Age 18
Two years since they told me the truth.
Two years since the word vessel became heavier
than my own name.
Every ritual, every whisper,
reminds me that my body is not mine.
It belongs to a daughter who does not yet exist.
They call her the Final Weave.
They say her cry will silence the clans,
her breath will end all rivals,
and her shadow will stretch over the galaxy.
The sisters look at me with pride.
The elders with hunger.
None of them look at me as I am.
I wonder if the prophecy is truth,
or if it is only power spoken in circles
until it sounds like destiny.
If a thousand voices say a lie,
does it become a thread?
Does it bind you the same?
Sometimes I dream of her.
The daughter they wait for.
She has my face, but not my eyes.
When I try to speak to her,
she does not answer.
She only watches.
If she ever comes,
will she hate me for bringing her here?
Or will she hate me for wanting her not to?
— Orryn, Age 18
