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I just listened, letting her fill the quiet spaces in my mind.

She reminded me of my little sister.

Maybe it was the stubbornness. Or the way she smiled as if the world had never given her a reason not to. The ache of it caught me off guard—how much I missed home, missed them, missed everything I might never see again.

“Are you even listening?” she huffed, turning on her heel to glare up at me, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

“Absolutely not.”

She gasped, scandalized. “Rude!”

I smirked, but before I could tease her further, she grabbed my hand, dragging me along.

“Come on, slowpoke,” she said. “We’re late.”

We weren’t, but I let her pull me anyway.

Because when Marigold held my hand, the world didn’t feel quite as terrifying.

And for now, that was enough.

The Weavers were outside the cave that morning, scattered through the clearing. Threads shimmered between their fingers, catching sunlight like spun glass. A fire crackled at the center, smoke curling with the scents of angelica, and woodruff.

I froze when a woman knelt in the grass and golden filaments spilled from her hands into her sparring partner’s arm. At first the glow stitched a shallow cut, skin sealing smooth. Then the filaments tightened. The other woman’s fingers went slack, her blade tumbling into the dirt. I flinched, my stomach lurching. The Mender only gave a curt nod, releasing the thread so the arm sprang back to life. Healing or crippling—same motion, same hand.

Across the fire, Syra raised her chin and suddenly five of her stood there, every copy smirking in unison. One of the younger Weavers yelped and swung at the wrong one, stumbling straight through empty air. The illusions vanished in a blink, Syra’s sharp laugh slicing through the clearing.

“Pathetic. A Hunter would gut you before you even blinked.”

Ysella sighed and plucked a sprig of herb from her braid, tossing it at her sister’s chest. “Have some nettle tea before you terrify the girls.”

“Better they panic here than later,” Syra retorted, though she brewed the leaves anyway.

Then Ysella pressed her palms together. Threads unfurled from her fingers, golden and alive, until the air opened. For a heartbeat, I saw the far side of the clearing through the seam—firelight doubled, trees doubled, reality folded like fabric. Then the weave snapped shut. Ysella’s face had gone pale, but she only smiled as though tearing a hole in the world was nothing at all.

I swallowed hard. These weren’t kindly healers or harmless fortune-tellers. They were warriors, bound by a magic I barely understood.

Marigold released my hand and skipped ahead—yet the instant her warmth left my skin, a phantom thread twitched at my wrist, tug-tug, reminding me: Learn to use your powers or you will never save them.

I stepped into the clearing, brushing a stray branch from my sleeve.

“Late again,” Syra drawled, not even glancing up from the spindle in her lap. “At this point we ought to change the lesson schedule to match your sense of time.”

“She only does it to keep you humble,” Ysella said, plucking a daisy from the grass and tucking it into her braid. “Imagine Syra, left unchecked. She’d have us all marching by the bells.”

I crossed my arms, grinning despite myself. “I’m beginning to think you enjoy ganging up on me.”

“Nonsense,” Ysella replied sweetly. “We’re simply. . . guiding you.”

“Guiding her straight into bad habits,” Syra muttered. “Next, she’ll expect tea breaks every quarter hour.”

“And why would we need that?” Ysella teased, handing Syra a steaming mug. “You drink enough for three.”

Syra accepted it with a huff, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the faintest smile. “I tolerate you both. That should be thanks enough.”

Ysella hummed. “Come.”

The first time, the threads had been fleeting—like reaching for smoke, slipping through my fingers before I could hold on. But now, after days of practice, they came faster. Clearer.