The sea between Dawnroot and the Waxen Isles is called the Silent Loam—waters too quiet, too smooth, as if the waves themselves forgot how to dimple under wind. Legends claim a cosmic spill stained its depths centuries ago, sealing currents in a skin of tempered glass. Now, as our shadow‑steel trimaran skimmed across that mirror surface, the sails of dawn‑thread stiffened against a wind we could neither see nor hear.
Ravan stood at the helm with Lys Antherion at his flank, the Custodian's cloak scattering motes of sunlight that drifted behind us like a comet tail. Vael prowled the starboard rail, adjusting the ballast wings; each beat of his half‑healed membrane sounded too loud, echoing off the featureless water. I held port side, chart in hand, watching constellations reflect beneath the hull. Here, sky and sea mirrored so perfectly it felt we sailed through two heavens pressed edge to edge—with only our vessel as stitch.
Around midnight a hush deeper than usual settled. Dawn‑thread masts dimmed. The newborn star overhead blinked once, then steadied. Ravan's shoulder scar flared brief jade, a silent alarm.
"Cross‑current," he murmured. "Hold tight."
He twisted the shadow‑helm; the prow veered. I glimpsed ripple—a vague crimson swirl far below—vanished quick as pulse. The red star's last echo? Valke's forge heat leaking upward? Lys said nothing, but the starlight in their eyes dimmed, worried.
We pressed on beneath moonlight that looked suspiciously like silver poured from a cracked flask. My teeth hummed— sub‑audible vibration climbing timbers. That was the warning before we saw them: mirror‑skiffs rising from ocean skin, ridged prows slicing water without splash. Each skiff bore mirrored lanterns glowing internal scarlet, painting our hull like wounds.
Vael unleashed a screeching whistle; Calia's prototype star‑flare cannons mounted on aft deck answered: spheres of lilac‑scented fire sailed, bursting overhead with gentle pop. Harmless to hulls, but each flare cloaked the sky in glamor illusions: illusory constellations rearranged, disorienting navigators who relied on star sight.
The nearest skiff spun off course. Sailors shouted. We chased open water, but more mirror light dotted horizon—Valke's picket line.
Lys glided to bowsprit, fingertips weaving bright glyphs that shimmered at our prow, carving an arc of prismatic wake. Water beneath warped, reflecting not our ship but a hundred phantom vessels, scattering pursuit.
Hours blurred. When sky paled lavender, the Waxen Isles rose—low caldera ring, white cliffs bleeding into jagged coves. A forest of salt‑bleached glass spires occupied crown ridge, catching sunrise in shards. At island's heart, a single tower of living mirror spiraled, its summit glowing furnace‑amber. Valke's forge.
We anchored in a sheltered cleft, sails camouflaged to dusk‑shade. My throat tasted of brine and lilac smoke; nerves fluttered like pinned moths. Vael nodded at me, eyes keen: time to infiltrate.
Salt flats crackled underfoot as Ravan, Vael, Lys, and I trekked inland. Calia remained aboard, guarding spool of Sincere Thread and readying contingency sails. Though she bristled at being left, we needed a fallback if island trap snapped shut behind us.
The flats soon gave way to a labyrinth of glass‑blown columns, each a twisted sculpture fused from beach sand and volcanic breath—no doubt by monks long gone. Some columns whistled low when wind coursed through tunnels; others dripped half‑molten, as though forge heat still perfused them. Shadows hopped like fish across reflective shards; my own reflection shimmered wrong‑timed, raising hand a blink late. I muttered grounding chant.
We studied path ahead: spiral slope climbing to forge tower, patrolled by mirror‑armored sentries. Lys shaped cloak into flicker of nothing. Ravan dissolved into shadow along cliff's spine. Vael and I clambered through glass trenches, our dawn‑thread cloaks dulling reflection.
Halfway up we paused. The wind died. A hush thick as syrup blanketed ridge. Then came a sound like a thousand shuttles striking loom frames—metal, precise, rhythmic. Forge tower pulsed crimson.
Valke greeted us before we stepped on plateau. He stood on balcony platform, cloak sewn of mirrored scales catching sunburst. Face hidden by porcelain mask shaped like weft shuttle. Surrounding him, ten acolytes kneeled, pumping giant bellows made of glass‑vine rib and root‑iron leather. With each pump, furnace core roared, spitting arcs of molten mirror that wove midair into thread thicker than a man's arm. That thread coiled into a second newborn star—scarlet copy—floating in forge aperture.
"Welcome, empress‑weaver," Valke intoned without looking. Voice echoed off tower like distant thunder. "You guard one star; I birth its twin out of hunger you cannot purge."
Ravan's shadow seeped in behind him, but at threshold collided with unseen barrier. Valke raised hand—thread barrier snared shadow, twisted it into knot. Ravan winced; vision blurred.
I stepped forward. "Twin star born of greed will devour tapestry."
"Not greed—balance," Valke countered. "For every dawn you hoard beneath Glen, night must answer. Star for star, thread for thread."
Lys lifted spear. "Balance already reckons."
Valke laughed, a dry rattle. "Custodians bind themselves to impartial myths. I answer only Weft‑Eaters. They crave expansive weave, not narrow equilibrium." He gestured; furnace belched. Mirror star ballooned.
I scanned forge platform: root‑iron ore fed crucible; mirror dust fountained; and strapped across support beams lay living souls—asleep, entangled in dawn‑thread harnesses: Consortium artisans kidnapped, brain‑links feeding star invaluable memories. Their faces pale, memories siphoned into thread.
Vael hissed. "He spins minds."
We needed swift severance. Dawn‑thread tends to obey sincerity; root‑iron obeys hunger. I flooded thoughts with compassion, muttered prayer of shared breath, then sliced blade through barrier thread. It parted like spider silk. Shadow knot unravelled; Ravan stepped free, eyes blazing.
Chaos bloomed.
Vael launched wings, diving at bellows ranks. Lys hurled spear; it split into seven ribbons of starlight, pinning acolytes. I sprinted to harnessed artisans, cutting bonds with infusion‑coated knife. Each released breath from them dimmed forge star.
Valke shrieked, twisting new root‑iron cable at me. I swung soul‑fire blade; it clanged, sparks white as noon. Root‑iron flared emerald, wrapping my wrist. Memory seeped—images of scaffold, of dawn‑thread weaving. I cried, hurled phoenix‑tear vial; mist devoured vine, freeing arm.
Ravan pressed palms together, conjuring twin‑dawn lance—silver and jade coiling. He hurled at molten core. Lance boomed, shattering furnace walls. Mirror star flickered, destabilized.
Valke reeled, mask cracking. "You lop seedlings; forest seeds beyond." He triggered floor glyph; tower shards peeled outward like petals. Vacuum wind yanked root‑iron coils, weaving into one giant corridor descending into caldera's molten heart. His cloak billowed; he leaped, sliding down tunnel, laughing.
The tower shook; support beams creaked. Lys shouted, "Caldera breach! Evacuate!"
Vael lifted artisans three at a time, wings straining skyward. Ravan evacuated acolytes who surrendered, binding them with mirror‑salt cuffs. I searched rubble for spool scraps: found one coil of root‑iron star thread cooling.
We exited moments before tower collapsed into crater, sending flame plume sky‑high. Shockwave rippled sea; Silent Loam cracked glassy skin. Our trimaran rocked near shore; Calia's silhouette on deck pointed frantic at fissures forming wave‑crests.
We boarded, hoisted dawn‑thread sail. Cracks spidered, releasing buried currents. Sea roared alive, chasing us. Lys conjured starlight keels, slicing water. Tower crater imploded, sucking waves inward, forming whirlpool of molten glass. Valke's laughter echoed from depths, then cut.
We cleared maelstrom; Silent Loam resettled, ripples glimmering. Newborn star shone steady; scarlet copy faded into dawn like ember swallowed by ash.
Back at Dawnroot, custodians sealed artifacts; spool remnants handed to Loom guardians for purging. Artisans awoke, memories fuzzy but intact. They chose to stay, joining academy rather than Consortium.
We counted victory, small.
But when night fell, the newborn star blinked a new pattern—one long, two short—unseen before. In my dream that followed, the hallway of thread no longer burned; instead, a doorway yawned at corridor's end, marked with eye‑sigil etched on mirror‑tree. Beyond lay loom larger, darker than Aion—threads infinite, humming.
The voice of reflection‑queen echoed: The abyss recedes, yet its spool remains. Tread gentle upon the weave, or hunger will find new weft.
I woke at dawn, Ravan's hand loosely over mine. On bedside table lay piece of cracked porcelain mask—Valke's—somehow clutched in my sleep. A reminder that hunger seldom dies, only molting skins.
Time to strengthen academy walls—not stone, but bonds of sincerity. Time to name reflection‑queen. I rose, penned on parchment: Caelia Glassborne. A name of light and fracture alike. She would approve—I hoped.
Outside, lilacs greeted sunrise with fragrance that carried no smoke at all. Newborn star gleamed, alone but steadfast, and I whispered thanks our tapestry held, though frayed at edges.
War threads woven; rebuilding threads now call. And as I stepped onto balcony, spool of sincere thread humming in pocket, I vowed to weave dawn until even deepest loam learns song of morning.