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They were everywhere.

I no longer had to reach blindly. The moment I focused, the threads were there, shifting, alive beneath my fingertips. They thrummed with an energy I still didn’t fully understand, but I was beginning to sense them—not just their presence, but their patterns. Some were taut, wound tight like a drawn bowstring. Others were loose, gently swaying, waiting to be guided.

I curled my fingers around one, steadying my breath.

It pulsed against my palm—warm, vibrating with potential. The first few times I had done this, the threads had been unpredictable, slipping away the second I pulled too hard or lost my focus.

Now, they responded.

Obeyed.

A flick of my wrist, a gentle nudge⁠—

The leaves above rustled as if caught in a sudden breeze. The fire at the center of the camp flared higher for a breath, then settled. A ripple in the world, small but undeniable.

Marigold let out a delighted gasp. “You moved it!”

I exhaled sharply, my grip tightening. “I—” I blinked, my pulse hammering. “I did.”

“Again!” Marigold urged, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

I swallowed, refocusing. Another thread, this one thinner, lighter. A different kind of pull⁠—

A whisper of air curled around my skin, brushing through Marigold’s curls. Her laughter rang through the clearing. “You felt that, right?”

“You’re improving,” Ysella murmured, watching me carefully. “Faster than I expected.”

I looked at her, breathless. “Is that. . . good?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied me, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. “We’ll see.”

I breathed in and let out a slow, controlled breath, rubbing my hands against my skirts before reaching out again.

This time, I wasn’t just grasping a thread. I was going to try something harder—stitching one.

Ysella had explained it two days ago, but I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. Weavers didn’t just move threads; some mended them, threading the frayed edges of the world back together. Small things at first—tears in fabric, broken wooden handles, minor wounds. But trained Weavers could do so much more.

Could I do more?

I rolled my shoulders back, inhaling deeply. The Weave responded instantly, flickering to life before me. I focused, searching for something small—something manageable.

I found a single strand—two golden filaments already twining like ivy, yet fraying at the tips like burnt silk.

Steady. I coaxed the loose ends together, breathing my will into the weave. For a heartbeat they glimmered whole. Then the bond recoiled and snapped. White pain lanced behind my eyes.

Marigold caught my arm before I could stumble. “That was so close!” she practically shouted, her small fingers gripping me tightly.

“I—” I clenched my jaw, swallowing against the throbbing in my temples. “I almost had it.”

Ysella knelt beside me, her expression unreadable. “You did more than I expected,” she admitted. “But you pulled too hard. You need to let the thread want to mend itself. Not force it.”

I wiped my damp palms on my skirts, nodding slowly.

Marigold’s grip on my sleeve tightened. “But you still did it,” she insisted, beaming up at me. “You made it move! No one gets it on the first try.”

I let out a slow, shaky breath, meeting her bright, eager gaze.

It wasn’t perfect.