Elowen found herself in a dark, cold, and musty room. The gray trapdoor walls did not match the sophisticated artifact resting on a simple altar at the center of the chamber.

  The feeling of accomplishment from completing part of her task blended with admiration for such a beautiful object. A golden bracelet—or rather, bracer—crafted in crossed weaving patterns, albeit asymmetrical. The majestic brace was large enough to cover her entire forearm. Yet what truly hypnotized her was the beauty of the black gem embedded within the intricate weave of golden bands. When she held the artifact in her hands, her gaze fixed on that gem; its symmetrical lens shape resembled an eye, drawing her in, almost beckoning her to wear it.

  Elowen shook her head. I’m not here for that, come on. She hurried to stash the refined object into a travel bag. The contrast did not go unnoticed to her eyes.

  She left the trapdoor and entered the hall, searching for the mercenary who had accompanied her. She doubted the raiders would have the audacity to attack after the terror they had witnessed. She wished she could have chosen the blood weaver himself as her escort, but he was still recovering—he had fainted in her arms earlier.

  Blood weaving drained its user, and Brennik, the weaver, had used it to tend to his grandmother’s wound, which would have otherwise claimed her life. Elowen waited for his recovery so she could thank him once more. Her family meant everything to her.

  The mercenary who had accompanied her to retrieve the artifact was patrolling the perimeter. Spotting him, she called out. A smile spread across her face—larger than usual—everything was going her way.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Gryffyn?” she said. The day was as gray as a wolf. “I found what I was looking for. Ready to toss the millstone away?”

  Fond of conversation, Elowen often took an interest in others’ lives. Over time, she realized people loved talking about themselves; they just needed the right nudge. Gryffyn, the mercenary with her, owned a modest plot of land near Nihonek, purchased through years of saving his pay as a soldier for the Emperor. His grain farm demanded hard labor, and he was looking for ways to improve it. He had told Elowen that with the escort reward, he planned to build a mill on the river running through his land, freeing himself from the burden of grinding grains by hand and improving his family’s quality of life.

  A good man, she thought.

  On the way back, they talked about various topics. They spoke about the ruins: the artifact had been hidden in a trapdoor beneath the hall of an old mansion. Even with it being mostly debris now, just a shadow of what it once was, the grandeur of the place was still evident. It had undoubtedly been an extremely luxurious home.

  Elowen pondered this. She had grown up in a nomadic tribe, and even the most lavish tents there couldn’t compare to such a mansion. She wasn’t ignorant—on the contrary, she was an exceptionally successful merchant and often represented her tribe in city matters. Yet, such opulence always intrigued her.

  The topic that persisted between them, however, was the blood weaver. Gryffyn was thoroughly impressed by what Brennik had done in combat. It wasn’t just his power—it was his reasoning, the way he controlled the battlefield. With over twenty years of experience as a soldier, Gryffyn could easily distinguish good strategists from bad ones, and still, Brennik had left him astonished.

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  Elowen, on the other hand, didn’t share the same fascination. It would take more than that to impress her—and for good reason…

  What neither of them noticed on their way back to the caravan, however, was that they weren’t returning alone. A young man, armed with a sword and shield, was stealthily following them, his steps as quiet as a cat’s.

  Brennik was eating a piece of beef liver with beans, beets, and spinach while sipping orange juice—it was said this was a weaver’s diet. Another mercenary sat injured; the arrow that had pierced his shoulder wasn’t fatal but would certainly hinder him in a fight. Only one mercenary was in full condition to ensure the caravan’s security—a precarious situation, but the threats’ ignorance of that fact provided them with a fragile but enjoyed safety.

  Gryffyn and Elowen returned from retrieving the artifact. They would soon depart for the next city, where Brennik would receive his payment for the job and head back to his tavern in Nihonek, ready for the next one.

  When she saw Brennik, Elowen beamed, ready to thank him once again for what he had done for her grandmother—she felt immensely grateful for the blood weaver’s deed. However, as she approached, Brennik cast aside his food and assumed a defensive stance, pointing his weapons at her—a gesture mirrored by the mercenary guarding the caravan.

  Elowen and Gryffyn froze. Why would they do such a thing? What had happened during their absence? They were about to ask for clarification, but a voice behind them quickly cleared up their confusion:

  “Please, sir, take me as your apprentice,” said the young man who had followed them back to the caravan, dropping to one knee with his head bowed in submission.

  “Huh?” What a strange request. Brennik had been expecting a messenger—or perhaps a lone assassin of exceptional skill. This declaration caught him off guard in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  The young man—his hair gray as was common in the region despite appearing to be between eighteen and twenty years old—lifted his head, his eyes ablaze with determination.

  “I saw how you fight, sir. I want to be like you. I want to be able to make a difference.”

  Brennik let out a faint, surprised chuckle, then scowled, answering in a disapproving tone.

  “Difference, grayling? You don’t know what that is.”

  Brennik didn’t feel that. Quite the opposite, what difference had he made in this very city? If he had made any impact in Kynnyav, it had been a negative one. He had helped massacre an entire city. Why would he help someone become like him—a genocidal man? No, Brennik didn’t wish that upon anyone. If there was one thing the blood weaver wanted, it was to prevent someone from becoming like him.

  The mercenary flatly refused the young man’s pleas. The other members of the caravan had already resumed their tasks, preparing for the end of the journey. The caravan was split between members of Elowen’s tribe and hired workers, like the cook. When the cook died, Brennik had initially thought that at least he wouldn’t need to retrieve his utensils anymore. Later, he regretted that thought, considering retrieving the cook’s knives anyway to bury them with the deceased. It’s what Burm would’ve done, he thought. But he shouldn’t stray from the group, and the group couldn’t afford to return to the site. Besides, the raiders themselves had likely already collected their dead to give them a proper burial.

  “Two years ago,” the young man began, thinking that telling his story might persuade the blood weaver to train him, “I was here, in this city, sir. I’m a survivor of Kynnyav. If I had your power, sir... I could’ve stopped what happened…”

  The tone of indifference in Brennik’s refusal shattered with that declaration.

  “You’re from Kynnyav?” Even with his surprise and sudden interest, Brennik remained succinct in his words.

  “Yes, sir—born and raised. I only survived by a miracle. One of the invaders… he was a blood weaver. He realized I was one too, sir, but I’d never practiced before—I kept it hidden from everyone so I wouldn’t face a blood weaver’s fate.”

  The boy’s a weaver—that’s why he’s looking for me as a mentor. Of course!

  “Sir,” the boy continued, “he taught me how to calm myself, control my thoughts… and he hid me where no one could find me.”

  “You know his name, grayling?” Brennik interrupted.

  “Burm, sir.”