The Weaver was gone. But its leaving was heavier than its staying. The city didn't forget what it saw—glints of shadows that devoured men, a thing that wept emptiness, and a young stranger who defied it.
Elias hated the way people gazed at him now. Merchants broke off transactions in the bazaar as he passed. Tales fell to a whisper. Children gasped and pointed, some in awe, others in fear. Word flew fast here, faster than money. The Reader who fought the shadow-god, they said.
Brynn found him in the mess hall, placing a wrinkled parchment on his plate. "From the Warden."
He opened it. The text was neat, unexpedited.
Report to the Keep at first bell tomorrow. Council inquiry. Attendance required.
Elias looked at her. "Inquiry?"
"They want to know how you dispatched it," Brynn said. "And why it was there in the first place."
The council room of the Keep was made entirely of stone and unsmiling faces. Four councilors were seated around the long table, the Warden at the head. Interrogation started polite—what happened at the gate, what did the Weaver do, what magic did he use to harm it. Then the mood grew darker.
"Why you?" one councilor insisted.
"I don't know," Elias said.
"You don't know, or you won't say?" another pressed.
The Warden's gaze was hard, unreadable. "There are whispers, Elias. That you foresaw that it would occur. That you've changed some things in the past."
Elias's expression was a mask. "I defend when something threatens the city. That's it."
Later, in the Keep courtyard, Selin leaned against a pillar, waiting. "They're going to keep digging," she said.
"I didn't tell them anything."
"That's the problem." She moved away from the column. "Silence makes them anxious. Anxious men with power do reckless things."
Elias scowled. "Then what do you recommend?"
"Find allies before they determine that you are a liability," she said. "Preferably ones that don't report to the council."
That evening, as he patrolled the southern wall, the Script materialized without warning.
"The gates will fall tomorrow night."
Elias's breath went cold. There was no place for doubt—no if, no may. It was a fact. And if the gates fell, the city would be lost by dawn.
He discovered Aric in the barracks, whittling on his staff. "We need to secure the gate," Elias stated, his voice strained.
Aric glanced up. "Why? Weavers don't strike twice in the same place."
"It isn't necessarily a Weaver," Elias said. "But something is coming."
Aric stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "Another of your Script things?"
"Yes."
"That won't be enough to convince the Warden to pull half the garrison."
"Then I'll convince Brynn," Elias said.
Brynn heard him out in her room, arms crossed. "You want me to pull soldiers from patrol on the basis of something you think will happen?"
"I know that it will happen," Elias continued. "Tomorrow night, the gates come down."
She looked at him for a moment. "You're asking me to bet the city's defenses on your word."
"I'm asking you to trust me."
She did not offer any guarantee. But the next morning, he saw more guards than usual along the gate wall. Brynn was among them, checking swords, bellowing orders.
Selin appeared on the parapet beside him, hooded. "Take care," she whispered. "Copying something this big will alert the Script."
"It already heard," Elias said.
With the sun dipping toward the horizon, the first sounds came from the trees—a low, drumming thudding. Then shapes materialized: not Weavers, not carrion, but massive, four-legged beasts armored in bone-like hide. Siege beasts. Behind them, figures moved—dozens of armed men, their armor mismatched, their banners black.
The defenders tensed. Brynn bellowed for archers to ready. The first salvo struck the lead beast, but the arrows rebounded off its plating. The impact shook the wall when the lead beast slammed into the gates. Wood splintered but did not shatter.
Elias kept climbing the wall, looking for any sign of the moment the Script described. The second beast hit. Cracks spidered the gate's frame. Brynn called out to let down the boiling pitch. It sloshed over the lead beast, smoking, hissing. The acrid smell of burned hide clung in the air.
For a moment, the defense was holding.
Then Elias saw it—the third beast, smaller, faster, dodging among the others down at the bottom of the wall. It had something on its back, tied with thongs. The Script shone.
"The gates will fall tomorrow night."
The how became all at once clear. The smaller animal slammed into the gate side, its cargo—a procession of glass orbs—splintering. A wave of green flame blasted, engulfing wood and metal alike.
Elias didn't think. He leapt off the wall onto cobblestones with a jarring thud and ran toward the creature. Pain shrieked up his legs, but he pressed on. He arrived as flames spread, cutting his sword into the straps holding back the orbs. One fell loose and rolled, detonating into another burst of green fire.
The monster turned, jaws snapping. Elias parried, cutting deep in the joint of its armored leg. It staggered, and he drove his blade into its throat. The flames still devoured the gate, but Brynn's soldiers waited patiently with water and sand, smothering the worst of it. The wood charred and splintered, but it did not fall.
When the attackers finally gave up hope and ran, the gates still stood.
That night, Elias waited for the Script. It didn't arrive. Instead, Selin found him waiting by the wall.
"You bent it again," she said to him. "But every time you do, you cause waves. And out there somewhere, something is looking at those waves."
Elias rose to meet her. "Then let it look. I'm not playing games here."
She didn't budge. "That's what the last one said."