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Adeline shrugged. “She’s stubborn. I’m just here to make sure she doesn’t get struck by magical lightning.”
“Unlikely,” Ysella murmured, “but not impossible.”
A ripple of amusement passed through the small group. It surprised me—this undercurrent of quiet affection, even between the brutality. There was something sisterly in the way they all moved. Like a coven. Like a family that had burned and reformed and kept burning.
They led us to a glade behind some ruins, where mats had been laid in a circle, candles flickering at the edges. Moss carpeted the clearing like velvet. The air seemed different here. Thicker. Stitched with magic.
“This place is hallowed,” Syra said. “Old threads still cling to it. Not enough to hide us forever, but enough to begin.”
Ysella gestured to one of the mats. “Sit, Lily.”
I did, my knees bending with more reverence than I expected. The others settled around me—Marigold, Syra, Ysella, and two others I hadn’t met. I couldn’t help but notice Lorien’s absence. Adeline lingered near a tree, arms crossed but watching.
Ysella’s eyes met mine. “Tell me, what do you know of your lineage?”
I hesitated. “Not much. My grandmother never spoke of it. Just stories.”
“Not stories,” Syra corrected. “Survivals.”
Ysella’s fingers lifted, brushing the air. Suddenly, threads shimmered into view. Trailing between her hands like light caught in water.
“The Weave remembers everything,” she said. “But your family was buried. Hidden so well, even the threads forgot how to find them.”
Syra stepped forward. “Elowen didn’t just disappear. She severed your line intentionally—to protect you.”
“To protect me?” I blinked. “You think I’m her descendant?”
“No, not her descendant. That's what's strange.” Ysella's brow furrowed. “You're not connected to her bloodline at all. But your power—it rivals hers. Perhaps even surpasses it. You're the first Weaver born with this much raw strength since Elowen herself.”
Silence fell. Even the leaves held their breath.
“You carry more than threads, Lily,” Syra added. “You carry a key.”
My stomach turned. “A key to what?”
“To restoration,” Ysella answered. “Or ruin. That choice has not yet been made.”
Marigold sat down beside me, her presence warm. “You saw it, didn’t you?” she asked. “What happened to Lorien?”
I nodded throat tight. “I saw him. The Unraveler.”
The clearing stilled. Threads shimmered faintly in the air, like the Weave itself remembered.
“I watched her be taken,” I whispered. “And I ran.”
Syra didn’t speak. Ysella only said, “Good.”
I blinked. “Good?”
“You survived,” Syra said. “You don’t understand what it means yet—but you will. Soon.”
Ysella’s voice softened. “The Unraveled leave no legacy, Lily. No body. No memory. Not even grief.”
“Then why do some people still remember?” I asked. “Adeline remembers her friend.”
“Because some threads are stubborn,” Syra said. “Tied in ways even the Unraveling cannot fully sever.”
“It’s like a scar,” Marigold added. “Even after it fades, the skin remembers.”
