From the Weavers’ Chronicle
From the Weavers’ Chronicle
In the Old World, they called us the Fates.
We saw everything. The lives of gods and mortals alike, every thread from its first bright spin to its final unraveling. Priests and peasants. Conquerors and the conquered. We wove them all without preference, without intervention. A hero was only a thread like any other.
There was one such hero, once, whose story we remember above the countless others. Not because he was exceptional. Because she was.
He sought a prize beyond his reach and found a woman with power enough to deliver it.
A sorceress. A king’s daughter. She burned her world to ash for him — family, home, country, the life she had been born into — and laid the ruin at his feet like a gift.
He took everything she offered. And when she had given him all there was to give, he discarded her for a more convenient match and called himself the injured party.
The story does not remember her kindly. It remembers her as a warning. A word for women who love too completely, who use their power without apology, who refuse to be quietly diminished.
It was one tale among the thousands we tended. Ordinary, in its way. Betrayal is the oldest thread in the Weave.
But patterns do not die. They travel. They arrive in new soil, take new root, and grow into something the Old World never permitted them to become.
A story that ended in ruin can, given different ground, end differently.
We have seen this pattern emerge on Alia Terra.
This time, we intend to let it finish.