The stories said no one who wandered too far into the Fray ever came back.

  Beric focused on his heartbeat. It pounded in his chest, pulsed in his throat. The words he was supposed to say kept replaying in his head, like a recording of what was about to happen. His thin fingers, still slightly sticky from helping with the candle wax earlier, fidgeted with the edge of his robe.

  He sat on the altar of the Weaver’s Temple, head down, trying to ignore his nerves and focus on the low chant echoing through the stone building:

  "Myrion, threader of the cosmos,

  May your cords of starlight,

  Illuminate our path,

  Reveal the hidden mysteries,

  And connect us to the heavens.

  By your woven will, so may it be."

  A group of acolytes knelt before the icon of Myrion, the Cosmic Threader, Prime of the Star Weavers. A tall candle lit up the mosaic portrait of a man with eyes like distant stars, a long, white beard, and black, striped cloak that resembled a nebula.

  Beric's thoughts drifted during the prayers, lulled by the steady tone and familiar rhythm. He noticed his leg shaking, the ball of his foot vibrating, and the braided cord on his robe bouncing with the tremor.

  Shaking his head to focus, he looked around the room. On the other side of the altar, sat High Weaver Belacqua, head bowed, her snow-white hair in a neat bun. There was Mister Wilson from the bakery, his cap in hand, muttering fervently with the prayers. And, in the back, he saw his mentor, Silva, in his dark coat.

  Silva's sharp eyes met his, and he gave a small, reassuring nod. Beric’s cheeks flushed slightly, the faint dusting of freckles becoming more visible. He remembered earlier when Silva had helped him with his robes.

  “Just talk directly to me,” he’d said.

  "Joran, knotter of the elements,

  Balance the earth beneath our feet,

  Quench the fires that rage within,

  And guide the winds that shape our path.

  By your woven will, so may it be."

  The group moved to another image: Joran of the Force Weavers, a dark-skinned, bald man sitting with crossed legs, wearing a simple gray robe. His eyes were closed, and he held a wooden staff across his lap.

  The benediction was almost over. His stomach churned, and his jaw tightened. What if he stuttered? What if he forgot his lines? What if his vestments fell open in front of everyone? He tightened the cord around his waist.

  Weavers, guide mine tongue to speak thy will, he thought silently as the group moved to the final icon, an image of a Soul Weaver warrior, donned in armor made of light and shadow. The blade of his sword sparkled with stones in the mosaic.

  "Zaltar, mender of the broken,

  May your threads of healing,

  Mend our fractured spirits,

  Bind our wounds together,

  And grant us inner peace.

  By your woven will, so may it be."

  The acolytes gathered in the front pews of the Temple as silence filled the hall. The incense burned, a familiar scent for those who attended the daily ritual.

  Beric stood up and straightened his robe. He walked slowly to a podium near where High Weaver Belacqua sat; she smiled at him.

  "Good day…by the Prime’s woven will," Beric said to the congregation. His voice, still a bit high-pitched, tried to sound deeper than it was.

  "So may it be," they replied in unison.

  There were about two dozen people at the service, not counting the priests and acolytes. It was a prayer to start the day.

  Beric swallowed, his throat dry as he stared past the congregation, focusing on the worn grain of the pews instead of the faces watching him.

  His voice wavered slightly at first, but he pushed through.

  “We have heard the words to the Prime Weavers, our prayers echoing in this sacred Temple. And now, let us turn our minds to a passage from the Strand of Lyra, Sower of Shards:

  ‘And I wept, for I saw The Tapestry torn, the threads of creation frayed and scattered. The Loomheart, once a beacon of harmony, pulsed with discord, its light flickering and dimming. The very essence of magic was strained, and the land fell into a state of decay, each scar a memory of the shattering.’

  This passage speaks of the Fracturing—the moment our world was torn apart, and balance was unraveled. We believe, as we have been taught, that the Prime Weavers poured their essence and power into the Tapestry to mend it, to keep Tenturia from unraveling further. It was an act of sacrifice, of love, of restoration. But their power…"

  His breath hitched slightly. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears and feel the sweat on his palms. They were listening.

  He forced himself to exhale.

  Speak with conviction. Say it like you mean it.

  “Their power was not enough to repair everything. And so, the work of rebuilding fell to us.”

  Beric paused, gripping the podium, searching for something to anchor himself in the words. His fingers brushed against a waxy patch of wood, remnants of a long-burnt candle. His mind drifted—

  —to a week ago, when he’d passed through the District. A girl, no older than six, sat on the temple steps. She had been winding scraps of string around her fingers, twisting and unraveling them with meticulous focus, her lips moving in silent imitation of a prayer. But her ribs pressed against her skin, her clothes were threadbare, and her fingers trembled from the cold.

  She had looked up at him, half-hopeful, half-wary. He had only nodded and hurried past.

  Beric swallowed.

  “Lyra, Prime of the Life Weavers, teaches us the nature of growth,” he continued, this time with conviction beneath his voice.

  “Even in the most barren lands, a seed can sprout. Even in a city left in ruin, life finds a way. She teaches us to tend the small sprouts of hope, to nurture recovery care.

  But…”

  Another pause. The hesitation wasn’t planned. His chest felt tight.

  “But are we truly rebuilding?” His voice was quieter now.

  He forced himself to look up, though his gaze wavered between the flickering candlelight and the shadowed expressions of the congregation.

  “A week ago, I saw a girl outside this very temple, her hands wrapped around scraps of string, weaving knots the way we do in prayer. But she was shivering. And she was hungry.”

  Something twisted in his gut.

  “We speak of balance. But how is the world balanced when children go hungry outside the temple doors? We speak of patience. But how long must we wait, watching those sprouts wither before they can take root?

  “I do not claim to have answers.”

  His fingers curled into the edges of the podium.

  “I only offer questions. Questions that weigh on my heart. Questions that I pray the Prime Weavers will help us answer.”

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  He stepped back, pulse still hammering in his ears.

  For the first time since he started speaking, he dared to glance at the congregation.

  Mister Wilson looked troubled, his brows drawn together as if chewing over the words. High Weaver Belacqua’s lips were pressed into a line, her expression firm. And Silva—

  Silva was smiling.

  Not the casual, knowing smirk he often wore, but a proud beam that radiated across the space.

  Beric swallowed, a strange mix of relief and uncertainty washing over him as he returned to his seat. He had spoken from the heart. But whether that was the right thing to do…

  He wasn’t sure.

  ***

  The Inner Rings of Tenturia each possessed a distinct character reflecting the values of the people who lived there. The Weaver's District, centered on the Temple and resonated with creative energy, guided by the Pantheon of Prime Weavers. The Artisan's Quarter, with its busy Guild Hall, fostered community and skill. The Guardian's Precinct, anchored by its imposing prison and fortress, symbolized law and order.

  The Scholar's Enclave, however, offered a different kind of influence: the Library of Tenturia. This structure was more than a mere building; it served as their temple, their sanctuary, an altar dedicated to the vastness of human knowledge. A grand, imposing centerpiece, it dominated the city's skyline. Constructed of dark, weathered stone, its surface bore the marks of time, each a silent testament to the wisdom within.

  The grand entrance of the Library opened into a great hall, its high ceilings showed images of scenes from Tenturia's history. Towering shelves lined the walls, each filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, their bindings worn with age.

  Measured footsteps echoed throughout the hall. Silva always walked like the world owed him silence; he moved with inevitability. His finely tailored coat trailed behind him like a second shadow, and his dark hair was slicked back with surgical precision.

  Every line of him was sharpened to a suggestion of authority, of control, of calculation.

  Behind him, Beric struggled to keep pace. As a young man, he was lean and quick, but his gaze darted around the library with a mixture of awe and apprehension which caused him to lag behind. Though he wore a similarly well-made coat, his hair was slightly tousled, and his bright eyes held a hint of uncertainty.

  His master halted before a large oak door, the office of Head Archivist Sorrel. Without ceremony, he grasped the satin metal handle and swung the door open, entering the office. He seated himself in a leather armchair before Sorrel, who sat behind a simple oak desk, its surface laden with maps, notes, and research documents. Though seemingly young for his position, Sorrel possessed an air of scholarly tenure, his messy hair a stark contrast to his tweed vest and black bowtie.

  Beric closed the door behind them, stood against the wall, and crossed his hands in front of him. His expression was carefully neutral as he listened.

  “Silva,” Sorrel said, the name leaving his lips like a sigh more than a greeting. “What a surprise. It’s been some time. I trust you’re well?”

  “Well enough,” Silva replied smoothly. “And you, Sorrel? Still buried in ink and pages?”

  Sorrel offered a brittle smile as he adjusted a stack of scrolls, though his hands lingered longer than necessary. “Books make safer company than most, these days.”

  “And I remember this young man.” His eyes shifted toward Beric and nodded. “You used to argue footnotes with me in the old lecture hall. It was quieter back then.”

  Silva gestured with practiced ease. “This is Beric, my protégé.”

  Beric felt a flicker of discomfort at the word. It sat too neatly in Silva’s mouth.

  “I see,” Sorrel said after a beat, folding his hands over a half-open ledger. “Well, some paths cross again. For a time.”

  Silva leaned against the chair across from Sorrel with effortless charm. “I’ve come to inquire about our mutual acquaintance from our history together.” His tone was light, almost conversational. But Beric saw the way Sorrel’s hands clenched.

  A quiet stretched between them. Beric felt it like the pause before a knife struck its mark.

  Sorrel exhaled through his nose, leaning back. “I regret to report there is little new on that front,” he admitted. “I dove deeper into the lore, but as you know, records concerning his containment are scarce.”

  Silva said nothing, waiting.

  Sorrel fidgeted with the corner of a parchment. “And even less is documented regarding his communication patterns. I can find no explanation for the apparent… lack of connection.”

  Beric’s stomach coiled tight. Who were they talking about?

  Silva merely hummed. “That will soon be of little consequence.”

  Something in his tone made Beric’s pulse hitch.

  “I have arranged for a suitable vessel through a few whispers,” Silva continued. “She will possess the information I require.”

  Beric’s fingers curled against his coat sleeves, his mind catching on the word—vessel. Silva had not mentioned this. In Temple training, the word had only ever appeared in two contexts: one divine, one sacrificial. Neither ended well.

  He had spoken of plans before, of unraveling hidden truths, of seeking real answers, but this felt different. This felt like something being taken, not found.

  Beric schooled his features, locking the questions behind his teeth. His mind raced, fitting together pieces he didn’t yet understand.

  What whispers? Who was she? And why hadn’t Silva told him?

  His expression must have faltered, because Silva glanced at him briefly. A quick, sharp glance, just enough to let Beric know he had noticed. He forced himself to stay still, to maintain the carefully neutral mask he had learned from Silva himself.

  Sorrel, too, seemed to weigh Silva’s words. His fingers tapped a slow, uneven rhythm against the desk.

  “Then how may I be of further assistance?”

  Silva gracefully leaned forward.

  “Ah, my dear Sorrel. Your expertise in the archives is… invaluable.” He let the word settle, faintly amused. “I’ve been revisiting certain principles of the Weavers’ art—specifically their manipulation of luminous and umbral harmonics.”

  Sorrel’s reaction was nearly imperceptible: a flash in the eyes, a pause too brief for most to notice. Recognition.

  “Refractions,” he said, the word a little too ready on his tongue. “A fascinating field. Though largely theoretical, of course.”

  Dressed with a nervous laugh, he added, “Some would say esoteric, even.”

  “Of course,” Silva echoed smoothly. “And yet the theories persist. I’ve been examining the materials involved. How various substances interact with harmonic distortion: obsidian, silver, certain crystalline structures.”

  The fingers that had been tapping the desk curled slightly inward.

  “You’ve read Redaive’s Journal, then,” he said carefully. “He wrote often about polished silver—claimed it resonated with unseen frequencies, though whether he meant it as metaphor or magic is… unclear.”

  Silva gave a slow nod, his gaze fixed on Sorrel.

  “And obsidian,” Sorrel added, more hesitantly. “Layered dark-glass. Said to absorb umbral resonance, especially when angled along a mirrored—”

  He stopped. Blinked.

  “—When shaped intentionally,” he corrected, adjusting his glasses.

  Beric caught the hesitation. Sorrel wasn’t quite meeting Silva’s eyes now.

  “There are also crystalline applications,” he said, too quickly. “Obscure, mostly. Some texts suggest they refract light in… peculiar ways.”

  He swallowed. “But the methods are mostly lost. Conjecture, at best.”

  Silva’s smile sharpened, just slightly. “And yet you recall them in such detail.”

  “I remember what’s written,” Sorrel said.

  “Even fragments,” Silva murmured, “can be… illuminating.”

  Beric didn’t like the way he said it.

  Sorrel looked down, pretending to sift through the papers on his desk, though his hands didn’t move anything. After a moment:

  “I can compile a list of additional references, if that would be helpful.”

  Silva rose, hands clasped behind his back, his tone now velvet-smooth. “That would be appreciated.”

  “Your dedication to knowledge,” he added, “continues to serve the greater purpose.”

  Sorrel gave a tight, noncommittal smile. But Beric saw the tension in his jaw.

  He also noticed the way Silva lingered before turning to leave, as if already knowing he had won something here.

  He followed Silva out of the office, his mind still caught on one word.

  Vessel.

  Silva had told him many things, had taught him how to see beyond the surface of words, how to find truth buried in subtext.

  And yet, Silva had kept this from him.

  Beric had been so sure he was beginning to understand the way the world worked, the way power shifted hands like silent trades. But now, standing in the cold corridors of the Library, he realized something unsettling:

  Silva had shown him many truths.

  But not all of them.

  ***

  The Market Bazaar pressed in close, heavy with the scent of spice smoke, warmed cloth, and the metallic edge of old coin. Voices rose and scattered like gulls over stale bread. Silva moved ahead without his usual focus, gaze drifting not toward the vendors but the alleys between the tents and into the shadowed corners.

  Beric followed in silence. They had veered from the Temple road without explanation, and Silva had offered none. He rarely did.

  Near a stall crowded with threadbare banners, a vendor bent to adjust a stack of fraying cloth. His voice was low, aimed more at someone tucked behind the canvas than anyone passing.

  “That girl toppled half of my stall,” he muttered. “And the Guardians? Useless. Couldn’t catch a pigeon with both hands and a net.”

  Silva slowed, just slightly.

  Beric’s eyes dropped to the tapestry spread out across the vendor’s table. The Seal of Making had been stitched in reverse, the looped glyphs uneven, the dyes bleeding across mismatched thread. It wasn’t just wrong. It was indifferent to the meaning it once carried.

  “That’s not the standard pattern,” Beric said, frowning.

  The vendor shrugged without looking up. “People don’t look too close. Long as it resembles it, they’ll buy it.”

  “It’s misleading,” Beric replied, stepping closer. “The alignment’s off, the fourth ring isn’t even looped properly—”

  “Look kid,” the man cut in. “Didn’t say it was perfect. Said it was for sale.”

  Beric hesitated. He knew every flaw by heart—could list the citation codes, strip it for violations, drag it back to the archives by law alone.

  But he didn’t.

  He glanced back at Silva, who stood just behind him, hands folded, watching without expression.

  He wants me to act.

  After a long beat, Silva stepped forward and brushed his fingers across the tapestry’s edge.

  “Only truth can bear the weight of flame,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then he let the cloth fall and moved on.

  The vendor’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  Beric lingered for a moment. The tapestry swayed slightly where Silva’s touch had passed.

  He had seen the flaw.

  He just hadn’t done anything about it.