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Spirit sank into her skin, erasing the pain, while Water cleared the wound and knit her skin back together. A brief image of Orzen, arms haloed in blue flame, flashed before her eyes. Seeing his pain again sent a ache through her.

Wren had never been healed by Spirit before. The experience of feeling what it might be like for those she touched with her own weaving was oddly comforting, even as it brought forth the memory of pain.

“There,” Velhya said. “One burden you need not carry.”

Wren turned her palm, marveling at the completeness of the heal. “You’re a Tokener.” She’d never met such a powerful one before.

“Indeed,” Velhya said, returning the charms to her belt. “I am honored to touch so many threads of the loom.” She held Wren’s newly healed hands within her own. Leaning forward, she said, “Weaving is a blessing—yes, my child, even Spirit—and it must not be taken lightly. If you draw too much, if you pull too hard, you may burn yourself out and take others with you in the destruction.”

She reached beneath her collar and drew out a small charm on a chain—a full moon shaped in silver marked by two halves. Flowers bloomed on one side; shadowed vines curled up the other.

“Nalduun teaches that we all bear both halves of the Cycle within ourselves,” Velhya said softly. “Light and dark. Growth and decay. Fear and courage. They war for balance within us. We struggle, and the whole of Naldoreth struggles beside us.”

She closed her fingers around the charm. “All who listen closely feel the Cycle’s pull sooner or later. We must not fear the call, but neither must we believe we are responsible for it alone.” She patted Wren’s hand with soft, warm fingers. “Strength comes from knowing that such thinking is a kind of pride. We walk paths that lead us to ends we do not fully comprehend, but we are not meant to walk them alone.”

Wren considered her words. Velhya was right. She needed to share her burdens with others. It might not solve everything, but the weight might ease a little. That alone was worth telling Velhya all they’d been through.

Wren started from the beginning—Theordrin’s threats, the festival night, the Witherborn attacking. Losing Tavrin. Waking in the forest with the bone-deep certainty that returning home was more dangerous than pressing deeper into the unknown. The certainty that she’d been called toward something greater, and coming here was an answer to that.

“Thistlehold was overrun with Witherborn…but they didn’t follow us,” Wren said softly. “I should’ve seen it as strange, but I was so relieved I overlooked it. Was he keeping them away from us for some reason?”

Velhya nodded slowly. “This man you call Silas, he was Rootflesh. The god you know of as the Rotfather…Voryx…they are his chosen among the Witherborn.”

Velhya’s lashes lowered, as if detecting an echo only she could hear. “Few Rootflesh have ever been created successfully, but once they are reborn, it is nearly impossible to sense their true nature. The Witherborn revere them as holy messengers. They would not have risked approaching while one walked among you.”

The image from Orzen’s chokevine memory rose in Wren’s mind. Silas’s true form—a twisted body of bark and sinew, skin stretched too tight over a frame that should not have survived. A mockery of flesh and forest both. He’d become something worse, something far more dangerous than even the Witherborn, who themselves had lost all humanity in service of Voryx.

“Not all who honor decay become monsters.” Velhya’s gaze darkened. “But the Rootflesh, the Witherborn here that stalk his prison, they do not serve the Cycle in truth. They serve Voryx’s wound. His desire to escape his bonds.”

“So it’s true.” Wren shuddered and hugged her arms across her chest. “Silas really is trying to release Voryx? But surely you don’t think he can?”

“It is for this reason I have called you.” Velhya’s voice was soft but solid as steel. “While Voryx’s prison weakens, the Cycle teeters out of balance. How much do you know of the old tale?”

The words hung between them, freezing the air. The Rotfather, the Mother of Blossoms…Voryx and Elaren managing the Cycle. They’d maintained balance until Voryx rebelled. It’d felt like myth, but she knew it held some truth. Wren told her what she knew, but it felt incomplete.

“The Warden’s seal can’t be breaking,” Wren said, desperation threading through her words. “The Dawnblades…the sacrifice…it protected the seal for generations. That’s what we’ve been taught. Surely Elaren wouldn’t allow the seal to fail now.”

“There is much you do not know, and no time to teach it all.” Her expression was full of sorrow. “Has Thistlehold truly forgotten the Ashweavers?”

Wren pulled back, drawing her hands into her lap.

“Ash Weaver?” The words ached like pressure against an old bruise. She shook her head hard, voice thin and weary. “I’ve been called that…but it’s an insult. Something they whisper about Spirit Weavers when they think we can’t hear.”

“Oh, my child. It is no insult.” Velhya’s expression softened with grief so deep it might have always been a part of her. “They have twisted it beyond its meaning out of fear. Nothing more.”

“All were welcome under Nalduun’s banner, all who tended endings as carefully as beginnings,” Velhya said, touching the pool with one finger. The surface rippled—not with force, but with resonance—casting faint impressions, shadows of figures from many peoples: humans, halflings, Arboradin, even giantfolk like Wendall.

“Ashweavers were her disciples.” Velhya’s voice lowered with respect and certainty—the quiet conviction of someone repeating history she’d carried her entire life. “The Ashweavers fought to contain him with aid from the Dawnblades. Your Warden was the last of them. History simply remembered the shining armor more clearly than the quiet strength of the Ashweavers.”

The liquid darkened, silver threads curling into shadows.

“Voryx was reckless—not monstrous, merely out of balance,” Velhya continued. “He needed to be calmed—guided back into his place in the Cycle—but he wasn’t ready. The Dawnblades sought Voryx’s total destruction. The Ashweavers sought balance. They knew that eliminating him would throw the Cycle into chaos.”

“But Voryx was violent,” Wren said. Her head felt like it was full of bees, buzzing so loudly she couldn’t piece it all together. “That’s what the stories said. Thousands died in the Breaking, over jealousy…he was like a child striking others when they get hurt.”

“I do not excuse his choices. I only seek to guide you toward the truth.” Velhya’s words were firm. “The Ashweavers understood what the Dawnblades feared to admit—that Voryx is a necessary part of the Cycle. Binding him was never meant to be a victory,” Velhya said softly. “It simply bought us time—time for the Cycle to endure until another path could be found.”

It was no surprise the Ashweavers had been erased. The victors spread the tale and made themselves the saviors, but Wren was learning that nothing was ever so simple.