Rain lashed the streets of Elanor's Hollow as Mira led Davina through the alleyways toward the old cathedral ruins—now the safest place to meet in secret. Their footsteps echoed on broken stone as they entered the shelter of ancient arches. The Circle of Thread waited, hoods drawn.
"Tonight," Mira began, "we move beyond stitches. Tonight, we learn to resist."
A murmur of agreement passed through the women.
Mira placed a roll of parchment on a cracked altar. "This is a warding map. Spindle agents are drawing close. We need to thread protective sigils into the very corners of this village."
Davina stepped forward. "I can help."
Mira hesitated, but nodded. "Your glyph was true. If you're ready, we'll begin with the Threads of Anchoring."
They worked in pairs, weaving wards into hidden places—beneath window frames, behind shutters, stitched into clothing. But Mira knew it was only a matter of time.
In the tower of the Guild, Matron Elissae traced Davina's name in golden ink on a scroll.
"She carries the signature of the First Weaver," she whispered. "If she awakens the Heartvine's core—our monopoly ends."
Lord Daemir stepped closer. "Then we must end her before she learns to control it."
Elissae's eyes glittered. "Not yet. Let her grow. Let her awaken it. Then we take her. Heartvine obeys only blood—and she is the last Threadborn."
That night, Davina dreamt of a forest spun from stars. Threads hung between trees like spider silk, and in the center stood a massive, glowing loom made of crystal and root. A voice, neither man nor woman, echoed softly:
You are the weave and the weaver. The needle and the thread. Come find me.
She awoke with the taste of starlight on her tongue.
To be continued...