But the girl had a question too big for safety,

  and a sorrow too heavy to hold.

  Nestled in the heart of the Weaver’s District, the gallery exuded hushed reverence. Dim lighting cast long, shifting shadows across the walls, catching on shadow-etched tapestries and sculptures that seemed to watch.

  The gala hummed with the soft murmur of polite conversation, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the subtle scent of expensive perfumes. A private viewing, reserved for the Inner Ring’s elite; it was a place where art and influence intertwined.

  Beric stepped inside, scanning the room with detached precision. The guests barely looked his way, absorbed in art or intrigue. Nobles, artists, power brokers—different pieces, same game.

  He found Lady Elmsworth, standing before an intricate tapestry, its threads woven into the form of a sleek lupine creature. Its shadow shifted in the dim light. The effect was subtle but unsettling, as if the tapestry itself was alive.

  Another errand. Another quiet exchange.

  Silva’s tasks were becoming more… convoluted. Beric had long since stopped asking why.

  With practiced ease, he moved toward her, keeping his expression neutral, his posture deferential. He extended his hand, presenting the small obsidian box. Its polished surface was cool against his fingers, its intricate carvings barely catching the candlelight.

  Lady Elmsworth’s eyes flicked to the box, then to him. A silent acknowledgment passed between them—a test, and a confirmation. Their roles were understood, secrecy intact.

  She accepted the box with the grace of someone accustomed to espionage. Her fingers traced the carvings as if committing them to memory, then, without hesitation, she opened it.

  Inside, there was no object. Only symbols, etched along the interior in fine, deliberate strokes. Among them, barely noticeable, was the small, stylized image of a cat, woven seamlessly into the design.

  Beric forced himself not to react.

  Lady Elmsworth studied the markings for only a moment before snapping the box shut. A faint smile ghosted her lips.

  “So, the familiar guards the threshold,” she murmured. “Tell your master my webs will carry the message.”

  Beric kept his face carefully neutral, but irritation flickered beneath the surface.

  Another cryptic code. Another message wrapped in riddles.

  Why the riddles?

  But he knew better. Silva never gave answers, only tasks. Threads trailing into shadows, always just out of reach. But they were tangling, and Beric could feel it, an unease curling at the edges of his mind, telling him that whatever game Silva was playing, it was becoming darker.

  Still, he nodded, mirroring her subtlety. His silence spoke the answer she expected: Message received.

  Without another word, he turned and slipped back into the crowd, becoming nothing once again.

  As he slipped back into the crowd, candlelight blurred at the edges of his vision. The hum of conversation faded, but the weight in his chest deepened.

  Silva’s games had always required patience, obedience, precision. But lately, the rules were shifting—and Beric wasn’t sure who they were really meant to serve.

  ***

  The hymns of the cantors wove through the air like unseen threads—steady, ancient, unbroken.

  The temple was dim, its only illumination the flickering glow of candlelight and the shadow movement of the mural on the northern wall. The seven Prime Weavers, frozen in the act of creation, their hands extended toward a glowing center.

  Beric sat in one of the pews, his arms crossed, head bowed.

  A breath in, smelling the incense, the wax, the old stone. The familiar scents settled over him like a heavy cloak.

  A breath out.

  The weight in his chest didn’t lift.

  He opened his eyes, staring at the mural of The Prime Weavers, guardians of the Tapestry, keepers of balance. Their carved faces looked through him, unmoved by the prayers below.

  Had they always seemed so distant?

  Slowly, Beric stood and walked toward the inset wall of candles, the flames trembling in the temple’s quiet draft.

  He let his fingers graze the wooden ledge, his gaze on the tiny, dancing lights. There were more unlit candles than before.

  Too many unlit candles. Not enough faith to light them.

  His lips parted, and the words came, but they did not feel the same.

  "Aelyra, Spell Weaver, cast thine protections in abundance…"

  The words fell from his tongue as always, but something in them felt brittle.

  "Zaltar, Stitcher of Souls, purify mine spirit…"

  A flicker of doubt.

  "Riven, Story Spinner, may thy tale find purchase in the threads of mine heart…"

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  His voice faltered.

  From beyond the open temple doors, voices drifted in, soft but sharp against the hush of candlelight and stone. At first, it was only background noise. Then a voice, sharp and questioning, cut through.

  "Restore… You know, that word keeps surfacing."

  Beric stilled. It was a young girl’s voice, sharp and skeptical.

  He turned slightly. The doors stood ajar, framing the muted twilight like a painting. For a moment, a silhouette passed through the shifting light. A figure standed near the steps, hood down below her tangled hair.

  He couldn't see her clearly, just a shadow against the glow of the courtyard braziers.

  Then, another voice, High Weaver Belacqua, patient and measured.

  "Ah. The Core."

  Beric’s stiffened.

  The Core.

  His fingers curled around the edge of the wooden ledge. Who was she talking to? The mention of the Core struck him in the chest.

  The voices faded slightly as they moved further from the entrance. He hesitated, his feet shifting as though he might step forward, might follow.

  But he didn't.

  Instead, he looked back to the mural, his unease deepening.

  If the Weavers held the balance, why did everything tilt? If they watched the Tapestry, why did the threads fray?

  And if they had given their power to mend the world… why did it still feel so broken?

  A sudden draft wisped the candle flames. Beric blinked. The moment passed, but the doubt remained.

  After a long silence, he reached forward and lit a single candle out of habit.

  Then turned and walked away—leaving one small flame in a room full of shadows.

  ***

  Hours later, the shop on Second Street was a graveyard of machines. Gears twisted mid-motion, half-formed automatons hung like skeletons, and the air reeked of aged oil and dust. Lamplight filtered through grime-coated glass, twisting shadows into unnatural shapes against the cluttered walls.

  Beric stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The noise of the street outside was muffled, swallowed by the shop’s oppressive stillness.

  Two figures stood in the back, dressed in sharp, tailored suits that did not belong in a place like this. They looked like silver filigree hammered onto rust.

  They turned as he entered, their expressions carefully measured with just enough amusement to veil their thinly concealed disdain.

  “Ah,” Frances drawled, his angular features sharpening with his smirk. “The chosen one returns.”

  Beside him, Paolo chuckled, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Didn’t think we’d be graced by Silva’s favorite pet today.”

  Beric didn’t react. He’d heard worse. He ignored the barb and held out the package, a small, intricately wrapped parcel, the wax seal pressed clean and unbroken.

  Frances didn’t take it. Just tilted his head, curiosity drawn sharp with mockery.

  "It must be nice," he said, rolling the words lazily off his tongue. "Deliver the package, nod when you’re told, don’t ask questions. Silva must appreciate a reliable pet."

  He let the insult settle, watching for a reaction. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile, he added, "Or is that just what you tell yourself?"

  Beric kept his voice even. “Just a delivery.”

  Paolo exhaled a quiet laugh. “Efficient, isn’t he?” He plucked the package from Beric’s hand, his movements slow and deliberate, as if mocking the exchange itself. He tore the wax seal effortlessly and unfolded the cloth wrapping, revealing a set of finely crafted tools—slim, sharp, and precise.

  Paolo ran a gloved finger along the edge of one. “Ah. Exquisite work.”

  “Did they let you touch them this time, Beric?” Frances taunted, his smirk deepening.

  Paolo smirked. “Or did you just admire them from a safe distance?”

  Beric felt his jaw tighten, but he didn’t rise to the bait. That was what they wanted.

  Instead, his attention drifted past them, toward the far wall. The automatons sat slumped on workbenches, half-shrouded in cloth, their brass limbs folded like sleeping limbs. One of them had its chestplate open. Inside, a compact device nestled like a second heart—coiled wires, polished casing, and a faint chemical tang in the air.

  Beside it, crates were stacked in neat rows. Their wood still smelled of sawdust. They were brand new.

  Something was deeply wrong.

  Frances plucked a gear from the table, lifting it to the light. “It’s all about precision,” he said, too pleased with himself.

  “A tiny tinker can make all the difference.” He gestured vaguely toward the automatons. “Much like the ones in there.”

  Beric didn’t move, but his pulse picked up.

  He shifted his gaze toward the metallic devices. Small, compact mechanisms with intricate wiring, nestled carefully inside the automatons. Then he saw it. A brass dial, ticking behind a beveled glass face.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  A slow, sinking dread curled in his stomach.

  They weren’t repairs. They were preparations.

  Frances must have caught the moment of realization in his eyes. He chuckled, but his eyes stayed cold. “Must be nice,” he said, “dropping packages, staying clean.”

  He brushed dust from his lapel, like the place offended him. “The world’s not mended with patience and prayer. It’s rewoven by hands like ours.”

  Paolo fitted one of the devices into an automaton’s chest, slow and reverent. “We do the work that matters,” he murmured. “We bleed so the blind can see again.”

  Frances sneered. “Let the Weavers light candles. This world never asked to be healed.”

  Beric wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

  The automaton on the table ticked on, steady and precise, like it didn’t care who was listening. It had already been told what to do.

  Frances wiped his hands on a cloth and tossed it aside. “That’s about all we need.” He glanced at Paolo. “Shall we?”

  Paolo nodded, brushing past Beric without a second look. “Let’s get out of this tomb and back to civilization.”

  Frances paused in the doorway. His smirk was gone.

  “They call us heretics,” he said. “Soon, they’ll call us architects.”

  Paolo murmured in agreement as they passed.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Frances added, his voice laced with unspoken warning.

  “And don’t linger.”

  The door swung shut behind them. The lock clicked into place.

  Beric didn’t move. The air felt too still. A pressure valve sealed tight, waiting to release. His eyes drifted to the brass dial ticking inside the automaton’s chest, its needle jerking with every measured beat.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  He’d done what Silva asked.

  But for the first time, he wasn’t sure he should have.