The newborn star—our third sun, some were beginning to call it—blazed in the night sky for six full evenings before daring to wink. It happened just after the bells of seventh hour, while I stood on Nightspire's western parapet watching Calia transplant the root‑iron–lilac seedling we'd retrieved from the Loom of Aion. One moment the star glittered like a diamond threaded into black cloth; the next it flashed once, then twice, like a heartbeat conspiring with itself.
A breeze rose from the sulfur‑scented gorge, carrying a hush over the palace yards. Servants paused mid‑stride, hands half‑raised; forge hammers slowed; even lava rivers seemed to hush their boil, as though the world tilted ear to sky.
I drew a breath that felt too shallow. The air tasted of flint and violet honey—an omen flavor, neither wholly sweet nor sharp. "See that?" I called to Calia below.
She looked up, cheeks flushed with exertion. "The star blinked. Twice."
"Which means," came the Blind Archivist's voice behind me, "that it's listening."
I turned. He leaned on his cane, eyelids fluttering behind silk, his smile equal parts pride and concern. "The Loom re‑weaves new threads," he said. "Every flash: a query to those who birthed that thread—namely, you and the emperor."
"We should answer," I murmured.
Ravan arrived a heartbeat after—silver circlet reflecting orange lava glow. "I felt the star's pulse. The mirror‑tree trunk chimed once for each blink." He pressed two fingers to the pulse scar on his shoulder; it glowed faint jade, a silent telegram.
He and I had grown accustomed to such summonses. When realms speak, we listen.
That night we gathered on the roof garden half‑finished but thriving: lilac bushes perfumed moonlit air, glass‑vine coiled delicate tendrils around basalt rail, and the seedling—its crystalline stem limned with faint teal—shivered each time the new star winked. Vael perched on a gargoyle above, wings folded; Brina Ash‑Mark attended via ripple‑mirror set into a flower bed; custodian Lys Antherion floated just beyond the parapet, cloak casting tiny solar flares.
The Archivist placed the spool of dawn‑thread––our gift from the Loom––on a low obsidian table. The thread glinted like dawn trapped in gossamer. "We must speak through the thread," he advised. "Weave a symbol that answers the star's question."
"What question?" Calia asked, settling on a footstool and gripping her ledger.
Ravan brushed knuckles across the spool. "I believe it asks: Will you protect what you have made? The blink counts courage."
I summoned soul‑fire into my fingertips: emerald sparks dancing above skin. "Let's embroider an answer loud enough to quiet worry."
Hours later, a makeshift loom—smaller echo of Aion's colossal frame—stood between two lilac trees. Custodian Lys provided crystalline threads of starlight; Calia contributed midnight‑blue wool spun from Tenebris dream‑goats; Vael fetched golden filament from Dawnroot's freshly harvested gray‑grain husks. My task: guide the spool's dawn‑thread through warp of these offerings, weaving sigil of promise. Each pass thrummed like harp string; colors kissed, merged into tapestry that rippled as though alive.
Ravan anchored the frame, shadow entwining the shuttle, lending rhythm. "Speak your vow into the weave," he instructed. "Let the fabric remember."
I inhaled memories: scaffold fear traded for thread, Glen humming lullabies, mirror‑tree's warning bloom, Calia's courage, Vael's unbroken wing, Brina's repentant soldiers. I poured those recollections—shards of pain and triumph—into spool's path. The dawn‑thread drank them greedily, flushing deeper rose‑gold.
At the final pass, a design emerged: three concentric circles. The innermost bore twin leaves—lilac and star‑blossom. The middle ring shimmered silver, etched with looping script of my predecessor queen's dialect and Ravan's demon sigils. The outermost glowed jade like soul‑fire. It felt whole, balanced.
The new star blinked thrice, flashing onto tapestry then receding.
Lys stepped forward, placing stardust palms on fabric. "Answer accepted," they intoned. "But payment remains."
I stiffened. Always price. "What does the star require?"
"A thread of future," Lys said. Starlight eyes met mine. "A promise not yet forged."
Calia opened her ledger to a fresh page, quill poised. "We name… the Academy of Threads," she blurted, surprising even herself. "A place where mortal farmers, demon smiths, custodians, and mirror spirits share craft—so tapestry never tears again."
Ravan's silver eyes warmed. "And we promise to build it."
The star above winked once—approval—and resumed steady shine. The custodians vanished in a swirl of aurora dust, leaving spool dim but satisfied.
We should have celebrated—but dawn had other plans. At breakfast, a messenger hawk delivered a gilded scroll bearing the sigil of the Seven‑Fold Consortium—an alliance of far‑western merchant princes who'd thus far remained neutral. The letter, addressed jointly to Emperor Ravan and Empress Leora, read:
We request immediate audience at Dawnroot Glen to negotiate exclusive rights to harvest and export "dawn‑thread" fiber. In exchange, Consortium will supply grain, glass, and one thousand artisans to erect an academy according to your specifications.We travel now, arriving under next double sunset.Signed, Chancellor Neril Zha, Seven‑Fold Consortium.
Calia snorted. "Quick to smell opportunity, those princes."
"Or to seize control," Vael muttered.
Ravan tapped scroll against his palm. "We could use artisans."
I nodded. "We could also lose the loom to greed if we're not careful."
Brina's voice rose from mirror shard on table. "Consortium financed Ashvale's warlords years ago. I trust them little. But Glen's guardianship requires economic roots."
Balance again. Always.
We planned reception at Glen. Ravan insisted on low arms but firm boundaries. I prepared small pouches of dawn‑thread, a token gift—bait and warning.
Two days later, Glen welcomed the Consortium entourage: twenty lacquered wagons bearing trident flags, jewel‑studded horses, and a palanquin carved from whitewood. Chancellor Neril emerged clad head‑to‑toe in mirrored silk, face painted with silver chevrons.
He bowed, the gesture perfect, but eyes scanned field like scales tallying profit. "Your majesties," he purred. "A marvel you've woven—one we would share with the world."
I motioned him to central circle near mirror‑tree. "Share implies mutual benefit."
"Indeed," he said, producing parchment heavier than some shields. "Our proposal includes revenue splits, export tariffs at both realm gates, academy funding, and a contingency clause for risk."
I skimmed lines—numbers danced like shimmering snakes. "Risk of what?"
"Star‑thread volatility," Neril explained smoothly. "Rumors swirl: if improperly harvested, thread may shred soul‑lines. We insure against that."
His gaze flicked to custodians perched overhead. They watched but did not intervene. I realized they would not shield us from politics.
Ravan read his own copy, lips thin. "Consortium demands exclusive rights for fifteen years."
"A blink to star‑iron traders," Neril said, spreading hands.
Vael bristled. "You funded weapons that razed these farms."
"Business adapts," Neril replied.
Calia stepped forward, ledger in hand. "Show us hazard data," she challenged. "What tests proved soul‑line risk?"
Neril's smile slipped. "Our seers—prophets of the Sixth Fold—viewed tears in reality where dawn‑thread flowed unchecked."
"Impossible," I said. "Thread stabilizes tears."
"Unless handled by untrained hands," he countered. "Hence exclusive stewardship."
Ravan raised brow. "So Consortium alone holds training secrets?"
Neril hesitated—too long. Lie exposed.
I crossed arms. "The thread you truly want is root‑iron—woven safely only by realm guardians. Your prophets glimpsed its power, not hazard."
Murmur rippled through Glen. Ash‑Mark rebels tightened grips on scythes.
Neril pulled fan of mother‑of‑pearl, flicked open. "Negotiate or refuse. But other realms will offer less polite proposals."
Calia murmured in my ear: "We could leverage artisans, but limit them."
I turned to chancellor. "We propose open guild—not exclusive—under Academy of Threads. All qualified artisans welcomed, Consortium included, but oversight remains with tri‑council: Tenebris, Aurelian, Custodians. Profits reinvested into plague relief and Loom maintenance."
Neril's nostrils flared. "Such council would mute innovation. Entrepreneurs thrive in autonomy."
"Autonomy birthed war," Ravan said coolly. "Council or none."
Chancellor considered. "Give me demonstration of Loom to reassure my princes. Let them see thread's potential." His tone suggested threat masked as request.
I exchanged glance with Ravan: Loom guardians allowed us entry only after sacrifice; exposing them to merchants might desecrate.
"No demonstration," I said. "But we can show the thread's virtue. Calia?"
She unrolled sample cloth woven earlier—tri‑ring sigil shining through. Neril touched it; his eyes widened as pattern shifted, reflecting his face then Glen horizon. "Self‑looming cloth?" he whispered.
"Interactive memory fiber," I said. "Imagine bandages that adapt to wound, maps updating terrain. But such power requires stewardship." I folded cloth away.
He snapped fan shut. "Five‑year shared charter," he countered, "Council majority vote for harvest protocols, equal profit distribution."
Ravan met my gaze. Minds aligned: accept for now, monitor.
"Agreed," we said together.
Neril exhaled relief. I sensed greed tamped but not extinguished.
Contract drafted. Custodian representative Lys signed as witness, star‑glyph sealing parchment.
That evening under lantern‑lilacs, Neril toasted to partnership. Song rose among tents; children performed play about mirror‑tree's first bloom. Laughter felt genuine.
Yet later, alone near river, I overheard Neril whispering to silent figure wreathed in faint mirror shimmer—one of Sarielle's surviving acolytes. "Gather fragments," he ordered. "The queen bargains, but the stars still flicker. When Loom falters next, we'll own thread at its source."
I froze. Shadow behind me shifted; Ravan stepped from darkness, having heard same.
We returned to encampment, feigned ignorance. Ravan traced rune on my palm: Patience. We will set our own snare.
Back in Nightspire, I drafted letters to Auron and Brina: request new covert watch circles, using dawn‑thread cloth disguised as trade sashes. Vael assembled sky‑patrol schedule; Custodians nodded, unfurling unseen networks.
Calia, recovered, stitched first Academy charter onto star‑leaf parchment: no monopoly, no weaponization, yearly memory audits by Loom guardians. She stitched names, starting with hers—she'd lost enough to know worth of fragmentation.
I planted second root‑iron‑lilac seed on rooftop, to remind us greed sprouts when vigilance wilts.
That night, newborn star blinked again—single, sure wink. I smiled up, confident it recognized that our answer of protection held steady, yet aware new threads of intrigue already spooled beneath. Balance swayed, but we'd learned to weave.
I pressed hand over tapestry of circles hanging in study; dawn‑thread pulse warmed fingers. "A promise stitched," I told Ravan, leaning into his steady arm. "Now let's keep weaving until even greed becomes another color in grand design."
We watched star hold its glow—no flicker of doubt—while Nightspire's lilacs exhaled their midnight perfume, threading scent into cool air, into our lungs, into dreams we would craft next.
The tapestry waited for morning, hungry for more thread, and I, no longer merely survivor of stolen memories, felt ready to feed it—with stories, with vigilance, with roots that remembered every name in rising chorus.