The carriage of House Fiordia gleamed like the newborn sun—yet moved as silently as a tomb. Its interior was lined with black velvet and ebony wood, the windows veiled by thick curtains that blocked even the light of the Weave. Lira felt the weight of the journey—not from fatigue, but from the tension coiling in the air, like a thread pulled too tight.
She had been summoned.Not by the Twin Emperors, nor the Circle of the Golden Needle.But by one of the Four Pillars of the Empire: Fiordia—the Lords of Chains. Traders, manipulators, masters of subtle influence and veiled threats.
The messenger who brought her the red ribbon had said only:"The Duke awaits. With urgency—and with eyes wide open."
At her side, Sern remained silent. Since the incident with the Whisperers, he had watched her the way one watches a blade that may soon take a will of its own.
They reached the coast before dawn. The towers of Fiordia rose from the mist like daggers of white marble, each one adorned with golden spirals and ancient symbols of the Weave. The harbor was still. No sound of trade. No cranes groaning, no sailors shouting. Only the rhythmic clash of chains against stone.
At the grand staircase of the fortress, the hosts awaited.
Duke Velrian of Fiordia was not what Lira had expected.Young. Beautiful. Refined features and eyes unnaturally blue.He wore a black tunic stitched with golden seams—each thread a mark of a trade route conquered, a diplomatic threat fulfilled, a silent war won.
"Threadreader," he said, bowing just enough to preserve dominance."Your needle has stitched too much. And not all of those seams were commissioned."
Lira kept her composure. The chamber pulsed with invisible threads, stretched like traps around her. She knew: the wrong answer could sever her fate.
"Sewing is my purpose, Your Grace. And when the Weave unravels, the needle must act."
Velrian smiled—a curve that never reached his eyes.
"And if the needle is guided by another hand?"
Silence.
Six members of the Fiordian court sat in the circular hall.Three merchant lords. Two diplomatic weavers.And a woman with hair white as salt: Alira Vezzan, Matriarch of the Secret Routes. Her eyes seemed to know every thread of the Empire—and perhaps, what lay beyond it.
"You were seen at the Whisperers' tower," she said. "You heard their words. Of a Weave that lies. Of a specter that lives without thread. Of… rupture."
Lira clenched her fingers. She did not deny it.
"Ribbons do not lie," she said, drawing the red one from her pocket."You summoned me because you feel it too. The twist in the Loom. The pull of something that shouldn't be there."
Velrian stepped forward and took the ribbon. He traced it with his fingers, as if reading a language long forgotten.
"We summoned you because we believe a new tapestry is being woven.One at the margins—of the Empire, of reality itself.And we want to know: are you weaving with it… or against it?"
Lira met his gaze.There was no fear in her voice.
"I weave with truth. And the truth is… something old is returning.Something even the Seven Weavers could not bind."
A long silence followed.
Then Alira spoke.
"Very well. You will be sent to the Isle of the Broken Needle. An ancient outpost of House Fiordia, where the threads behave… strangely. They vanish. Change color. Fishermen say the waters forget the boats. No weaver we've sent has returned with sanity intact."
Velrian added, his voice smooth as silk drawn over steel:
"You will go, Threadreader. As a test. As a warning.And, if necessary… as an offering to be forgotten."
Sern stepped forward.
"This is exile, veiled in politeness. You fear her."
Velrian only smiled.
"All true power is feared, Steelweaver.And she must prove where her needle lies."
Lira drew a deep breath.She thought of Kael.She thought of a tower that burned without fire.Then bowed—just enough to make it clear: this was her choice.
"Let the threads guide me."
As she left the hall, she did not see the glance Alira shared with Velrian.Nor the subtle hand of the youngest weaver, stitching something invisible into the air.
The red ribbon dissolved into smoke.
And the Isle of the Broken Needle awaited.