Vann’s gaze lowers, his expression becoming something dark. He studies me, not just my words or my posture—but me. And for the first time in a long while, I can’t guess what he’s thinking.
I hate this feeling.
It creeps up only occasionally around him—this thing that coils beneath my skin, unsettling and unwelcome. I want to banish it, to shove it away just as I did the bloodied nightgown hidden in my room.
I should take that thing out and burn it.
"You know what I mean," I say, but the words are weak. Vann steps back, breaking whatever strange pull had settled between us.
He shakes his head, brushing past my deflection with infuriating ease. His voice is all business when he speaks again. “There is no spider blood inside the house?”
My breath catches. The stain on my nightgown flashes in my mind, stark against pale fabric.
I bite my lip. “No.” Another lie. The answer comes too quickly, too sharp to be wise. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to clean this.”
Vann shakes his head. “No, allow me. You should really go to see Ulla. She helped you last night, and if you don’t remember, it would be good to check in.”
I swallow. “Right.”
Vann’s hand twitches as I step past him, but he doesn’t stop me.
I grit my teeth and keep walking. Even with my home positioned well within the council housing, reaching the looms takes nearly half an hour. The steady bustle of morning activity filters through the streets. I smile and wave at everyone who greets me.
When I pass Hammerhead Hall, the scent of roasted grains and crisped meat fills the air. My stomach twists painfully, still hungry, but I don’t stop.
I think of Ulla. What would I even say to her?
Would she see through me, hear the shake in my voice, the gaps in my memory? Would she ask how I was feeling?
Guilt prickles over my skin when I think of the spider. Clearly, I had something to do with it as evidenced by the blood on my fingernails and nightgown. But I can’t remember anything last night.
Had my subconscious protected me? Had someone who brought me back from getting a tattoo killed it?
I duck my head and press forward. When I reach the looms, I’ll lose myself in work. Everything will be fine.
It has to be fine.
The gilded arches of the weaving cavern rise ahead. The tension in my shoulders eases just a fraction. It’s safe here. Most people don’t visit—I’ll be able to hide for a while.
Some might say that being put on the council should preclude me from also serving as a weaver and actively assisting with classes.
Butsomepeople should be thankful for the blankets on their bed.
I cross under the arches and survey the massive area filled with over a hundred standing looms. The air hums with the rhythmic clack of carved shuttles against stone.
At the back of the chamber, Lady Fira stands with a group of stone-bending weavers, their hands working in tandem over a massive block of silkstone. Unlike regular weaving, their craft is a seamless dance between artistry and magic.
Stone benders, enduares gifted with the ability to manipulate rock, have long shaped the foundations of Enduvida. Some, like the builders, mold the city’s structures with practiced precision. Others, like Fira, unravel stone itself, spinning delicate threads that no ordinary hands could weave.
I watch as she pulls at the edge of the silkstone, her deft fingers coaxing impossibly thin threads free before winding them onto her spindle. An old pang stirs in my chest. For all my skill with a loom and teaching children, I’ve always wished I had magic—something to let me weave as seamlessly as she does. But very few humans are born with magic, and those who are aren’t exactly revered for it.
Thebrujas, as we call them in our tongue—witches in the common speech—are rarely trusted.
I glance around the chamber. Only two other weavers have arrived before me—one human, one enduar. The enduar, an ocean-risen named La’Mihni, is already at her station, her skilled hands moving over fabric more suited for a gown than a simple woven rug.
Her long, glossy gray hair is piled high above her head in intricate coils. Gems glitter across her workstation, catching the glow of the spell-lights above. Draped over her thigh is a swath of deep red fabric, rich as blood. I know exactly what she’s working on. Her mating journey gown.
A frown tugs at my lips. It seems a waste when there’s so much else to do.