The Blackwood hummed with life that morning, its air heavy with pine sap, damp earth, and the faint tang of wild berries, sticking to my skin as I walked with Elara toward Bren's weaving site. The forest's canopy swayed, dawn's light filtering through in golden streaks, leaves rustling like a whispered warning. My satchel bumped against my hip, the leather-bound Bible inside—a collection of English words I'd scrawled from Hebrew at seven, stories of Lot and Noah, readable only by me, though Elara's green eyes, sharp as the forest's edge, caught pieces of it. Her woven map, tucked beside the Bible, pulsed faintly with aether, the only magic we allowed. At nine, I carried a vision of a starving mob tearing through our home, a threat tied to Montala's tithes and Valerius's schemes. Elara, eight, walked close, her green eyes scanning the underbrush, her steps light but sure.
Bren's site wasn't far, a clearing where his looms turned our threads into shelters and trade goods. He'd taken my knot techniques to heart, his quiet nod by last night's fire a sign of trust that warmed me more than the flames. He was the clan's backbone, his weaves keeping us dry, his lessons guiding weavers like Lira and Syla. I clutched my satchel, ready to see his latest work, when a scream—sharp, desperate—ripped through the air, followed by a crack like the world splitting open.
Elara's green eyes locked on mine, wide with panic, and we sprinted, branches clawing my cloak, roots snagging my boots. The air turned thick with splintered wood and a coppery stench that hit like a fist. We stumbled into the clearing, and my stomach dropped. A massive oak had fallen, its trunk shattered, branches tangled like broken bones. Bren lay beneath it, his chest crushed, blood soaking the earth, his eyes open but lifeless. His last shout—"Get back!"—hung in my ears, a final act as he'd shoved Lira clear. Lira knelt a few feet away, her thigh torn open, bone jutting white through bloodied flesh, her gasps ragged. Syla cradled her arm, snapped at a sickening angle, her face gray with pain. Joren, the young apprentice, stumbled nearby, his face bruised, hands scraped bloody from clawing at the dirt.
"Lira, don't move," I said, my voice steady despite the bile rising in my throat. I dropped beside her, hands shaking, her dye-stained fingers scrabbling at her tunic, now a wet red mess. Sweat stung my eyes, my heart hammering, a memory from another life—a voice teaching how to stop bleeding—cutting through the fog. I ripped the strap from my satchel, looping it tight above her gash, twisting it with a stick until the blood slowed. But her leg was ruined—bone crushed, muscle shredded, a death sentence if left. I drew my carving knife, its edge sharp from whittling. "Elara, the leg's gone," I said, my throat so tight I could barely breathe, nausea clawing my chest.
Her green eyes flashed with fear but steadied, and she tore strips from her cloak. "I've got you," she said, voice low, passing me the cloth as she moved to Syla, binding her arm with quick hands. "Lira, hold on," I said, my voice cracking, hands forcing calm. Joren, shaking, fumbled with flint, sparking a small fire that flickered weakly. I held my knife over the flames, the blade glowing red, the heat burning my eyes. Lira's breaths were shallow, her eyes locked on mine, pleading. I tightened the tourniquet, my hands slick with sweat, and cut—fast, deep, through flesh and bone above the knee. Her scream tore through me, high and raw, fading as she slumped, unconscious. Blood oozed; I tied off the stump with Elara's cloth, her hands pressing beside mine, steady where mine trembled. Syla groaned, her arm bound, while Joren sank to his knees, muttering, "Bren… he pushed us out of the way."
Elara moved to Bren's loom, her fingers weaving a tapestry, aether threading silver patterns of his shelters, a quiet tribute. "I saw 'strength' in your book," she said, her green eyes fierce, catching an English word. "Bren was strong for us. We will be too."
I wiped my knife, hands still shaking, the blood's coppery smell choking me. At Bren's belt, I found a pouch, spilling sketches of paths marked with Montala's sigil—tax routes creeping closer, proof he'd tracked their moves, a secret pointing to Valerius's shadow. I stuffed them into my satchel, Elara's green eyes meeting mine, a vow to face the threat.
Footsteps and gasps broke the silence as the Clan of the Blackwood poured into the clearing—Mara, Taryn, Rhea, Fael, Elder Toren, Kael with his mother. Mara fell beside Bren, her silver braids loose, her sobs quiet but gut-wrenching, hands hovering over his still form. Taryn's spear hit the dirt, his jaw tight, eyes flashing with fury as he kicked a broken branch. Rhea stood rigid, her gray-streaked hair catching the light, her gaze raking over Lira's stump, Syla's bound arm, Joren's bruises. Toren gripped his staff, his voice low, cracked. "Bren was our heart. How'd this happen?" Kael, clinging to his mother, stared at Bren, tears spilling, his small hands clutching the knot Bren had taught him. The clan's voices mixed—shock, grief, some sharp with blame, others soft with fear.
I stood, hands crusted with blood, satchel heavy at my hip. "Clan of the Blackwood," I said, voice firm despite my pounding heart, "Bren saved Lira, Syla, Joren, shoving them clear before the tree took him. His weaves held our homes. We keep him alive by acting—saving each other, building stronger." I turned to Syla, her eyes red but steady. "Use Bren's loom, weave tighter, like this." I ran my fingers over the loom's fibers, aether sparking faint tension points, a trick any weaver could feel. "Tighten the warp like roots, share the load."
Syla nodded, her voice hoarse. "Bren showed me how. I'll do it for him." Joren, bruises purpling, straightened. "He called me his apprentice. I'll learn, Elias."
I held up a cloth strip, twisting it on a branch. "This is a tourniquet—it stops bleeding, like I used on Lira. We'll all learn it, weave stronger, stand together." I wrapped the cloth, twisting it tight, the clan's eyes following, some hands already mimicking mine.
Mara stood, wiping her face, and touched the loom, her fingers shaky but sure. "You kept Lira alive, Elias," she said, voice raw. "Bren would've fought for her too. Show us this binding." Rhea's voice cut through, sharp. "Montala's men are closer—I've seen their tracks. Teach us, boy, so we're not caught off guard."
Taryn grabbed his spear, his anger cooling to focus. "Bren believed in your knots. I'll learn this tourniquet. Tomorrow." Kael, voice small, stepped forward, wiping his eyes. "Can I learn it? For Bren?"
"Yeah, Kael," I said, meeting his gaze. "We'll all learn—tourniquets, looms, ways to protect our home. Bren's sketches show Montala's routes closing in. We'll watch them, prepare, act as one." The clan's murmurs softened, some testing cloths, others eyeing the loom, Bren's loss a spark igniting resolve.
Elara hung her tapestry above the clearing, its aetheric threads glowing, weaving Bren's shelters and sacrifice in silver lines. Her green eyes met mine, voice steady. "We're not Sodom. We act, for Bren." The clan nodded—Mara weaving, Taryn clenching his spear, Kael standing taller, Lira stirring faintly, Syla gripping her loom, Joren flexing his scraped hands. The Blackwood's pulse beat strong beneath us, and Elara's hand brushed mine, her aether a faint hum, tying us to the vow we'd carved in our oak hollow—a promise to endure, to act, to build.