The sewing hall did not mourn Mira.
The loom where she had worked remained standing, its half-finished section of the royal cloth stretched tight and gleaming beneath the lantern light. No black cloth was draped over the chair. No prayers were spoken aloud. The palace did not pause for loss; it absorbed it and moved on.
Aven felt the absence like a pressure against her chest.
She entered the hall slowly, her steps echoing softly against the stone floor. The scent of wax and silk greeted her as it always did, but beneath it lingered something new—an iron tang, faint and unsettling, like blood washed away too quickly.
The overseer stood at the far end of the room, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was unreadable, carved into something stiff and official.
"There are four of you now," he said. "Take your places."
Elene hesitated before sitting. Her eyes flicked toward Mira's empty loom, then back to her own. Rysa's jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles twitched. Old Ketta bowed her head as she lowered herself into her chair, her lips already moving in prayer.
Aven sat last.
The moment her fingers touched the fabric, she felt it again.
Warmth.
Not the gentle warmth of sun-soaked cloth, but something deeper, like heat generated from within. The silk responded to her touch, tightening slightly beneath her palms, as if recognizing her.
She pulled her hands back, breath catching.
"Begin," the overseer said.
Aven swallowed and threaded her needle.
As she stitched, she watched the pattern carefully. The lines were faint, almost invisible unless caught at just the right angle. They curved and overlapped, flowing inward toward a center point that none of the seamstresses had yet reached.
The pattern was hungry.
Across the hall, Elene's breathing grew uneven.
"I don't feel well," Elene whispered, her voice trembling. "Ever since yesterday… it feels like something is wrong with this cloth."
The overseer turned his head sharply. "You will not speak unless spoken to."
Elene flinched and lowered her gaze, her needle trembling as it pierced the fabric. The thread slid through with a faint whispering sound that made Aven's skin crawl.
Rysa leaned closer to Aven, her voice barely audible. "Mira didn't faint," she murmured. "You know that, don't you?"
Aven didn't answer. She couldn't.
Old Ketta's prayers grew louder. "Threads that bind, threads that lie," she muttered. "May the Maker turn His eyes away."
The lanterns flickered.
Elene gasped softly, pressing a hand to her chest. Sweat beaded along her brow.
"Overseer," she said, voice shaking. "Please. Something is happening."
"Continue," he replied coldly.
Elene's needle slipped.
She pricked her finger, a sharp hiss escaping her lips. A single drop of blood welled and fell onto the silk before she could stop it.
The reaction was immediate.
The cloth pulsed violently, gold threads flaring like sparks. The warmth surged outward, rushing across the fabric in a visible wave. Elene cried out, jerking her hand back as the silk tightened beneath her fingers.
Aven stood halfway out of her seat. "Stop!" she said, before she could stop herself.
The overseer's gaze snapped to her. "Sit down."
Elene screamed.
Her needle shattered in her hand, metal snapping like brittle glass. She clutched her chest as the fabric beneath her hands began to glow, threads lifting and twisting unnaturally.
"No—please—" Elene sobbed.
The pattern closed.
Aven watched in horror as the gold lines converged, wrapping around Elene's wrists, her arms, her throat. The cloth pulled tight, as though claiming something unseen.
Elene convulsed once.
Twice.
Then she went still.
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
Rysa collapsed to her knees, sobbing openly now. Old Ketta bowed her head, tears streaming down her face as her prayers broke into ragged whispers.
The overseer did not move.
Guards entered swiftly, lifting Elene's body without ceremony. Her eyes were open but empty, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.
"She's dead," Rysa whispered.
"She is finished," the overseer corrected.
The doors sealed shut behind the guards.
Two looms now stood empty.
Aven's heart hammered in her chest. Her hands shook so badly she had to clench them into fists to keep from crying out. The truth pressed against her mind, undeniable and terrifying.
The cloth was feeding.
She looked down at the section Elene had worked on. It gleamed brightly, matching the unnatural sheen of Mira's stitches. Two souls bound into silk.
Old Ketta's voice trembled. "This is not protection magic," she said softly. "This is sacrifice."
The overseer's expression darkened. "You will continue," he said. "All of you."
Rysa shook her head wildly. "I won't. I won't die like this."
She stood abruptly, backing away from her loom. The lantern above her flickered violently.
"Sit down," the overseer barked.
Rysa turned and ran.
The doors did not open.
Threads rose from the cloth like serpents, snapping around her ankles. She screamed as she was dragged backward, collapsing against her loom as the pattern flared violently.
Aven could not look away.
Rysa fought, clawing at the silk, her nails tearing and bleeding. The cloth did not care. The threads tightened, lifting her from the floor as the pattern burned itself brighter than ever.
Her scream cut off abruptly.
When the light faded, Rysa lay motionless, eyes glassy, mouth slack.
Three looms empty.
Old Ketta sobbed openly now. "Forgive us," she whispered. "Forgive us for our obedience."
Aven's mind raced.
Three gone.
One more, and the pattern would be complete.
Her.
The realization hit her like ice water.
This was why there were five looms.
Not choice.
Design.
She stared at the pattern, seeing it clearly now—not decoration, but a binding circle. Every perfect stitch tightened the trap. Every obedient hand fed it.
Her grandmother's words returned with painful clarity.
A curse that is woven can be unwoven—but never politely.
Aven's breath steadied.
Slowly, deliberately, she turned her needle sideways.
Old Ketta looked up, eyes widening. "Child—don't—"
Aven drove the needle diagonally across the sacred lines.
The cloth screamed.
The lanterns exploded, plunging the hall into chaos. Wind tore through the room as the pattern buckled, lines twisting and unraveling violently.
Aven stood her ground.
"Thread remembers," she whispered. "Thread obeys."
The cloth resisted, tightening around her wrists, burning hot against her skin.
"What was bound in silence—" she continued, voice shaking but firm.
She crossed the pattern again.
"I unbind in name."
The fabric split with a sound like tearing breath.
Light burst from the loom, blinding and fierce. Shadows ripped free from the silk—three twisted shapes that dissolved into smoke as the curse collapsed.
Aven fell to her knees, gasping.
When the guards arrived, the loom was shattered, the royal cloth ruined beyond repair.
Aven was alive.
But she knew, even then, that survival had marked her.
And fate would not forgive her so easily.