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If she hadn’t used Spirit so openly.
If she’d stayed quiet and invisible.
Maybe then she’d be free.
Maybe he would’ve chosen someone else—some other soul to mold and break and parade for his own ambitions. The thought twisted like a knife. Anger pulsed through her, cutting through fear. Her hand clenched around the strap of her pack, nails biting the leather.
No. She’d done that—tried to stay small—yet here she was, waiting to be traded like a pawn for more power anyway. Besides, it was better she’d been chosen. At least she could fight it in her own way. She was tired of fear. Whatever happened tonight, Theordrin would get his show.
Her hand brushed the pocket at her belt, catching on the soft leather pouch that held her mother’s willowvine seeds. She loosened the drawstring and tipped them into her palm. The downy strands clung to her fingertips, light as breath. Fragile, but not weak. The reminder steadied her.
Outside the canvas walls, the festival went on. Muffled applause drifted in, scattered laughter, and awed cheers rising as the other Weavers performed. Above it all, Theordrin’s slick voice rolled through the evening like syrup, too thick to escape.
A shadow fell across the entrance. The flap jerked open, and she flinched—but it was only another Fist. He jerked his chin toward the stage. Wren forced a breath and stood, following him.
Lanterns swayed above, glow-crystals spilling honey-gold light across the sea of faces in the distance. Her legs belonged to someone else, someone braver, carrying her forward without permission.
The Fist shoved her through the side curtain—up the steps, into the glow—when Theordrin finished introducing Maelis. She waited in the wings, heart hammering. Looking out at the crowd was a terrible choice—so many faces, so many eyes.
She’d been sure she was prepared. She wasn’t. The whisperstone pulsed. Once. Ducking her head, she slipped a hand to her belt, fingers closing around the stone. The weight steadied her. A flutter of emotions she wasn’t sure were her own—anxious caution, fear, and hope—tangled together before a whisper slipped into her mind, as if Orzen was right beside her.
We’re here. We’ll be ready. You can do this.
Scanning the crowd, she found him near the front—steadfast as ever, like a promise kept. Not exposed, but close enough to see her. He nodded subtly to his right. Her gaze followed. Theordrin’s reserved row. Garin and Marrowen sat side by side, faces drawn with worry. Tavrin and Brunna were on the bench beside them, fingers intertwined. Her people. Close, but not yet safe.
Somehow, that was enough.
Maelis, the Air Weaver, stepped forward, her voice rising to tell the Myth of the First Thread.
“Before the Cycle formed—there was silence.
In that stillness, a god dreamed,
Of shape and spark,
Of things that might yet be.
Orulon, the Maker, Father of Creation.”
Her tone shifted, half recitation, half prayer.
“From his dreaming he spun the First Thread,
A perfect strand of potential.
With it, he wove the world:
Stone from strength, sky from longing,
Flame from hunger, sea from sorrow,
Life from memory.”
The words shimmered, each syllable trailing faint motes of light. Children craned forward, mouths open as if they could see the world being made before them.
“But alone, the Thread grew tangled.
He needed another. The Keeper of the Cycle—
