Age 22
The elders are pleased.
They speak in smiles and hushed excitement,
convinced I have honored the loom
and kept to the pattern they wove for me.
They think I carry the Final Weave.
They whisper that her cry will change the fate of clans.
I do not correct them.
But I know better.
I can feel it.
Something is wrong... or different.
The threads do not pull the way they are meant to.
The moons are dim, the stones are silent.
And when I place my hand on myself,
I do not sense the daughter they long for.
I sense something else.
This truth both thrills me and terrifies me.
Thrills me, because this child is mine, not theirs.
Terrifies me, because I know what they do
to anything that does not fit their weave.
At night I still miss Isley.
I miss the warmth of him,
the way his voice softened when he spoke my name.
But I also remember the shadow in him,
a darkness I could not name but always felt.
Sometimes I am afraid I will look upon this child
and see that same shadow staring back at me.
— Orryn, Age 22
