going to really become fun.”

My hands shift, the iron shackles clacking, but it’s no use. The iron is too tight to slip. Alasdair’s manic gaze falls to me, and I clench my fist to keep still.

He raises his voice, power cracking like a whip. “Astrum Order! Prepare for the Ascension! A new Archweaver rises today.”

CHAPTER 25

THE TAPESTRY OF MAGIC, THE WEAVE.

A FEW HOURS EARLIER…

ASTORIA

The Tapestry of Magic appeared first as one of the many stars that grew larger and larger, the silver hue shifting to a spectrum of colors that resembled the aura surrounding the Archweaver and Heir. The reflective surface below Jinx flickers with little tendrils weaving forth, growing more numerous until Jinx slows to a soundless crawl.

My head throbs, my eyes aching, as I fight to adjust to the bright glow before us. I don’t dare say a word. Jinx warned me plenty of the horrors of this place. I’d live a long, happy life never meeting a soul devourer ever again.

The energy washes over me, my skin prickling like thousands of needles dance along it, crawling into my ears, under my eyelids, into my mouth and nose. I bow over Jinx, using my hands to cover as much of my face as I can, and Jinx’s mane shifts until only the crown of my head is above her silken fur. The needles ebb until they cease completely.

I pant, trembling from the lingering discomfort. I wiggle against the fur, and each stroke soothes the haunting pricks until I am sure it is all over. Then I sit up and gasp.

The Tapestry is aptly named. Black, gold, blue, and green threads weave tightly together to form a glowing fabric that stretches out towards the cosmos in a seemingly endless path. Jinx pauses before the tightly interlaced Soul Threads, a mighty paw raised and poised to step forward.

Slowly, she scans the bright horizon of the Tapestry, her ears pricked straight up. I do the same, though my senses are nearly useless in this world. The air tingles with the thick scent of magic, and the bright light from the threads threatens to blind me.

Jinx’s paw touches the edge of the Tapestry, and she waits. I keep myself low down, breathing as quietly as I can. Then she walks forward silently, and we enter the Tapestry of Magic.

We travel for hours until I can no longer see the mirrored surface of the Weave. The stars are bright above, the falling ones still arcing past with their trailing clouds. And the Tapestry goes on and on, with only the hum of magic to accompany it.

Then I blink, and the Tapestry changes. I hold my gasp as I whip around. No longer a smooth woven, glowing cloth, frayed threads wave from the pattern like seaweed. First a few, then in the thousands. Jinx pads along them, her feet sinking into the multicolored strands.

I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “What is this?”

“War cut these threads,” Jinx whispers low, her body flinching and her fur twitching.

My eyes widen. This is when the Revolution happened. So many weavers died in that war. So many lost souls improperly put to rest, all of them unable to return to the Tapestry. Then there were Soul Threads lost to magic tokens. The frayed tips haunt me, a chill shivering up my form. Like someone took a razor’s edge and sawed at it. I want to slide off Jinx to smooth the ends and walk along them to see what secrets they hold like my high priest ancestors.

But that will have to wait.

Finally, the waving threads lessen until the Tapestry is once again a fabric. But it’s so much more than that. Each interwoven thread is spun with another, making each cross-section plump with glowing power. My lips part. There used to be so many of us before war brutally cut us down.