The Blackwood in early spring was a world stirring from slumber, its pulse quickening beneath a thinning veil of frost. The air carried the sharp tang of new growth, mingling with the damp earth and the faint sweetness of budding wildflowers. The ancient oak in our hollow stood resolute, its roots cradling the woven mat where Elara and I sat, the interlocking spirals from our shared birthday hanging on a low branch, their faint aetheric glow a quiet beacon in the morning mist. I was nine, Elara eight, and the bond we'd forged in midwinter felt like a thread woven into the Architect's design, strong yet delicate, like the first shoots piercing the soil. The spirals, bound by braided grass, swayed gently, their warmth a reminder of our vow to return each midwinter, to stand together as sun and moon. But today, as I sat cross-legged, my satchel heavy with the Bible I'd written at seven—a collection of truths gleaned from the Architect's patterns—something stirred within me, a restless hum that felt like a warning.
Elara was beside me, her small hands sorting through a pile of river stones, her hazel eyes bright with focus. "We could make something new," she said, her voice a clear note in the quiet, like a stream over smooth pebbles. "Another marker, maybe, for spring?" Her suggestion was earnest, her mind always seeking ways to weave our moments together, as she had with the woven map she'd given me last year, its silver threads pulsing with her nascent aether. I smiled, but my thoughts were elsewhere, caught in the subtle shift of the Blackwood's energy, a faint discord that prickled my skin.
"Perhaps," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "But the forest feels… different today." I closed my eyes, letting my aether reach out, a gentle probe into the world's hidden currents. The Blackwood hummed, its life a steady rhythm, but beneath it was a tremor, like a distant storm approaching. I opened my eyes to find Elara watching me, her brow furrowed, her own sensitivity to aether growing sharper each day. "Do you feel it?" I asked.
She tilted her head, mimicking my focus, her hands stilling on the stones. "It's… heavy," she said after a moment, her voice hesitant but certain. "Like the air before rain, but… inside." Her words, simple yet precise, sent a thrill through me. She was learning the Architect's language, not through words but through action, through feeling the world's pulse as I did.
Before I could respond, the world shifted. A wave of aether, stronger than any I'd felt, surged through me, and my vision darkened, the hollow fading into a dream that was no dream. I was still in the Blackwood, but older—twelve, my body leaner, my eyes harder. The forest was unchanged, its trees tall and proud, but the air was thick with desperation, the ground scarred by heavy boots. I stood in the clan's settlement, Elara beside me, her face pale, her woven map clutched in her hands. The spirals hung from our oak, but their glow was faint, flickering. Voices—angry, hungry—echoed from the forest's edge, and shadows moved, a mob of strangers with gaunt faces and makeshift weapons. They were not Montala's soldiers but common folk, driven by famine, their eyes wild with need. "Take it all!" one shouted, and the clan's defenses, woven nets and hidden traps, crumbled under their numbers. I fought, my aether flaring, but it was not enough. Elara fell first, her small body crumpling under a crude blade, her map stained red. I screamed, my aether surging, but the mob overwhelmed me, their blows a final, crushing end. The Blackwood burned, its heart torn open, and I died at twelve, my mission unfulfilled, the Architect's patterns unraveling in chaos.
I gasped, my eyes snapping open, the hollow rushing back. Elara was shaking my shoulder, her voice sharp with worry. "Elias! Elias, what's wrong?" Her hands were warm against my arm, grounding me, pulling me back from the vision's grip. My heart pounded, my breath ragged, the Bible in my satchel a heavy weight against my side. The spirals swayed above us, their glow steady, a stark contrast to the fading light in my dream.
"It was a vision," I said, my voice hoarse, my mind reeling. "A warning from the Architect." I met her gaze, seeing the fear in her eyes, but also her trust, her unyielding faith in me. "I saw a future where I stayed here, in the Blackwood, forever. The forest… it fell. A mob, hungry and desperate, came for us. They killed you, Elara. They killed everyone. I died at twelve, and the Architect's design was lost."
Her eyes widened, her breath catching, but she didn't look away. "Why?" she whispered, her voice trembling but strong. "Why would the Architect show you that?"
"To act," I said, the truth crystallizing as I spoke. "The Architect doesn't demand worship, Elara. It judges us by our actions, by how we shape the world's patterns. If I stay here, hiding, the Blackwood falls. I have to speak, to share what I know, to prepare the clan for what's coming." My hand moved to my satchel, fingers brushing the Bible's worn leather. "I have to be a disciple, not of a church, but of truth—of reason, of action."
Elara nodded, her small hand finding mine, her touch a steady anchor. "Then we'll do it together," she said, her voice firm. "Like the spirals. You and me."
I squeezed her hand, my chest tight with gratitude. In my first life, I'd been alone, a mind adrift in a world of noise and metal, ended by a crash. In that false reality, I'd been a threat, expelled for my questions. But here, with Elara, I was whole. "Together," I echoed, rising to my feet, the Bible now in my hands, its pages heavy with the truths I'd written at seven—truths of balance, reason, and the Architect's unseen patterns.
We left the hollow, the spirals swaying behind us, and made our way to the clan's central clearing, where the Weaver Clan gathered for their evening meal. The air was alive with the scent of roasted roots and the murmur of voices, the communal fire casting long shadows across the woven tents. Bren, the weaver I'd guided last year, looked up as we approached, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. Fael, the hunter, stood nearby, his gaze warm but wary. The elders sat on woven mats, their faces etched with the weight of tradition, and I felt the Blackwood's pulse, its aether urging me forward.
I stepped into the firelight, Elara at my side, and raised the Bible, its leather cover worn but strong. "Clan of the Blackwood," I began, my voice steady despite my youth, "I've seen a vision, a warning of what may come if we do not act." The murmurs stilled, all eyes on me, some curious, others skeptical. I opened the Bible, its pages rustling in the evening breeze, and read: "The Architect's design is not in temples or prayers, but in the actions we take, the patterns we weave. It judges us by how we protect the balance, how we stand against chaos. A storm is coming—hunger, desperation, a world breaking under greed. We must be ready, not with worship, but with strength, with reason."
I spoke of the vision, sparing the clan the full horror but painting the danger—a mob, driven by want, tearing through the Blackwood. I spoke of Deism, not as a church but as a way of living, a call to understand the world's patterns and act to preserve them. "The Architect doesn't need our words," I said, my voice rising, "but our hands, our minds, our courage. We must strengthen our defenses, share our knowledge, and stand as one—not under a single leader, but as equals, each weaving our part of the design."
Elara stepped forward, her voice clear, her hand brushing the spirals in my satchel. "Elias speaks truth," she said, her eyes bright with conviction. "I've felt the Architect's patterns, in the spirals we made, in the forest's life. We can be more than we are, if we act together."
The clan was silent, the fire's crackle the only sound. Bren nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the interlocking knots he'd learned from me. Fael's eyes gleamed with understanding, his hunter's instincts aligning with my words. But an elder, her face lined with years, stood, her voice sharp. "You're a child, Elias. What do you know of storms? Our ways have held for generations."
I met her gaze, my heart steady. "Our ways are strong, but the world is changing. The Montala Church grows greedy, its tithes starving the land. I've seen it, in the Duke's Keep, in the patterns of their control. If we don't act, their chaos will reach us." I held up the Bible, its pages open to a passage on balance. "This is not worship—it's truth. The Architect's design is in our actions, in how we protect what matters."
The elder sat, her expression unreadable, but others murmured, some nodding, others uncertain. I felt Elara's hand in mine, her warmth a reminder of why I spoke. This was not about power, but about survival, about weaving a future where the Blackwood could stand. I closed the Bible, its weight a promise, and looked at Elara, her face illuminated by the fire, her eyes fierce with belief.
As the clan dispersed, whispers of my words spreading, Elara and I returned to the hollow. The spirals hung still, their glow brighter now, as if the Architect approved. "You did it," Elara whispered, her voice soft but proud. "You spoke truth."
"Not alone," I said, my voice thick. "You were with me." The vision lingered, a shadow in my mind, but so did her presence, her trust. The Architect had shown me a future to avoid, a path where inaction led to ruin. I would not stay in the Blackwood forever—I would leave, as I must, to face Montala, to build a kingdom of reason. But for now, I was here, with Elara, my Bible, and the clan, weaving the first threads of a new design.
The Blackwood hummed, its aether a quiet song, and the spirals swayed, a vow of action, of truth, of us. I looked at Elara, her face a light in the gathering dusk, and knew that whatever storms came—Montala, Valerius, or the hunger of a broken world—we would face them together, not as worshippers, but as weavers of the Architect's will.