Page 58

And then I saw them—the Weavers.

They wore gowns of white linen, loose and flowing, stitched with faint golden thread that caught the light. Some stood alone, fingers raised as glowing strands shimmered between them. Others sat in quiet clusters, hands pressed together or hovering above the threads, eyes closed as if listening to something only they could hear. One woman brushed another’s shoulder, and a golden filament pulsed between them before fading.

They moved like spirits—silent, watchful, untethered from ordinary breath and motion. Their hair fell in loose braids or wild curls, woven with sprigs of herbs and flowers. No two were alike, yet all carried the same sense of being rooted in something far older than the soil itself.

A hush spread through the chamber, and from the far end, two older women emerged.

Twins.

One had silver-streaked hair wound into a tight braid, her features sharp as chiseled marble. The other let her curls fall wild around her face, her eyes warm but unblinking. They moved in near-perfect synchronicity, as though they had been dancing to the same rhythm for centuries.

The braided one stopped first, arms folded, her expression unimpressed. “Well,” she said, voice dry as old parchment and twice as sharp. “So, this is the girl causing all the fuss.”

The two studied me like tailors judging torn cloth.

“She’s younger than I expected,” the curly-haired one murmured, stepping closer. “Though I suppose they always are.”

“She looks half-finished,” the first added. “Thread’s a mess.”

“Syra,” her sister chided.

“What? I’m not wrong.” Syra squinted at me like I was a crooked painting. “She’s knotted up like an old spindle left out in the rain.”

I opened my mouth, unsure if I should be offended or afraid.

The softer twin stepped in smoothly. “Don’t mind her,” she said, with a smile warm as honey. “She hasn’t had her tea yet.”

“Because someone forgot to bring the nettle leaves,” Syra shot back.

Without missing a beat, Syra’s twin reached up and plucked a sprig of something green from her own braid, handing it to her sister as if this solved everything. “Here. Fresh.”

Syra stared at it, scandalized. “That’s not nettle. That’s sage.”

“Sage is grounding,” she said sweetly. “You could use some.”

“I could use a sister who doesn’t serve pantry sweepings as medicine.”

“Better than a sister who sets herbs on fire for sport.”

“They were cursed.”

“They were dry.”

“Dry and cursed,” Syra said stubbornly, tucking the sage behind her ear anyway.

The curly-haired one only rolled her eyes and turned back to me, as if this was all perfectly normal. “I’m Ysella, and that’s my sister Syra. We run the Weave here. Or what’s left of it. You needn't be scared.”

Syra sniffed. “If she’s going to survive this, she’d better get used to being scared.”

“I’m not scared,” I said, though my voice betrayed me with the slightest tremor.

Ysella’s smile softened, never mocking. “Of course you are, darling. You’ve just learned how to wear it well.”

I swallowed hard. “What do you want from me?”

Syra’s amusement faded. She stepped closer. “Someone tried to sever you from your thread.”

“Not just hide it,” her sister added quietly. “Cut it clean. Like snipping the roots off a flower and expecting it to bloom. Her eyes met mine with something like pity. “You're a Weaver, Lily. But you cannot reach your magic. Can you?”