The newborn star held its light steady for three nights after Chancellor Neril's departure, as though testing the firmness of our recent vow. Each evening, Ravan and I would pause beneath the lilac trellises on Nightspire's roof to gauge that unwavering shimmer, aware it served as both sentinel and judge. Should its beam falter again, we would know some thread of our promise had begun to fray.
On the fourth morning, Vael's couriers returned from the Isles with messages tied to their talons: Auron had uncovered small caches of polished mirror shards, identical to the saboteurs' reserves, buried beneath an abandoned salt‑warehouse. He'd destroyed what he could but noted faint etchings on the crates—three linked triangles, the personal mark of Neril's Sixth Fold. Worse: local fishermen spoke of silent silver ships lurking beyond reefs, ships rumored to sail only during double sunsets.
Greed always moves faster than treaties.
We convened an emergency council atop the forge balcony. The hover‑heat of the vents made every breath taste of copper and ember, but Ravan wanted the meeting there—symbolism, he said, in forging new resolve where sabotage once burned hottest.
Brina attended via ripple‑mirror, her scarred features etched with frustration. "We've counted fifteen Consortium surveyors roaming Glen's periphery," she reported. "They claim they're charting irrigation paths, but their instruments probe deeper—ley resonance scanners."
Calia clicked her tongue. "They're hunting root‑iron seams."
The Blind Archivist nodded. "If they map the loops beneath Loom of Aion, they'll bypass payment and bargain directly with the guardians—or worse, corrupt them."
"Guardians cannot be bribed," Ravan said, arms crossed.
"True," the Archivist allowed, "but the guardians can be misled. If Consortium rewrites Loom's pattern with forged thread… reality may not know the difference until it tears."
Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of forge coal. I sensed unspoken tension: we needed Consortium artisans for the Academy but could not allow them to own the very lifeblood they coveted.
A plan began to form—half caution, half ambition. "We must show them what they want to see," I said slowly, "and, at the same time, ensure they never hold the real key." My gaze swept the council. "We weave a decoy cloth—root‑iron glimmer, dawn‑thread shimmer—but inert."
Calia's eyes lit. "A false weave. If Neril's people smuggle samples, they'll spend fortunes trying to spark power that isn't there."
Ravan raised a brow. "We would need genuine trace signatures to pass their tests."
"I can coil the new seedling's outer husks," Calia offered, "the transparent layers shed each dawn. Harmless, but they hum like the core."
Vael flexed healed wing, feathers glinting. "I'll infiltrate their next caravan with this cloth, make sure they 'steal' it."
Brina added: "I'll plant rumors that Glen's supply is limited. They'll cling to any scrap."
Ravan met my eyes—approval tempered with caution. "A gambit," he said softly, "but gambits demand stakes." He turned to Lys Antherion, our Custodian sentinel lurking half‑visible at balcony's edge. "Will your order permit such deception?"
Lys's stardust cloak rippled. "Truth must guard balance; sometimes the path to truth twists." A flicker of light—agreement.
The forge hissed in quiet solidarity.
That evening, Calia and I retreated to the Grand Atheneum's quiet scriptorium, where books hovered like drowsy moths above lamplit tables. We spread out spools: dawn‑thread, empty root‑iron husk fibers, flakes of mirror‑petal. Calia sketched pattern glyphs while I whispered binding chants, infusing each strand with illusions of potency. The cloth that emerged smelled faintly of lilac but glinted like sunlit steel. To any merchant seer, it would scream power—until they tried to twist it into spell and found nothing but pretty string.
I tied the cloth in plain burlap, sealed with wax stamp of Glen's tri‑leaf crest. Vael would swap this bundle for a real sample during Neril's "inspection" scheduled two days hence.
Exhausted, I lingered among hovering tomes. One slender volume brushed my shoulder: Chronicles of Vyàn, Wefts of the Outer Dark. Its pages fell open to an illustration of a vast cosmic loom far greater than Aion, run by shapeless figures called Weft‑Eaters. The paragraph beneath chilled me:
When mortals weave threads without reverence, the Weft‑Eaters taste the stray fibers. In time they hunger for the whole tapestry.
I shut the book, pulse pounding. Could Consortium meddling attract horrors older than Custodians? I tucked volume under arm.
Morning of inspection arrived beneath a pewter sky. Ravan and I greeted Chancellor Neril at Glen's eastern ridge. He wore a cloak of hummingbird feathers and a smile sharper than fresh obsidian. Thirty artisans trailed him, lugging brass instruments, inkless quills, and measuring orbs.
"We come as partners," he said, bowing. "I trust our joint charter is ready for ratification?"
"Indeed," I replied, leading him down rows of moon‑grass. "And we've prepared a gift—first cut of dawn‑thread."
His eyes glimmered.
While Calia guided artisans to "observe" loom‑friendly star‑blossom and root‑iron rows (carefully cordoned off by guardian wards), Vael slipped unseen among wagons, executing the swap. He returned hours later, nodding: the inert bundle now stowed beneath velvet cushions of Neril's palanquin, genuine cloth placed into our safehouse.
I exhaled relief too soon.
A scream ripped from irrigation trench. One of Neril's alchemists, prodding soil with resonator spike, had pierced a dormant root‑iron bud. The bud erupted into shimmering vine, wrapping her arm. She shrieked as metallic tendrils raced toward shoulder.
Ravan barked orders. I sprinted, blade flashing. With soul‑fire I severed vine, sealed stump with lilac infusion. The woman collapsed, alive but trembling.
Neril's fan snapped open. "What sabotage is this?" he thundered, pointing at me. "You lure us into fields seeded with weapons!"
"You triggered dormant nodes," I retorted, swinging vine stub in air. "Your greed brews danger, chancellor."
He stiffened. "We demand exclusive stewardship now, for safety."
Brina, nearby, hefted scythe. "Safety or monopoly?"
Ravan's shadow flared. Custodian watchers descended, starlight spears drawn. Neril's artisans shrank back—except a slender man who stepped forward brandishing glass syringe. "Root‑iron serum," he declared, plunging needle into bud stump. The vine convulsed, then surged skyward, burrowing into mirror‑tree trunk twenty yards away.
Mirror‑tree screamed—high chime cracking crystal. Petals exploded into shards, raining stardust. Tapestry of the star above flickered.
We rushed. The vine burrowed deeper, pumping gray venom. I, Calia, and Ravan circled trunk, weaving tri‑sigil of dawn‑thread around wound. Custodian Lys hovered overhead, channeling stellar light into weave. Petal shards re‑fused, sealing wound. Vine petrified, fell inert.
The star steadied.
Chancellor Neril paled. "I… I knew nothing of that," he hissed at syringe wielder.
The man vanished in swirl of mirror shimmer—Sarielle's acolyte again.
Lys thrust spear, pinning shimmer to ground. With crack, illusion fell, revealing an older acolyte—eyes black as void. "Weft‑Eaters hunger," he rasped, before bursting into dust.
Neril staggered. His entourage whispered, stepping away.
I faced him. "Greed offered door. Void stepped through."
The chancellor's fan trembled. "We rescind claim," he breathed. "Consortium returns to negotiations… in good faith."
"Under tri‑council oversight," Ravan added, voice steel. "And with Custodian audit before every harvest. Agreed?"
Neril bowed so low his feathers brushed mud.
At twilight, Glen quiet again, we sat beneath half‑repaired mirror‑tree. Custodians spun silk‑light bandages round trunk. Calia leaned against me, exhausted but smiling faintly. "Decoy cloth already paying dividends," she murmured.
Ravan traced star‑shard embedded in bark, speaking softly. "Weft‑Eaters."
I opened Chronicles of Vyàn, reading passage aloud. The sky darkened; newborn star glowed serene. "Weft‑Eaters thrive where ambition outpaces gratitude," I said.
"Then we weave gratitude into every thread," Ravan replied.
That night, in Nightspire's observatory, we signed amended charter—now named The Concord of Threads—with Neril and two Custodian scribes, each clause binding the Academy to serve famine relief first. Vael stamped with ash‑scythe seal, laughter ringing. Even the Archivist smiled, rare and bright.
Later, alone on rooftop, I placed piece of decoy cloth beneath lilac root. "Remember," I whispered. "Beauty can trick danger—and still nourish hope."
The star blinked twice—steady, friendly. Loom guardians somewhere deeper spun approval.
Tomorrow, we would begin Academy groundwork. But tonight I let possibility settle around us like warm dye soaking silk: a tapestry that could grow stronger with every challenge, every false thread, re‑woven by hands that had learned the rhythm of dawn and void alike.
Above, the newborn star held fast, and I knew—for this breath, for this hour—our promise still shone brighter than greed.
o3