The loom clicked and swayed with a steady rhythm, threads sliding into place beneath Kaela's fingers. In the back of the room, her brothers worked on stiff rolls of taffeta, their occasional grunts blending with the hum of the weaving. It was a familiar harmony — man and machine working side by side.
"Kaela," her father's voice cut through the air.
She didn't look up. Her eyes stayed fixed on the shuttle sliding back and forth.
"Kaela." This time, it was firmer.
She finally answered, though her focus never left the weaving. "Yes, Father?"
"A certain nobleman has expressed interest in you," Dolathon said. "He has made it known to me."
The shuttle froze mid-pass. Kaela's hands stilled, but her gaze stayed on the patterned threads. "I'm not marrying him," she said simply.
Her father stepped closer, his shadow falling over the loom. "Akanav is a good man. Wealthy. Well-positioned. He can give you a fine life. He has promised—"
"I don't care." She set the shuttle moving again.
The click and slide of the loom filled the silence for a few seconds. Then Dolathon's voice hardened. "You will marry Akanav, Kaela. End of discussion."
Her fingers didn't falter this time, but the weave in front of her began to blur.The loom's soft click and pull filled the cramped room until Kaela's hands stilled. Threads dangled between her fingers as she slowly rose to her feet, turning toward her father.
"You truly mean to marry me off to some wealthy man I have no interest in?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes searched his face for a crack—some hint of hesitation.
Dolathon didn't even look up from his weaving. "Love and fondness grow over time," he said, as if reciting a rule that had never failed him.
"What if he beats women?" she countered.
His hands paused briefly on the frame. "Akanv is one of the few men who fights for women's rights in this dominion."
Their words began to clash, back and forth, weaving sharper than any thread in the loom. Beside her, her elder brother had stopped working entirely, his gaze flicking between them like a spectator in a duel.
"I'm not marrying a man I don't love," Kaela said finally, planting her feet as if she could root her will to the floor.
"Love," Dolathon replied, his voice cool and dismissive, "is overrated."
Her heart jumped in disbelief. "Wasn't that why you married Mother?"
He gave a short, humorless laugh, not looking at her. "And look where that got me."
The words landed like a slap. Kaela's breath caught, and for a long second the room fell silent—three pairs of eyes fixed on the man at the loom. Her younger brother's mouth hung slightly open, while her elder brother's brows pulled tight in disbelief.
When Kaela finally found her voice, it was low and trembling. "You'd really sell me off for wealth and comfort?"
Dolathon didn't flinch. "We are down to our last cup of everything. Let that sit in." And with that, he bent over the loom again, threads whispering through his fingers as though the conversation had never happened.
Kaela's chest ached. She turned to her brothers—both of them glassy-eyed, their grief and anger barely held in. In that moment, she felt the floor beneath her was tilting, and the home she thought she knew was no longer the same.