Three weeks after the Concord of Threads was signed in Nightspire's observatory, the first cornerstones of the Academy rose on a terraced ridge north‑east of Dawnroot Glen. From the air the site resembled a half‑finished spiderweb: concentric rings of volcanic brick embedded with mirror‑shards, each ring aligned to a different ley‑current. At the heart of the pattern we laid a circular dais of dawn‑thread cloth stretched tight over cedar beams—a promise, the Custodians said, that the school's floor would always listen to the footsteps above it.
Listening mattered. The ground beneath the valley still thrummed with the Loom of Aion's pulse, and any careless hammer‑stroke echoed down into that hidden chamber. So we built slowly, striking each nail only when the star‑thread spool in my satchel glimmered green—the Loom's tacit signal that the blow would not disturb its weave.
Ravan himself hauled stone alongside Ash‑Mark rebels and Aurelian farmers. The sight of the Demon Emperor sweating beside mortal laborers fueled gossip from the Consortium caravans that circled like hawks. Chancellor Neril reappeared every few days, bearing crates of brass tools and star‑glass panes while pointedly avoiding mention of his renegade alchemist. He had dismissed the man "for reckless zeal," but I noticed the Consortium's survey teams now traveled with two silent bodyguards whose mirrored pauldrons worried me more than Neril's honeyed assurances.
Custodian sentinel Lys drifted over the site by night, trailing comets of silver dust to seal each wall course. At dawn their star‑eyes would inspect the mortar lines, humming approval or tightening lips when a seam felt greedy. We learned to read that subtle language; it saved us an afternoon's labor more than once.
My own role oscillated between architect and medic. One hour I knelt with Calia beneath the skeletal rafters, scribing runic marks of invitation on every beam— glyphs to welcome mirrorkind, demon‑kind, star‑kind, and mortal‑kind equally. The next hour I dashed to irrigation trenches to tend a worker stung by glass‑vine thorns or to quell a flare of root‑iron anxiety when a survey rod struck a hidden bud. Root‑iron still slumbered beneath the Glen, but it had begun to sprout where water pooled deepest, searching for voices to follow. Each time I soothed it with lilac infusion, I felt the newborn star prickle above, reminding me that vigilance is a conversation with the sky.
Ravan worried the weight rested too heavily on my shoulders. Late one twilight he found me tucked in the half‑finished library vault, cataloguing fresh batches of dawn‑thread. "Even spindles can warp, Leora," he murmured, tugging the ledger from my hand. "Rest."
"I will," I promised. "After this column."
He raised a brow, slid onto the stone bench beside me, and began reciting The Ballad of the Thorn‑Wing—one of the silliest demon nursery rhymes, featuring a baby wyvern who believes moonlight tastes like honey. His voice—rich, sonorous—filled the vault's shell and turned my parchment lines into meaningless squiggles. I laughed despite fatigue and pressed my cheek against his shoulder.
"Better," he said. We left together, lantern swinging, dawn‑thread bundles safe from the numb mistakes of exhaustion.
It should have been tranquil progress. Yet every night the newborn star pulsed faint amber at the edge of my dreams—never again the urgent flashes of its birth, but a quiet, uneasy heartbeat. Something still tugged at its tether. I told no one except the mirror‑specter who had once threatened us. Since her near‑breaking, she visited only in still reflections: a fragment of her face in a basin, a fingertip on a glossy pillar. I'd learned to greet her with hushes of lilac incense; she'd learned not to frighten the children. In return she whispered warnings in flickers of frost: a spiral of smoke for looming treachery, a spark of indigo for hope. Tonight, as the star dimmed again, the basin in my chamber iced over, etched with three linked triangles—the Consortium sigil—beneath a stylized loom aflame.
They mean to ignite what they cannot own, the specter's image mouthed.
Morning came with wind strong enough to batter tents flat. Ash‑Mark scouts reported a column of Consortium wagons clustering on the Glen's northern edge, far from their sanctioned worksite. Vael's sky‑legion spotted large crates being rolled toward the field at dusk, their wooden slats rimmed with copper coils.
"Resonance cannons," Calia guessed, pale. "They'll blast open the ground to shake loose root‑iron buds."
Brina spat into dust. "That shockwave will topple half the Academy—never mind loom‑threads."
We rode at once—Ravan and I, Vael overhead, fifty Glen wardens on foot. Custodian Lys streaked ahead like a silent comet. We found Chancellor Neril amidst his engineers, directing the placement of barrels filled with luminous crystals. His voice carried on the wind: "Stabilize rails! We fire at full dusk!"
He turned as we approached, fan flicking. "Merely geological tests," he claimed. "Assessing bedrock for your dormitories."
"With siege‑grade vibro‑lenses?" I retorted. "You breach root‑iron and weft alike."
He offered contractual parchment thicker than standard: an addendum co‑signed by Aurelian treasury ministers, granting emergency resource rights if the Academy missed foundation deadlines. Bureaucracy as weapon.
Ravan ripped the scroll in half. "Deadlines shift when safety demands." His shadow coiled, darkening midday grass.
Neril's smile thinned. "Confiscation of our property is an act of war."
"Call it war or wisdom," I said. "Your cannons leave now."
Artisans faltered. Many feared Tenebris forces more than their employer. But four mirror‑armored guards stepped forward, unsheathing glass‑edged pikes. Their mirrored surfaces shimmered with hungry void—the Weft‑Eaters' mark. Chancellor Neril stepped back as if witnessing a new toy he hadn't ordered.
Battle ignited swift: Vael dove, deflecting first volley of crystal shards. Ravan's shadow tangled two guards, but their pikes reflected the shadow back, slicing air next to his throat. I flanked third guard, soul‑fire blade meeting mirrored shaft. My reflection twisted across its surface, mouth open in silent scream. The weapon drank my momentum, throwing me aside.
A hiss rose behind barrels—the root‑iron residue we'd embedded in decoy cloth now awake inside crates. The inert cloth was gone; true reserve stolen. Their engineers meant to power cannons with authentic dawn‑thread fuses, shattering ground and Loom at once.
I scrambled toward crates. Calia sprinted beside me with flask of phoenix‑tear tincture. "Aim for the crystal cores!" she shouted. We hurled flasks; glass burst against lenses, steam of living fire enveloping. Crystals cracked, diffusing energy into safe light.
One cannon remained. Neril, eyes wild, clutched ignition lever. "You'll kill possibility!" he shrieked. I leveled blade. "Better possibility than worlds."
Guardian Lys descended, spear of starlight cleaving lever in two. Cannon sputtered, discharged plume that fizzled into harmless sparks.
Mirrored guards fell—Vael's wing‑blades severing their weapons; Ravan's shadow crushing void glimmers until mirror suits shattered, revealing gaunt saboteurs whose eyes rolled white.
Silence crashed, broken only by Neril's panting. I approached, heart hammering. "We gave partnership."
He straightened, tears of rage streaking kohl. "Partnership caged by caution. I sought abundance."
"Abundance becomes abyss when ripped from roots," Ravan said.
Custodian Lys encircled Neril with threads of light. "Seven‑Fold Consortium now stands under probation. Depart, chancellor, or be woven into the penalty star." Star‑ward medallion above Glen glimmered ominous.
Neril's shoulders sagged. He signaled withdrawal. Wagons creaked away, artisans silent, crates smashed. Dust settled over damaged field.
We spent dusk dismantling cannon rails and burying crystal shards beneath layers of salt. I knelt at site where cannon had exploded; root‑iron buds there pulsed cyan rather than violent green. They seemed to drowse, content with our defense. I pressed palm to soil; they whispered—no hunger, only bruised confusion.
At campfire, Calia examined seized scrolls. "Look," she said, pointing to margins: sketches of winged looms and notes in unfamiliar hand. "These weren't Neril's. Another patron funds sabotage."
I traced three faint initials beneath: V. E.We exchanged grim looks. The name Valke of the Empty—an exile alchemist rumored to worship Weft‑Eaters—surfaced in my memory.
Danger stalked beyond Consortium greed.
Night deepened. Mirror‑tree sap eased from trunk wounds, sealing cracks. Newborn star twinkled steady. Yet above it, near Asterion belt, second light gleamed—duller, reddish. Uncatalogued.
Ravan joined me at field's edge. "Twin star? Or omen?"
"Thread of warning," I whispered, recalling book's caution. "Weft‑Eaters taste stray fibers."
He grasped my hand. "We will weave protections stronger yet."
I believed him, yet heart quivered. The tapestry broadened, inviting more eyes—some benevolent, some ravenous. Our academy must become a citadel of craft and vigilance both.
Back in Nightspire's library, I stitched the day's events onto cloth sample: cannons, shattered mirrors, root‑iron hum turned gentle. At border I embroidered the new red star, leaving name blank. Stories give shape; names wield power. Until we learned what watched us, silence might shield.
I sealed the cloth inside crystal vault beside spool. The vault pulsed: a loom's heartbeat echoing my own.
Outside, lilac lanterns swayed in warm wind, their filaments humming half‑heard lullaby. I breathed scent, let memory of scaffold blade fade a whisper more. Threads of fear and hope interlaced; sunrise would show whether they held.
And somewhere in sky two lights watched—one ours, one not—while the tapestry waited for next pass of shuttle, poised between abundance and abyss.