Silence weighed differently once the forge tower of the Waxen Isles lay in shards beneath the Silent Loam. It pressed on our shoulders like a hand deciding whether to comfort or crush. For three nights the newborn star glowed unwavering, and no crimson echo flared beside it. Yet caution kept sleep shallow: when hunger molts skins, it seldom retires.
At dawn on the fourth morning I stood in the Academy's half‑finished amphitheater, tracing fingertips across the dawn‑thread seats Calia's apprentices had just tensioned into place. Each chair resembled a narrow ribbon of fabric floating above basalt stanchions—a reminder that even rest could hover delicately between worlds.
The amphitheater would host our first Concord Convocation in less than a week, when emissaries from Tenebris, Aurelian, the Seven‑Fold Consortium, and two other surface nations would gather to sanction the curriculum. Valke's failed strike had rattled them. Now they clamored for visible progress, as though architecture alone could prove safety.
From a window‑well overhead drifted pipe‑flute scales—an Ash‑Mark rebel child practicing the hymn we'd chosen for the ceremony. The notes wandered off‑key, then righted themselves; persistence, mirrored in music. I smiled and whispered cadence‑runes so the timber of the amphitheater embraced each sound, storing courage in its dawn‑threads.
Footsteps behind. I turned to find Ravan descending stairs between seats, cloak unfastened, hair still damp from sunrise wash. He carried a scroll heavy with wax seals.
"Aurelian council's latest edits," he said, passing it to me. A row of addenda unspooled: tariff clauses on thread export, compacts on mirror‑shard disposal, a curious request for exclusive custodial guardianship of the Academy's western gate.
"They fear us enough to want a permanent foothold," I muttered.
"Fear or envy," he agreed. "The Seven‑Fold charter includes similar language." He glanced toward sky mottle visible through oculus. "But there's news you'll like: Neril's successor arrives tonight—a junior director named Esmenet Khai. Reputation for diplomacy, not conquest."
I slid scroll into satchel for later arbitration and invited him to test the resonance seats. He lowered himself, eyes widening as the fabric adjusted to his weight. Dawn‑threads pulsed faint jade, echoing shoulder scar.
"They hum in key of your heartbeat," I observed.
"Or yours." He patted seat beside. I sat; our chairs tilted minutely inward until knees brushed. The amphitheater bloomed with warmth. Somewhere overhead, the flute tune perfected its refrain.
At noon Brina arrived by courier wyvern, wind‑chapped and fierce. She brought Caelia Glassborne—our newly named reflection‑queen—carried in a small mirror frame strapped to her saddle. Caelia's translucent visage rippled serenely within glass. Naming had sharpened her outline: features no longer drifted but held agile grace, like light steadied by prism.
We convened in the library vault, spool of sincere thread glowing upon pedestal, Calia fussing over ledger while Vael perched in skylight. Custodian Lys hovered silent sentinel.
Brina began. "Scouts traced Valke's surviving acolytes into southern Aurelian port. They boarded merchant caravels flagged under Consortium alias." She laid map stones. "Destination: River‑Warrens—network of smuggler tunnels near capital."
"Neril's ousted, but pockets remain," Vael growled.
Calia tapped ledger. "Supply lines. They still crave root‑iron." She looked to Caelia. "Can your kin monitor waterglass reflections in River‑Warrens?"
Caelia's eyes flickered silver. Reflections obey name, she said, voice glinting along mirror's surface. Give them token; they report.
I removed a shard of Valke's cracked mask from pocket, pressed it to mirror. Caelia absorbed it; mask pattern shimmered over her cheek then faded. Their gloss will reveal hunger now. I listen.
Strategy spiraled from there: reflection network to signal root‑iron trafficking, Custodian watchers to intercept shipments, Consortium liaison Esmenet to testify at convocation—showing commerce could proceed lawfully. Yet something gnawed.
"Valke spoke of forest seeds," I recalled. "Beyond seedlings we lop. He implied deeper seams."
Brina nodded. "Ash‑Mark miners uncovered luminous roots miles from Glen yesterday—teal crystal older than living buds."
Archivist, summoned, arrived wheezing but eager. "That predates Loom of Aion. A relic root‑iron forest sleeping since cataclysm."
Lys's cloak sparked warning yellow. "If Weft‑Eaters drink from that, tapestry unravels."
All eyes turned to me. Responsibility settled like a cloak heavier than Ravan's shadow.
"I must speak with the Loom directly," I said. "Not just guardians— the threads." None argued. They knew Aion had accepted my memory tithe; perhaps it would barter truth for another.
Double‑dusk approached when Ravan, Lys, Caelia (through mirror pendant) and I descended hidden stairs beneath mirror‑tree roots. The Veilstone pylons whirred softly, opening passage.
Inside Loom chamber, columns of petrified starlight cast prismatic gloom. The warp shimmered with fresh images: apprentices painting sigils, artisans forging bilingual signage, Neril's replacement Esmenet practicing bow before artifact sample. Loom wove optimism.
Ravan stood by warp edge as I approached shuttle. The spindle ticked—inviting another offering. I withdrew thread‑anchor vial containing faint echo of scaffold blade memory. Only water remained inside, memory consumed. A new payment then.
Hand trembled. I summoned image of the newborn star, its radiant solitude, and the worry it seeded each pulse. I poured that dread—fear of failing tapestry—into vial. Color of water deepened to smoky amber.
Shuttle opened. I slid vial inside. Warp sagged, then tautened; cloth pattern shifted to depict the relic root‑iron forest—pillars of crystal beneath mountains, dormant but haloed in red similar to Weft‑Eater energy. Threads rearranged: route markers leading from Glen's west ridge into under‑valley.
The Loom granted map.
It also etched three glyphs on adjacent panel: an eye circled by roots (Caelia's sigil); a broken mask fused with lilac bloom; and a spiral arrow pointing skyward. Prophecy or instruction?
Caelia's reflection expanded on shuttle surface. Forest sleeps under waxed moon. She paused, flickered. But mask‑bearer left seed of hunger in channel stone. Must heal before moon wanes or forest wakes.
Ravan exhaled. "Seven nights till next waxed moon." He squeezed my shoulder.
Exiting chamber, we found flurry on surface: Esmenet Khai's envoy arrived early. She stepped from sleek coach painted with modest motifs, flanked by neutral guards. Eyes sharp, robes pragmatic linen—no mirrored silk. She bowed to Ravan and me deep enough to brush dusty path.
"Chancellor Neril overreached," she stated. "Consortium seeks true concord." She offered crate: inside, ledger detailing sabotage logs her faction uncovered—Valke correspondences, acolyte payments, map to River‑Warrens caches.
Trust? Or strategic surrender? Either way, crucial.
We accepted, though Lys's cloak flared caution red. Caelia within pendant hummed but stayed silent.
That night, writing by lantern, I stitched forest map onto dawn‑thread patch. Labeled edge: Untwisted Grove. Because if root‑iron sleeps undisturbed, its resonance remains pure—untwisted by hunger.
I thought of weavers seated soon in amphitheater: demon, mortal, star‑spawn, mirror‑spirit. How to teach them guard forest they might never see? How to ensure abundance never tips to abyss? Answer sat within spool of sincere thread: weaving sincerity into curriculum—lessons of limits before power.
Quill scratched: syllabus draft. Class one: "History of Scarcity and the Ethics of Weaving." Class two: "Root‑Iron Lullabies." Class three: guest lecture by Caelia on "Mirrors That Warn."
Ravan entered quietly, set cup of ember‑honey tea. "Words weave stronger than steel," he said.
"Only if remembered," I replied, smiling tired.
He rested hand on mine. "We will make them unforgettable."
Above rooftop, lilacs rustled; newborn star blinked steady, uninterested in drama, only measure of our follow‑through. Red echo absent. For now.
I inked final line: Guardianship is a verb. Closed ledger. And in silence that followed, I felt Loom's heartbeat echo mine, calm yet expectant—awaiting next shuttle pass, next choice, next memory offered so tapestry might continue to learn the shape of a world woven from dawn and restraint.
Outside window, waxen moon approached half—seven nights to heal forest stone. Threads tauten. Work begins anew.