The fire crackled at the edge of the midnight sea, its glow painting gold on the faces of the four Weavers. Above, the cosmic wheel turned in silence, threads of starlight trailing down to brush the horizon. Felix sat cross-legged, the tapestry rolled at his side, while Linh, Kiran, and Anaya gathered close, their cloaks wrapped tight against the ocean wind.
For the first time in many nights, there was no immediate threat—no shadow in the surf, no secret demanding to be unraveled. The island's mysteries waited in the ruins beyond the dunes, but for now, the Weavers let themselves rest.
Kiran jabbed at the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling into the night. "You'd think the loom could spare a thread or two to keep us warm," he grumbled. "Or at least dry out the wood for once."
Linh smirked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Maybe if you stopped telling it your tragic life story, it would take pity on us."
Anaya laughed, her voice soft as the waves. "Careful, Kiran. Last time you asked the loom for help, your boots turned blue for a week."
Felix grinned, feeling a rare lightness in his chest. "And yet you wore them every day. Fashion statement?"
Kiran held up his hands in mock surrender. "I was making a point. If the loom wants to prank me, I'll show it I'm not afraid of a little color."
Linh leaned back, gazing up at the swirling clouds and the wheel's slow, steady spin. "When I was a child, I used to think the wheel was a giant's eye. I'd wave at it every night, hoping it would wink back."
Felix chuckled. "And did it?"
"Once. Or maybe it was just lightning." Linh's eyes twinkled. "I ran screaming to my grandmother anyway. She told me the wheel only winks at those who are brave enough to face their fears."
Anaya poked at the embers, her face thoughtful. "My mother used to sing to the sea. She said every wave carried a wish to the loom. I tried it once, but all I got was a mouthful of salt."
Kiran nudged her with his elbow. "That's because you can't carry a tune."
Anaya stuck out her tongue, and even Felix couldn't help but laugh. The sound was strange and wonderful in the dark, a thread of joy woven through the tapestry of the night.
A lull settled over the group, the fire's warmth mingling with the hush of the waves. Felix glanced at his friends, feeling the threads that bound them—stronger than fate, brighter than fear.
He cleared his throat, quieter now. "Do you ever wonder what we'd be doing if the loom hadn't chosen us?"
Kiran shrugged. "I'd probably be running a tavern. Or getting thrown out of one."
Linh smiled. "I'd be haggling in the market, arguing over the price of bread."
Anaya's eyes sparkled. "I'd be singing in the square, hoping someone would listen."
Felix looked down at the tapestry, tracing the patterns with his finger. "I think… I'd still be searching. For something to believe in. For people who understand."
Linh reached over, squeezing his hand. "You found us. That counts for something."
Kiran grinned. "And if we get lost again, at least we'll have each other—and Anaya's singing to guide us."
Anaya rolled her eyes. "Just promise you won't blame me if the shadows start dancing."
The fire burned lower, and the Weavers drew closer, sharing warmth and stories until the stars began to fade. Above, the cosmic wheel spun on, silent and eternal, its threads weaving laughter, hope, and friendship into the fabric of the unraveling hours.
And as dawn crept over the sea, Felix knew that whatever secrets the tides might hold, they would face them together—not just as Weavers, but as friends.