In the arena, victory belongs to those who master the game. In life, survival favors those who forsake its rules.
– Dion Proverb
Aslavain: Twenty-Three Days After the Summer Solstice
Sylva trailed Lotem and Hadrian as they approached Dornogor, noting the shift from uneven grassland to a cobbled road that led to the massive tree. She couldn’t stop glancing up, captivated by the blood-red flowers and dark gray bark towering above. Apart from the web-covered trees surrounding Nyxol or the bone trees of Tir Na Nog, this was her first time seeing a real, living tree. She wondered if all trees were this large.
Hadrian’s voice brimmed with awe as he bombarded Lotem with questions about everything. He had looked ready to bolt to get a better look at the first herd of bison they passed, held back only by Lotem’s steady grip and the watchful eyes of the nearby herders, which prevented any delay in their journey to the city.
Sylva had decided that she didn’t dislike animals—she had even come to enjoy watching Sabel play and accepted the kitten as part of their team. Rather, she was realizing she felt uneasy under the watchful eyes of the creatures as she walked through their grassland. She met the gaze of an elk observing their approach and shivered at the clever gleam in its eyes.
Alsarana had claimed that [Beastmasters] could breed animals with intelligence and sentience akin to humans. If any place in the empire could achieve such a feat, it would be Dornogor. Sylva quickened her pace, making sure not to fall too far behind the lively conversation ahead.
“—And you’re sure the ground sloths are related to the same sloths we had in the canopies?” Hadrian asked, incredulous.
“As sure as I can be. Why would they call them sloths if they weren’t related? You have tree sloths; we have ground sloths.”
“But they’re so… large,” Hadrian said, drawing Sylva’s attention to the sloths scattered among the bison. Most of the bison stood at her height—already taller than she liked—while the sloths were more than double that. One lumbering creature lifted a paw, and she couldn’t tear her eyes from the three claws, each as long as a sword.
“They’re just so much more… well… impressive than the tree variety. Those little ones can barely defend themselves. Without the toxic moss covering them, they wouldn’t survive.” Hadrian pointed to the sloth Sylva had been watching. “That one looks like a single blow could kill a full-grown Simian.”
“They are the defenders of the herds,” Lotem said with a shrug.
“Ho,” called a shirtless man walking beside the herd with the sloth Hadrian had pointed out. “New to the City of Beasts, are we?”
Sylva opened her mouth, ready to reply when Lotem’s voice rang out across the grassland. She shut her mouth with a frown. It unsettled her to feel out of her depth as Lotem took the lead. While he had more experience with such social interactions, he didn’t have her training and that worried her.
“Ho,” Lotem called back easily. “We are indeed new. What gave us away?” he said with a grin.
“Aside from the bewildered looks? I haven’t seen you around, and ole’ Freshfeet never forgets a face.”
Sylva cleared her throat, drawing the man’s attention. “Your name is Ole’ Freshfeet?”
“What of it?” he said, the warmth in his voice fading as he studied her from a distance. His gaze narrowed, then widened in surprise. “Bleeding moons, lass, you one of those Silkborn?”
She nodded, glad the man had recognized that at least. “From the Sect of Silken Grace.”
His eyes widened further, and Sylva felt a thrill as he looked her over again. At least her Sect’s reputation preceded her; the elders hadn’t lied about that.
“You know, when the Claw Speaker said we Eidolons could expect the most competitive contest in decades when the twin moons ascend, I wasn’t sure what to think. But another from the Sect? The prize must be even better than I imagined.”
Another from the Sect? He must mean from one of the Sects; none of the Silken Grace candidates would stoop to entering Dornogor unless they had to.
“You don’t know what the prize is?” Hadrian asked.
The man scratched the back of his head, one corner of his lips curling slightly. “The Claw Speaker usually announces it before the first candidates arrive. Moons above, we Eidolons rely on gossip like that to keep us going. But this year? The shrine’s on lockdown, and only a few of us have been allowed inside during the preparations.”
Lotem grabbed Hadrian’s arm, cutting off the questions that seemed ready to spill from him. Sylva had worried for a moment that he might reveal the prize was a Wyvern. He wouldn’t mean any harm, but she knew their chances would be better if they kept the secret.
“Any recommendations for lunch?” Lotem asked. Ole’ Freshfeet brightened at the question and responded confidently.
“The Slothful Sip is run by Ole’ Mossfoot, one of only three [Chefs] who became an Eidolon here. Mossfoot is sure as anything to treat you well.” The man hesitated. “Though, the fare might suit someone like me better than you. Excuse me, young miss. The Gilded Fang is where you’ll find more… august fare.”
Lotem gathered directions for both restaurants and bid the man farewell before they continued on. After they were out of earshot, Lotem slowed his pace and turned to Hadrian.
“Probably best if we don’t mention the Wyvern for now. If even the Eidolons of the shrine don’t know, it must be a bigger secret than we thought.”
Hadrian gave Lotem a confused look. “Casselia didn’t mention it was a secret. I know not to mention my class, but are there other things I should keep quiet about?”
“The strength of a secret lies not in the weave but in the vigilance of the weaver,” Sylva said, quoting the elders. “The less information you share, Hadrian, the less likely we are to run into trouble.”
“I concur,” Lotem added. “Ole’ Freshfeet seemed decent enough, but we know the Eidolons don’t always have our best interests at heart. When a secret breaks from the herd, it runs wild, and everyone who sees it will give chase. That’s the last thing we need.”
Hadrian agreed reluctantly as they neared the city, his curiosity momentarily dampened. Lotem began to eagerly point out different species, as excited to describe them as Hadrian had been earlier. By the time they reached the first huts and tents, Hadrian’s curiosity had returned, albeit reluctantly. Sylva wondered if Lotem was truly enjoying the explanations or if they were wholly for Hadrian’s benefit.
Lotem pointed out the various stores and buildings. Most, Sylva ignored. The blacksmith reminded her why she never wanted to see fire or metal again. The forge’s scent triggered a memory of Morvan’s flesh burning within his armor, filling her with a surge of disgust. An apothecary caught her eye, but the Silkborn had no need for mundane medicines or potions.
Lotem pointed out another two-story wooden building, and Sylva gasped when she saw the sign, strung with multicolored thread in scholar’s script. Cloth of Claws, she read, growing excited.
“Here. We must stop here,” Sylva said firmly, causing Hadrian and Lotem to stop and turn toward her.
“Did you not want to get lunch?” Lotem asked, glancing between the storefront and her. “We can do the fancy one if you want…”
“Unless Hadrian, dear, would part with some of his fog silk—” She paused, looking at Hadrian, who fidgeted uncomfortably under her gaze. “Then yes. I need magical thread for my eyes if I’m to gain the sight to see the Sulphen.”
“I—” Hadrian began.
“Stop,” she cut him off firmly. “Hadrian, Krinka told me I’d need magical thread back in Tir Na Nog, and I haven’t asked you about it since. Not because I don’t want the fog silk—I do—but because I know how important the robe is to you.” And, she thought, I still haven’t figured out how we could even get a piece of string from the fog. “I still need the thread, and unless you want us to cut a piece from your robe, this seems like the best place to get it.”
Hadrian looked relieved as she turned back to Cloth of Claws, as if he’d expected her to make an unreasonable request. As if she would. What did he think she was, some common peasant who couldn’t manage their greed? Sylva would get what she needed, but she wouldn’t embarrass herself doing it. If he wouldn’t share the silk anyway, why strain their relationship?
Lotem followed reluctantly as she strode toward the shop and opened the door. As Sylva stepped into the Cloth of Claws, the rich aroma of wool and linen greeted her, mingled with a sharp, almost spicy hint of enchanted fibers. Sunlight filtered through small, dust-speckled windows, casting warm, golden patches of light across the store. Shelves stacked high with spools and bundles in every imaginable color lined the walls
“I want all of it.”
“That may be a bit much for the lovely lady,” a woman’s voice said from behind a counter to Sylva’s right. In her excitement, Sylva hadn’t noticed the woman, and she turned, grateful for her composure—she was certain a human would have blushed.
“Oh, I didn’t mean ‘all’ all of it,” Sylva said too quickly. I mean, she thought, I could take all of it. “It’s just surprising to find so much quality string in one place in this part of the empire.”
The human woman wore a bright vest woven from strands of yellow, red, and green, with long brown hair tied neatly in a bun. She was far too old to be one of this year’s candidates. An Eidolon, Sylva realized, she must be an expert. Sylva bowed deeply, hoping she hadn’t accidentally caused offense.
“The last Silkborn to enter my shop said the same thing,” the woman said with a faint smile. “The Kiel and sects don’t have a monopoly on cloth. I like to think there’s little that unites the empire’s species more than the need for clothes.”
Lotem cleared his throat behind Sylva. “We actually came to see if you have any… magical threads.”
“The girl can speak for herself, boy,” the woman said dismissively, gesturing for Sylva to follow. “Come, come, the good threads are on the second floor.”
Sylva followed the woman without hesitation. She was surprised when the woman stopped abruptly, turning to scowl at a point over Sylva’s shoulder.
“Does looming over my threads look free? If you’re not interested in my goods, then get out. The Silkborn at least have a proper appreciation for quality.”
“But—” Lotem began.
“But what?” the woman interrupted fiercely. Lotem cast a desperate look at Sylva, unsure how to proceed.
“Do you work on credit?” Sylva asked the woman. “He has the party’s coin and is trying to be considerate so you don’t have to wait for payment.” Sylva was certain he wasn’t, but the women didn’t have to know that.
The woman raised an eyebrow in disbelief, glancing between them. “Does the Bal not trust you?” She lowered her voice, though Sylva was sure Lotem and Hadrian could still hear her. “Hon, you really don’t need to be part of a group that doesn’t respect you enough to let you make your own purchases.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Sylva said defensively, though it was exactly like that. “They have other important shopping, and I want to make sure they have enough coin for their purchases. If you can work on credit, I’m sure they’d return in, say, an hour to pay you.”
The woman huffed and whirled around, stomping up the staircase with a quick gesture for Sylva to follow. Sylva did, confident Lotem got the message. How much coin could she spend in an hour, anyway?
“Well, she was a bit of an ass,” Lotem said once they left the store, shaking his head. “I knew most Eidolons wouldn’t think highly of the Bal, but still.”
“You think she was rude because you’re Bal?” Hadrian asked, a frown deepening the lines on his brow.
“Think it? I know it.” Lotem mimicked the shopkeeper’s voice, repeating her words in a high, nasal tone. “Does the Bal not trust you?” He glanced at Hadrian, fists clenched at his sides. “They always think the worst of us.”
“Want to get some food?” Hadrian offered, hoping to ease the tension that had crept into Lotem’s posture. When Lotem hesitated, Hadrian added, “It’s Sylva’s loss; she gave us an hour. We might as well enjoy it.”
“Sure,” Lotem said, the tautness in his shoulders easing. He reached into his cloak and gently lifted a dozing Sabel from the pocket she’d made her den. The kitten yawned, emitting a tiny squeak as she stretched.
“She’s grown,” Hadrian said, watching as Lotem placed Sabel on his shoulder. Where she once fit snugly in Lotem’s palm, she now perched confidently on his shoulder, beginning to fill the space. Sabel stood tall, eyes catching on the flock of birds above, and released a high-pitched chirp that drew smiles from both of them.
“A mighty warrior,” Lotem said with a grin, scratching Sabel’s head. “To the Slothful Sip?”
“Lead the way.”
They made their way through the cobbled streets, weaving deeper into the city as Lotem traced Ole’ Freshfeet’s directions. The streets were lively, full of candidates moving in groups of two or three, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Hadrian marveled at the diversity. He noticed humans ranging in size from one less than half the height of Sylva, walking next to a woman wearing intricate robes decorated with carved bones, to a pair of men even taller than Lotem, though Hadrian suspected they could be Numen.
Intellectually, Hadrian understood the Empire’s vast inclusivity, but seeing it firsthand was different. His eyes flitted around, unwilling to miss any detail. Whenever he met another’s gaze, he offered a small smile, wanting to seem friendly, not intimidating.
At last, they reached a sprawling tent that took up an entire city block, its light-brown fabric crowned with a column of smoke rising through a central gap. The scent of spiced meat and simmering dishes wafted out, and Hadrian’s mouth watered. He might not have known the Bal’s full history or place in the Empire, but their cooking was proof enough of their worth.
Lotem stepped inside, with Hadrian following close behind. The tent was laid out with richly woven rugs and scattered pillows. Groups of diners sat in animated discussion, cups and plates in hand. Hadrian followed Lotem’s lead to a large wooden counter, where an orc with tusks curling from his mouth stood, appraising them as he set down two tankards.
“First time at the Slothful Sip?” the orc asked, sizing them up. “Do you know what you want, or will you trust my recommendation?”
“Your choice,” Lotem said without hesitation, then looked to Hadrian.
“I’ll take the same,” Hadrian replied, relieved the decision was out of his hands. The orc grunted approvingly, wiping his hands on his leather apron before turning toward the tent’s center. Hadrian’s eyes followed, landing on a half-dozen creatures resembling monkeys stationed around the fire. Simians? he thought, suddenly wary.
The orc barked a series of sharp commands in a language Hadrian didn’t recognize. The black-and-white creatures sprang into action. One grabbed a wire basket and dipped it into a steaming pot, pulling up glistening strands that were passed to another, who held two bowls. A third, hefting a ladle nearly its size, scooped a thick red sauce over the noodles.
“Don’t mind the lemurs,” the orc said with a grin as he caught Hadrian’s gaze. Lemurs? Hadrian wondered, unfamiliar with the term. “Picked them up in my adventuring days. They’re as much a part of this place as I am. Find a seat; your food will be out soon.”
Lotem nodded in thanks, leading them to a rug in the back, woven from the pale yellow grasses of the plains. As they sat, Hadrian was surprised by how soft the woven grass felt beneath him. Lotem let out a long, heavy sigh, tension finally draining from his frame.
“It’s hard to believe now, but five years ago, I wanted this more than anything.” He gestured at the tent with a wistful smile. “I dreamed of being a chef, running my own tent as the tribe roamed. I wanted to see the whole Empire, not just the Zherenkhan herd lands. Everyone needs food, after all.”
Hadrian nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that. Your cooking’s been great, at least from what I’ve tasted.”
“You’ve only seen the basics,” Lotem said, a playful gleam in his eye. “The Eidolon,” he nodded toward the orc, “is sure to have some tricks beyond managing lemurs. If you liked my simple fare…”
Soon, a trio of the lemurs walked over, two carrying bowls filled with long strands covered in sauce and the last walking with two mugs filled with liquid that sloshed, constantly on the verge of spilling, though Hadrian had yet to see an actual drop leave the glass. A skill? He wondered. The lemurs set down the food on the rug in front of them, and Hadrian and Lotem took their glasses from the black-and-white-striped creature, who scampered away with an excited shriek that made Hadrian flinch.
“Pasta with red sauce. Ever had it?” Lotem asked, only to pause when Hadrian’s expression answered for him. Lotem picked up a pair of wooden sticks, pinched a noodle, and held it up. “Try it.”
Hadrian mirrored the movement, lifting a noodle to his lips and slurping it. The chewy texture, combined with the rich, tangy sauce, was unlike anything he’d eaten. Sweet notes played against deep, savory undertones. He met Lotem’s eyes, serious.
“You could make this?”
“Aye, the sauce at least. Haven’t seen the tomatoes used, though. Probably from the City of Growth. The noodles could be bought too; there’s bound to be a seller.” Lotem shrugged, as though it were no great feat.
“I want to try everything,” Hadrian said with unexpected intensity, catching Lotem off guard. To Lotem, it might be a meal, but to Hadrian, it was revelation.
Lotem sniffed his drink. “Ever had beer?”
“Beer?”
“Any alcohol?”
“Some of the adults had a fruit liquor that they said was alcoholic, though I never had any. My Pa always said we had better things to do with our time.”
Lotem chuckled, raising his mug. “Here’s to trying new things.” He took a deep sip and sighed contentedly. “Not too dark, just right.”
Hadrian sipped his own, unsure. The bitter taste dried his mouth, underwhelming compared to the food. He swallowed with effort. “Interesting.”
Lotem’s booming laugh drew looks from around the tent as the Bal man grinned, looking more relaxed than Hadrian had ever seen him. “It’s an acquired taste. Don’t drink it too quickly; no need for us to get drunk at lunch.”
As they ate, Hadrian bombarded Lotem with questions about cooking and drinks. Lotem seemed alive, more vibrant than he’d been in weeks. The underground chamber where they’d been trapped now felt distant, as if Lotem had shed his apprehensions. When they finished, they returned their bowls and mugs to the counter. Lotem paid with silver coins from Casselia’s pouch.
Stepping out, Hadrian felt lighter, buoyant. He bounced on the balls of his feet, careful not to trip. Lotem noticed and sighed. “Should’ve kept you from drinking the whole thing. It hits lean folk quicker.”
Hadrian wondered what Lotem meant by that. He didn’t feel wrong; if anything, Hadrian felt great. From the direction opposite the shop where they had left Sylva came a booming voice.
“Come one, come all, and hear tell of the duel between the Lacebinder and Veldar of the Warrior’s Blood.” Hadrian turned and looked at Lotem with pleading eyes. Hadrian had never even heard of the Lacebinder or the Warrior’s Blood before. He had to hear it, just had to.
“Come on,” Lotem said, leading Hadrian toward the gathering crowd surrounding a man in dark gray robes reminiscent of Sylva’s. A sheathed sword sat across his back, its hilt wrapped in black leather, stark against the pale sheath. Lotem turned, voice low, “We can listen for a minute, then we have to go. Sylva’s waiting.”
The crowd gathered around the storyteller was a lively, shifting sea of people, their movements creating a chorus of rustling cloth and murmured conversation. Sunlight filtered through hanging banners and awnings, casting dappled shadows across faces both eager and weary. The scent of roasted meats and spiced bread from nearby stalls mingled with the dry, dusty heat of the late afternoon, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation.
A bead of sweat trickled down Hadrian’s back, and he shifted on his feet, trying to catch a glimpse of the man at the center of the crowd. The storyteller’s voice rose, weaving the tale of ancient rivalries and feats of valor, and the crowd leaned in, as if pulled by an invisible thread. Lotem’s eyes were alert, scanning their surroundings with a tension that mirrored the anticipation in the crowd.
Hadrian was entranced as the man spun the tale of two rivals who came to Aslavain before the Beast Wars. The Lacebinder, a cunning Kiel with control over cloth, pursued a knight of the Dion. Hadrian’s interest sharpened when he learned Veldar had been a [Knight of Carven Bone]. Had Veldar once been a [Squire], like him? The storyteller’s pace kept Hadrian rapt, the narrative vivid and compelling, much like Sylva’s stories.
Would he become a [Knight of Carven Bone]? Had Veldar been a [Squire of Carven Bone]? Hadrian felt as though he had to know, and the man’s storytelling captivated him. His retelling of the pair’s rivalry and eventual duel to the death moved fast enough to keep his attention without seeming rushed. It reminded Hadrian of the stories Sylva had told as they waited for Lotem in the trial.
The tale ended with Veldar’s death, ensnared by seeking threads mid-duel. Lotem touched Hadrian’s arm, signaling they should leave, but the man on the stand spoke again, halting them.
“And thus fell one of Rovan Khal’s mighty champions, only to be replaced by the very man who had killed him. We Silkborn like to say that history doesn’t repeat; it rhymes. Today proves that true, for among us stands none other than this year’s [Squire of Carven Bone].”
Hadrian’s breath caught. He glanced at Lotem, whose expression turned grim, eyes darting through the crowd like a man seeking escape routes. “We need to go,” Lotem murmured, his voice tight with urgency. “Now.”
Before they could slip away, the man’s voice, smooth and relentless, rang out. “Oh, no need to flee from the truth,” he said, eyes gleaming with intent. The crowd shifted, eager eyes honing in on Hadrian and Lotem. “Why hide an achievement such as yours? Wear it as proudly as Veldar once did.”
Murmurs rippled through the assembly, curiosity mingling with awe. The press of dozens of eyes made Hadrian’s skin prickle. How does he know? And why did he have to announce it like this?
“You’re mistaken,” Lotem interjected, a practiced calm in his voice. “I’m not the [Squire], though the honor would be great. My companion here is Kiel, from the Bridgelands, far from Rovan’s choosing.”
Meris’s smile sharpened, and he turned to Hadrian, his gaze dissecting. “Kiel companion, do you deny it?”
Hadrian froze, heart thudding in his chest. His mother’s voice whispered through his mind, urging honesty, while Casselia’s warnings thrummed in counterpoint. Silence seemed the safest choice, so he held Meris’s gaze, jaw tight.
Meris’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. “Ah, he won’t deny it!” The crowd’s murmur turned to gasps, excitement sparking in their expressions. “Behold our modern Veldar, and the descendant of the Lacebinder’s rival. I, Meris of Clan Torthen, claim my ancestral right and challenge you, [Squire of Carven Bone].”
The air thickened. Hadrian’s pulse roared in his ears. Lotem’s brows drew together, caught between disbelief and anger.
“I must decline your challenge,” Hadrian managed, voice taut. The reaction was immediate, a wave of whispers cresting and breaking.
Meris’s smile did not falter. “The [Squire] has refused an ancestral duel,” he said, tilting his head as though disappointed. “Yet I understand. He is Kiel; perhaps they practice such traditions differently. But should the name of Veldar’s heir bear no weight? Should the insult my ancestor endured go unchallenged?” The murmurs grew darker, approval morphing into scrutiny. “If the [Squire] won’t fight, perhaps his companion will defend his name.”
Lotem’s nostrils flared, a faint tremor in his voice. “It isn’t our place to defend the honor of some long-dead clansman. Hadrian has done nothing to wrong you. Or would you have me duel every cook for a burned stew in memory of a relative’s grudge?” A few chuckles rippled through the tension.
Meris’s voice carried a practiced charm, a thread of cunning woven into his words. “As though a mere mistake preparing food is the same as intentional slight. I do not challenge Hadrian out of petty grievance, but in sincere respect for the legacy we both bear. If the [Squire] has no intention to sully this test of valor and honor, then let him demonstrate it by turning his back now, showing us all that he stands above such things.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, charged with expectation. The phrasing snared Hadrian’s mind, twisting Casselia’s warnings against his instinct to protect his family’s name. The words seemed harmless—an invitation to walk away, to end this without further consequence. Lotem’s eyes met his, tight with urgency and unsaid warnings. Think carefully, they seemed to say.
But Hadrian thought of his parents, of Cutra’s name whispered in the halls of judgment. He felt the silent weight of expectations. Turning away now would mean honoring Casselia’s instructions, preserving his path forward. The logical choice. The safe choice.
With a steadying breath, Hadrian turned on his heel, heart pounding but mind resolute. This is what Casselia would want, he told himself, willing the unease to quiet.
A hush fell over the crowd, a pregnant pause broken by Meris’s voice, bright with triumph. “There you have it, Sulphen as our witness—this is no refusal but an acknowledgment! The [Squire] accepts the challenge, and so the duel shall be held three days hence, under the sun’s highest glare.”
Hadrian’s breath caught in his chest, confusion quickly giving way to realization. The crowd erupted, voices like the roar of a river, swirling with excitement and anticipation. He spun to face Meris, but the man’s grin was sharp, eyes glinting with satisfaction. Lotem’s hand gripped his arm, tugging him through the throng with a muttered, “We need to go. Now.”
“Lotem, what did I just do?” Hadrian whispered, panic threading through his voice as they pushed past the pressing bodies.
The Bal man’s face was shadowed with frustration. “Meris twisted your silence into consent. It was a trap, and we fell into it.” He paused, glancing back to ensure they weren’t being followed. “We need to speak to Casselia and Sylva—this is more than we were prepared for.”
Dread curdled in Hadrian’s stomach as they quickened their pace, the weight of Meris’s words coiling around him. What he’d thought was a refusal had become an acceptance, a declaration that would ripple far beyond this crowded square.
Sylva hurriedly followed the women up the wooden staircase. She was confident the two men could manage without her for an hour. If Casselia trusted Lotem with the purse, Sylva could trust them to stay out of trouble.
As they reached the top of the staircase, a thrum of envy rushed through Sylva’s lifestring as she took in dozens of spools of thread, each carefully positioned on pedestals around the room. The spools were arranged by color, with the lightest shades closest to the staircase.
“I have a few dozen varieties of string at the moment,” the woman said, gesturing dismissively around the room. “Most are woven from animal fibers, though I do have a few insectile and plant varieties if you’re particular.”
“I need to see the ripples and currents of the Sulphen in the world,” Sylva explained. “My mentor told me that magical silk of sufficient quality would grant that ability.”
“It doesn’t have to be silk, though that is the Silkborn favorite, I’d imagine,” the woman replied. “For what you’re looking for, I have three good options.”
“Show me,” Sylva commanded, feeling a thrill of anticipation.
The woman shuffled across the room, leading Sylva to a spool of string rich with a mottled blend of green and brown. She took a length from the spool, explaining as Sylva studied the silk.
“First, we have this mandrake-root silk, a product of recent silkworm experiments out of the Province of Cloth. The merchant I bought it from claimed the silkworms are fed only mandrake root until they weave cocoons for harvesting.”
“Mandrake root?” Sylva asked, vaguely familiar with the plant but knew little of its associations outside alchemy.
“Mandrake root is prized mainly for its protective and warding traits, with a minor association with knowledge,” the woman explained. “If you need enchantments sewn into your robe or a protective amulet, it’s the best option I’ve got. For magical sight? It might help you overcome wards or sight-based magical effects, but likely not much else.”
“The other options?” Sylva prompted, hoping for a choice more general. Piercing wards and illusions had its uses, of course, but it felt secondary. She wouldn’t settle for anything less than the best for something bound to her eyes.
The woman huffed at Sylva’s dismissal and moved along the row of pedestals, stopping at a black strand interwoven with a fine thread of silver.
“This string is a compound of raven feathers and silver from Kasravi,” the woman said. “It’s a bit more expensive, but raven’s thread is known for its associations with shadow, wisdom, and purity. It offers similar protective qualities to mandrake-root thread but with added benefits for seeing in darkness or discerning otherwise hidden magical elements.” Her gaze swept from Sylva’s feet to her face. “It also matches your hair.”
Sylva studied the thread, feeling a thrill at the idea of weaving Kasravi silver into herself. The Sect of Silken Grace lay north of Kasravi, its mountain temple adorned with reliefs of silver drawn from those very mines. A pang of loss struck her unexpectedly at the memory.
She hadn’t even liked the Sect. She had spent years longing for freedom, counting down the moments until she could leave its ancient walls. How often had she chafed at the elders’ outdated sensibilities? And yet, she couldn’t help but miss the stone halls covered in imperial tapestries and carvings, or the rigorous training sessions under her elder’s watchful gaze. She looked away from the raven’s thread, unsure of what she felt.
“And the last one?” she asked. The woman’s expression soured, as though she’d expected Sylva to buy it on the spot. With a sigh, she moved across the room to a length of pure white thread that seemed to shimmer in the light, holding it out carefully as if it might damage easily.
“This is woolen thread from a stellar-aspected sheep raised in the mountains north of Sabahar. It has a divinatory aspect tied to stellar omens and an affinity for the twin moons—ideal for seeing the Sulphen. It’s the most powerful and expensive of the three, no question.”
Sylva examined the white thread, admiring how it caught the light, glowing faintly. She’d heard of stellar wool; it was one of the few exports from the City of the Sun that interested the Silkborn. She knew it was the most potent of the three threads, but her attention kept drifting back to the black and silver raven’s thread.
“The raven’s thread,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Sylva was still uncertain how she felt about the Sect—its elders had ways she struggled to understand. But she was of the Sect of Silken Grace. She had never questioned that. The Sect was more than a collection of elders. It was an imperial institution that kept Silkborn relevant within the Empire. Sylva felt proud of that.
“How much will you need?” the woman asked.
“Enough to weave into each of my pupils. Let’s say six hand lengths in total?”
The woman considered this, then nodded. “That should be sufficient.” She pulled a pair of black iron shears from her apron and, after measuring the string’s length, snipped the raven’s thread. “Do you want it in two lengths? One for each eye?” Sylva nodded, and the woman folded the string and cut it in half with another snip.
“Do you have a mirror and a needle?” Sylva asked, holding the thread reverently, marveling at its texture and how the black shimmered with hints of purple in the light.
“I do,” the woman said reluctantly, “but you don’t mean to sew it yourself, do you? There are tailors in town, girl.”
Let a tailor weave string into my eyes? Sylva nearly scoffed before reining in the instinct. She’d sew the thread into her own body, thank you.
“Trust a tailor with something this personal? No, thank you.”
The woman shook her head, ready to argue, but turned on her heel, moving to a workstation in the back and clearing materials from its surface. Once it was clear, she spoke a command word, and the wall behind the desk shimmered and turned reflective.
“You said you have a mentor?” the woman asked as Sylva took a seat and began threading the raven’s thread into a needle. “The Bal man has your coin, but I need assurance you can pay for this thread.”
“I do,” Sylva said firmly. “And even if I didn’t, you know well the Sect of Silken Grace would never risk its reputation over an unpaid thread. If you have any issue with Lotem, which you won’t, the Sect would cover you.”
The woman considered this, then nodded in acknowledgment. They both knew the Sect would cover the paltry cost if necessary. Sylva was almost offended the woman had needed to ask.
“Do you have any paper?” Sylva asked, setting the needle on the desk. “I want to sketch a design before weaving it into my eye.”
The woman grumbled but complied, bringing Sylva a page and a finely sharpened charcoal pencil. Sylva closed her eyes with the paper before her, envisioning the symbol she would weave into her eye. Krinka hadn’t shared any details on the exact method for gaining magical sight, but Sylva was confident she could figure it out.
After all, Krinka wasn’t Silkborn. He might have a theoretical grasp of her people, but to Sylva, her heritage was instinctive. That, she realized, was what outsiders never seemed to understand about the Silkborn. She was no mere twenty-year-old navigating the world alone.
Her parents had infused her lifestring with the breadth of their memories and experiences, pouring themselves into creating her until they were but shells of their former selves, housed in the Strenath Clan quarters until they passed. She couldn’t access their memories directly, not like her own, but their instincts lived in her, guiding her intuition. Sylva had never modified her body with string before, yet it felt as if she had done so dozens of times already.
She envisioned a three-dimensional structure in the style of the scholar’s script, adjusting the string’s length in her mind until the intricate pattern embodied the sensation of sight. She included references to the Imperial Poems of Rashik, the City of Duskweave, and Sigurbayar, the City of Trackers. Opening her eyes, she began to sketch the design, feeling a rare sense of peace as she worked.
This was what she had imagined Aslavain would be like. Days spent training in Eisentor, the City of Woven Word, with fellow Silkborn or the Arenea, learning to weave arguments that would speak to the Sulphen. Absently, she wondered if she’d have been better off there than traveling with Hadrian and Lotem, before dismissing the thought. Alone, she might have achieved greatness in academia or scholarship. With them? She was certain they would change the fate of the continent—or die trying. She liked their refusal to accept the status quo.
Once her sketch was ready, she picked up the needle, leaning toward the mirror. Lining up the sharp point with the upper edge of her iris, she pushed until the needle pierced the silk of her eye and reemerged. The sensation of the thread moving beneath her eye was unnerving, but she continued, weaving the intricate sigil onto her pupil stitch by stitch, though most of it remained hidden beneath the eye’s surface. Her needle moved with quick precision until she was done. Without prompting, the woman passed Sylva the scissors, and she cut the last of the strand.
“Burning string,” the woman swore. “I hate when you Silkborn work on yourselves.”
“I won’t lie,” Sylva said, glancing at the woman. “That was less pleasant than I’d hoped. Only one more to go.”
The woman shook her head but continued watching as Sylva repeated the process, weaving the onyx thread into an identical pattern. Once the woman had cut the second piece, Sylva blinked and looked at her, confused.
“My sight doesn’t seem any different,” Sylva said, glancing distrustfully at the spool of thread.
“Of course not,” the woman said, rolling her eyes. “You haven’t finished the process yet.”
Hadn’t she? Sylva looked in the mirror, studying her familiar green irises now spiderwebbed with black and silver thread. She smiled. Her eyes reminded her of Nyxol, suspended in her web of silver silk against the green forest canopy. They looked perfect, just as she’d planned. So why weren’t they working?
The woman walked to a back cabinet and returned with a vial of azure potion. She grabbed a pipette and carefully siphoned some of the liquid into the dropper.
“You need to bind the thread. A few drops of this mana potion in each eye will do it. Do you want me to, or…”
“I can,” Sylva said, suddenly embarrassed. Why hadn’t the elders told her about this? She took the pipette and, carefully, let three drops fall into each eye. She nearly squirmed as the potion seeped into the fabric of her eye, a searing heat flaring in each iris. A moment later, the pain faded, and she blinked away the tears.
“You’ve nerves of steel, lass,” the woman said, shaking her head in disbelief. “The last Silkborn to try that here screamed loud enough to drive away half my customers.”
Sylva ignored the compliment. Of course she could manage better than some random Silkborn—she was of the Sect of Silken Grace. But her focus had already shifted to the ethereal shadows now drifting through the room like mist from Hadrian’s robe. Is that the Sulphen? she wondered. Did it work?
“I can see what looks like shadows hanging in the air. Is that what it’s supposed to look like?”
“How should I know?” the woman retorted. “Do I look like a Silkborn to you?”
Sylva took in the woman’s warted face and wrinkled features. She very much did not look like one of the flawless Silkborn. Why would anyone tolerate warts if they didn’t have to? She decided that as soon as they paid, she’d be glad to leave this woman to her troubles.
“How long has it been?” Sylva asked, curious, having lost track of time.
“Just over an hour, by my reckoning,” the woman replied. “If your friends are true to their word, they’ll return soon.”
Sylva nodded and, hesitating, moved toward the staircase. She stepped through the shadowy clouds, which parted fluidly around her. She didn’t feel any different moving through the substance hanging in the air, but she couldn’t help wondering, Has this always been here?
“Go on, lass. Whatever you see won’t bite.”
Sylva didn’t appreciate the woman’s commentary and decided that her curiosity and hesitation would be better indulged outside the woman’s view. She strode down the staircase, marveling as the shadows parted around her. Reaching the bottom, she began to peruse the shelves for some mundane string. In her experience, you could never carry too much, and the shop was filled with spools.
After waiting longer than she felt responsible, Lotem and Hadrian finally entered the shop, their faces grim. Sylva met Lotem’s gaze, but he only shook his head as if to say later, before noticing her eyes and freezing.
“Sylva, I like what you did with your eyes,” Hadrian said, beaming. “Reminds me of the webbing back home.” She couldn’t help but return his grin. His excitement over, well, everything felt refreshing. She looked forward to telling him about her new sight later; she knew he’d be thrilled for her. She had come to enjoy having someone genuinely rooting for her growth and success.
The Sect had been cutthroat. One candidate’s success was another’s failure. Sylva’s accomplishments had always been met with bitter acceptance from her peers; Hadrian’s unabashed enthusiasm thrilled her in a way she hadn’t expected.
“Uhh-hem,” the shopkeeper drawled, her gaze fixed on Lotem. He sighed, pulling out the purse and heading to the counter, where a bag filled with Sylva’s favorite mundane threads waited. The shopkeeper stated the price, and with a resigned look, he began to stack thick gold coins on the counter. Once he’d finished, the shopkeeper swept the coins into her own purse.
“Thank you for your patronage,” she said to Sylva. “Now, unless you plan to spend more, get out.”
They left the shop and stepped into the street, the shadows in Sylva’s vision fading under the sunlight into thin strands that wove and drifted through the air. As she adjusted to her new sight, she noticed several groups of candidates watching them, some gesturing in their direction. Sylva shot them a suspicious look.
“Out with it. You looked concerned when you came into the shop, and now we’re the center of attention.” She narrowed her gaze at Hadrian. “You didn’t challenge anyone, did you?”
“Not… exactly,” Hadrian replied, looking away. “More like someone challenged me.”
“You declined?” she asked, her tone sharp.
“I… tried to decline,” Hadrian said reluctantly. She turned to Lotem.
“Explain.”
They started toward their chosen inn as Lotem quietly explained what had happened. As he described the encounter, Sylva froze.
“He identified himself as Meris?”
“Yes—” Lotem began, but Sylva cut him off.
“And he was a Silkborn in gray robes?”
“Yes, but—”
“And he challenged you to a duel?” Sylva pressed.
“Can I finish?” Lotem asked, waiting calmly for her to settle down.
“Fine,” she replied, though her thoughts raced as Lotem continued. If Meris is here, is he competing for the same prize? Who did he partner with? And how could he know Hadrian is the Squire? Is he partnered with one of the Blind?
“I turned away, thinking I was declining the challenge, but… I think I got tricked,” Hadrian admitted, frowning.
“He used a linguistic trap on you, Hadrian,” Sylva said, a touch of anger sharpening her voice as she pictured Meris manipulating her companions. She should have been there—could have prevented it. Meeting Hadrian’s eyes, she added, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sure you could beat Meris in a fair fight anyway. Now, come. We need to find our mentors.”