Morning came quietly. Mist hung low across the fields as the group packed their things. The fox cub—now proudly wearing its stitched ribbon collar—trotted between Nyra's boots with curious yips. Puff declared himself the cub's "battle mentor," while Biscuit insisted on teaching it to pounce. Sprout muttered that it would grow up feral if left to them.
Button rumbled, steady and calm, carrying the heavier packs. Tovan watched them with folded arms, though his expression was softer than usual. He caught Nyra's glance and shrugged. "Don't look at me like that. I still think naming the thing 'Snack Junior' would've been better."
Nyra giggled. "He's not food. He's family." She bent to scoop the cub up and scratched behind its ears. "My village had strays like him all the time. Mama always said every creature deserves a place at the hearth."
Tovan raised a brow, curious. "So even back then, you were collecting lost things?"
She smiled softly. "Maybe. I stitched Button from scraps when I was little. When he stood up, breathing, Mama wasn't even afraid. She told me it was old magic, older than stories. She believed in me." Her gaze clouded. "Then disaster came to our village… fire and shadows. Everything we knew was gone."
The cub whined as if sensing her sorrow, and Nyra hugged it closer. Tovan shifted uncomfortably, then muttered, "I… didn't know. That explains a lot."
Nyra gave him a fragile smile. "Now you do."
The dirt path wound between rolling hills and stands of pine. Merchants passed with laden carts, nodding to the group. A tinker even tried to sell Puff a hat, which the little dragon wore proudly until Biscuit stole it. Their bickering filled the air until Button huffed and swatted them apart with one massive paw.
Tovan walked at Nyra's side. "You never told me what you plan to do with all… this." He gestured at the plushies now tumbling through the grass in a rough game of tag.
Nyra thought for a moment. "Someday, I'd like a place where they're safe. Where any creature is safe. A sanctuary, maybe. And a workshop. A place to sew without running from shadows."
Tovan tilted his head. "That's… ambitious."
"Is that your way of saying impossible?" Nyra teased.
His mouth twitched. "No. Just dangerous. A dream worth guarding."
By late afternoon, the path carried them into a valley. At its center sat Luthra, a weaving town famed for its cloth. Looms clattered in open courtyards, women dyed thread in vats of indigo and scarlet, and children strung garlands of wool scraps between houses.
It should have been beautiful. But the air was heavy. People moved quickly, whispering. Curtains were drawn. A shrine at the square had been covered in black cloth.
Nyra slowed. "Something's wrong."
A guard approached, his face grim. "Travelers, beware. The Weaver's Curse lies over Luthra. Threads turn to ash. Cloth unravels in the loom. Some say even memories fray."
Tovan frowned. "A curse that eats fabric? Why would—" He stopped, eyes narrowing at Nyra's satchel of silver thread.
Nyra hugged it closer. "We should help."
"Or stay out of trouble," Tovan muttered. But when he saw the set of her jaw, he sighed. "Fine. But if we're cursed into moth‑food, I'm haunting you."
The group wandered through town, witnessing the damage. A woman wept over her loom as threads disintegrated between her fingers. A boy carried his blanket to Nyra, only for it to crumble into dust in his arms. Even the festival banners overhead unraveled, fluttering away like smoke.
Nyra clenched her fists. "This isn't natural. Someone wove this curse deliberately."
Sprout hissed. "Feels wrong. Old. Hungry."
Button growled low, his fur bristling.
Then came the whispers—citizens pointing, murmuring about the girl with living toys. Some fearful, some hopeful. Children reached for Puff and Biscuit, who puffed up proudly, enjoying the attention.
The mayor finally sought them out, a tired woman with calloused hands. "You're the Stitcher, aren't you? The one who makes life from thread. If anyone can unpick this curse, it's you." She clasped Nyra's hands desperately. "Please. Our livelihoods are dying. Soon we will, too."
Nyra swallowed hard. "I'll try."
That night, they followed the mayor into the weaving hall, where the largest loom sat abandoned. The air around it shimmered faintly, threads writhing like snakes. When Nyra stepped closer, the silver thread in her satchel glowed in answer.
Tovan drew his blade. "That thing is alive."
Nyra nodded slowly. "It's woven from the same kind of magic as mine. But twisted. It's like someone took the gift of creation… and chose to weaponize it."
The loom jerked, shuddering as if to lunge. Strands of shadow shot outward, lashing at them. Button roared and batted one aside, while Puff spat fire that only singed the edges before being swallowed.
"Biscuit, Sprout—keep it busy!" Nyra cried, darting forward. She threaded her needle, silver gleaming. "If this curse is woven, then I'll unweave it!"
The cursed loom screeched, a sound of tearing fabric and breaking bone. Shadows whipped, tangling around Tovan's arm until he cursed, dragging his sword free. "I knew following you would get me killed!"
Nyra met his eyes briefly. "Not tonight!"
She plunged her needle into the dark strands. The silver thread glowed, unraveling black cords into dust. Each stitch she made didn't just weaken the curse—it absorbed it. Her thread shone brighter with each unpicking, drinking in the loom's power. Nyra felt it flood through her fingers, a tide of knowledge and raw strength. Her stitches were no longer simply mending or binding—they were rewriting.
Button shielded her, Sprout's vines lashed the writhing loom, Biscuit clawed and bit while Puff scorched gaps for her to work through. The silver light spread, cutting through the shadows like dawn.
At last, with one final stitch, the loom shuddered and collapsed, the curse unraveling in a rain of ash. Silence fell.
The townsfolk rushed in, gasping as the air cleared and their cloth no longer frayed. The mayor clasped Nyra's hands again, tears in her eyes. "You've saved us."
Nyra shook her head, exhausted. "Not me. Us." She glanced at her companions—Button standing tall, Puff and Biscuit puffed up with pride, Sprout huffing like he'd done all the work, Tovan silently sheathing his blade.
The fox cub barked once, as if claiming credit too.
Tovan exhaled slowly. "You really don't know how to live quietly, do you?"
Nyra smiled faintly. "Would you want me to?"
He hesitated, then smirked just a little. "Maybe not."
That night, as they sat in the inn, the silver thread in Nyra's satchel pulsed faintly, stronger than before. Nyra pressed her palm against it and shivered. The curse had not just been destroyed—it had become part of her. Her gift was growing sharper, deeper. She could feel the difference: every thread she touched hummed with life, waiting for her command.
She stared into the fire. Someone had woven this curse with magic like hers. Which meant somewhere out there… another weaver walked the world. And if they could twist life into a weapon, then she would have to become strong enough to stop them.