Chapter 4 The Weaver
The Weaver
Idried off while he turned his back. He didn’t move or look back, just stood there facing the wall.
The air felt cooler now, my skin no longer burning the way it had before, the fever pulled back just enough to let me think.
My body still felt weak, my leg worse than the rest, but I could stand. That alone felt like something.
I changed quickly, then crossed back to the bed and lowered myself onto it with care. The weakness lingered, waiting for me to push too far.
The door opened not long after. The weaver stepped inside, older than I expected, hands already stained, eyes moving over me before shifting to Teorin. Whatever passed between them didn’t need words.
Teorin moved first. He pulled the blankets over me carefully, covering everything but my injured leg and upper thigh. His hand lingered just long enough to make sure nothing shifted, as though he didn’t want the man seeing more than he had to.
I rolled onto my side, bracing myself. The mattress dipped. Teorin climbed onto the bed behind me, close enough that I could feel him at my back. He extended his hand in front of me.
I looked at it, then at him.
“You can hate me as much as you want,” he said. “But I’m still the only hand left to hold. And you’re going to need it.”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
The weaver stepped closer and told him to hold me still, and I felt my body tighten before I could stop it.
The first touch came without warning, and the pain tore through me before I had time to brace for it.
A scream ripped out of my throat before I could stop it, sharp and raw, my body arching as the sensation burned deep into my leg, far worse than anything I had felt before.
“Stop—”
It didn’t stop. It only got worse, the pain building before I could catch my breath.
Teorin moved instantly, on his feet before I could react, something in him shifting so abruptly it seemed to pull the air from the room. His eyes had gone completely black.
“Why does it hurt like that?” he demanded, his voice low but carrying something dangerous beneath it. “Fix it.”
“There is no other—” the weaver started.
The man’s words cut off. His belt tore free, snapping through the air before locking tight around his throat, pulling him upward just enough to break his footing.
“You will do this cleanly,” Teorin said. “You will not butcher her.”
The man clawed at the leather, choking.
“You do this wrong,” Teorin continued, quieter now, “and you die.”
The pressure vanished. The weaver stumbled, gasping, hands shaking as he forced himself back to work. “Yes—yes—of course.”
I didn’t scream again. I couldn’t. The pain was still there, just as brutal, but something in me locked down against it. Tears slid silently down my face instead, my entire body trembling under the strain.
Teorin was beside me again. He didn’t hesitate this time. He shifted me back, lifting me slightly and pulling me between his legs so that my back pressed against him. One arm came around me, holding me in place.
He brought his forearm in front of my mouth. “Bite.”
I did. My teeth sank into him as the pain surged again, deeper this time, my body tightening against his hold.
He didn’t pull away. His other arm wrapped around my back, firm, anchoring me there as the weaver continued. A cloth brushed across my face, wiping away sweat.
“It’s almost over,” he said.
I didn’t believe him.
“Don’t think any of this means I care,” he added, his voice low, close to my ear. “I don’t care about you. Even if it seems like I do.”
Another wave hit.
“Fuck you,” I managed against his arm.
“Fuck you too.”
Then—
“Bite.”
I did, harder this time. The weaver pressed deeper, pulling more of the infection free, and my body shook against him, every muscle tightening as the pain climbed higher than I could manage.
And he held me through it, not moving, not letting go.
After what felt like forever, the weaver finally pulled back.
“I got as much of it as I could,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Now it’s time to weave.”
Teorin didn’t look at him. “Is there still any left?”
“I took out what I could,” the man replied. “The wounds are deep.” His eyes flicked to me, something almost human crossing his face. “Who would do such a thing to a young woman?”
“Mind your fucking business,” Teorin said.
Silence followed.
I swallowed, my throat dry. “Does the weaving part hurt?”
Teorin gave a small nod.
I closed my eyes, then opened them again. “Get away from me.”
He didn’t move. “But—”
“You just reminded me that you don’t give a fuck about me,” I said. My voice was thin but steady enough. “So clearly that’s true. Or you wouldn’t have lied about whatever the fuck you lied about.” I held his eyes. “I don’t need to be this close to my enemy.”
He stared at me briefly, then stood and stepped away from the bed.
I turned my head toward the weaver. “Begin.”
The pain tore through me in a way that made the earlier agony feel almost distant, my body folding in on itself as I buried my face into the pillow, the sound breaking out of me before I could stop it.
I sobbed into the fabric, my hands gripping at it, my entire body trembling as the sensation spread and twisted and refused to let go.
It wasn’t just the pain. It was everything that had come with it, everything that had led me here, and for the first time since all of this began, anger pushed through it.
Colsar had left to save Shalvar, and it had seemed reasonable then, something I had accepted without question, but now I was here without him, in pain, barely holding myself together, and he was not here to see it or stop it.
Time lost its shape after that. I could not tell if it stretched or collapsed, only that it moved without me.
At some point the pressure eased. The pain did not disappear, but it loosened enough that I could breathe again, my sobs quieting as my body continued to shake against the bed.
“It’s over,” Teorin said, his voice quieter now.
I lifted my head slowly, looking around as the room came back into focus. The weaver was gone.
“I hate crying,” Teorin added. “So stop.”
I almost said something, something cruel, something meant to wound, but the words never came.
I pushed myself upright instead, slower this time, my body still weak but no longer fighting me with every movement, and looked down at my leg.
The wounds were gone, and in their place were.
..marks. Gold, faintly luminous, twisting and looping across my skin in shapes that didn’t hold still long enough to fully understand.
They began just above my knee and moved upward, curling along my thigh and continuing higher, disappearing beneath the edge of my underclothes.
“What are those?” I asked.
“They call it weaver residue,” he said. “Whatever of your power wasn’t consumed by the infection rises to the surface.”
I traced one of the lines lightly with my fingers. It felt like skin. Nothing more. “Will they be there forever?”
“Probably.”
I nodded once. “You can leave.”
He didn’t move right away. A knock sounded, and he turned to open the door, returning a moment later with a tray in his hands. A covered bowl. Bread.
He set it down and lifted the cover, and the smell hit me at once, sour and thick, turning my stomach before I could stop it. Fraisah.
The memory came with it. That room, Sevrin’s voice, Yvara’s moans, the taste of vomit and the heat of anger, the list in my hands before Sevrin threw it into the fire. The loneliness. The hunger.
My hands started to shake, and before I could think, I grabbed the bowl and threw it across the room. It shattered.
“Get it away from me.”
“What are you, a fucking child?” Teorin snapped. “We’re stuck on this ship with minimal rations. The fraisah is good for pregnant women.”
“It’s disgusting,” I said, my voice breaking. “I want no part of it.”
The shaking worsened.
“You’re just like your sick brother,” I added, the words coming before I could stop them. “Trying to force me to do things I don’t want to do.”
He stared at me without moving, then turned, crossed the room in two strides, and slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.
Silence followed.
I leaned my head back against the headboard, my eyes closing as the ache behind them throbbed in time with the pulse in my chest. My body still trembled, the fever not fully gone, the weakness dragging through my limbs in a way that made everything feel heavier than it should have been.
I missed Colsar.
The thought hit all at once and stayed, pressing in until there was no space left for anything else.
I brought my hand to my stomach, slower this time, more careful, as if I might miss it if I rushed. There was something there. Not movement, not yet, but a faint awareness, a presence that should have felt stronger than it did. It was too quiet. Too easy to doubt.
I swallowed, my fingers pressing a little more firmly as if that might make it real.
It was early. That was all. It had to be. But the thought would not go away cleanly.
No. I forced myself upright. I needed Nyara. Nyara would know what to do, would know how to reach Junis, and Junis could take me back. I could not do this without Colsar.
I needed him. If something was wrong—
My breath caught, the thought cutting off before I could finish it.
I would not survive it. And neither would anyone in Veynar who had even a hand in it.
Colsar would destroy them before I ever had the chance, and part of me wondered if that was already what he was doing now.
I hoped Maridale had delivered my message. I needed to get to him.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, slower this time, steady enough to stay upright.
I moved toward my clothes, reaching for them, for my cloak, each step taking more effort than it should have.
One step. Then another. The room tilted before I could adjust. The edges blurred.
The darkness came too fast, and everything went black.