Chapter 4: The Loom of Night
The chill of the desert night deepened, seeping into the very stones of Oakhaven. Kaelen stood atop the crude watchtower, the wind whipping his cloak around him like a restless shadow. Below, the villagers moved with a quiet urgency, preparing for the inevitable. Old Man Borin, despite his age, barked orders, his voice surprisingly strong as he directed the placement of makeshift barricades and sharpened stakes. The scent of fear was palpable, a bitter tang on the air, but beneath it, Kaelen sensed a stubborn resolve, a communal Thread of defiance.
He closed his eyes, extending his senses, not just seeing, but feeling the world around him. The Threads of the wind, cold and swift, carrying distant sounds. The Threads of the earth, solid and unyielding, vibrating with the subtle shifts of the ground. And the Threads of life, within the village walls, a fragile, interconnected web of heartbeats and breaths. He could feel the Elderwood saplings, their own Threads glowing faintly, a quiet pulse of pure life against the encroaching darkness. They were the heart of Oakhaven, and the reason for the raiders' coming.
His own body ached, a dull, persistent reminder of the cost of his earlier manipulation. The copper taste still lingered in his mouth. He knew he couldn't afford another such exertion, not without risking something far more severe than a headache. His power was a double-edged blade, capable of great things, but demanding a heavy toll. He had to be precise, calculative, using his abilities only when absolutely necessary, like a master weaver conserving precious silk.
A faint glint in the distance caught his eye. Moonlight, reflecting off metal. The raiders. They were closer now, moving with a renewed purpose. The dust from the rockslide had settled, and they were no longer disoriented. He counted two figures, mounted. The one he had disarmed was likely left behind, or perhaps being tended to. This meant two fully armed, determined opponents.
He descended the ladder, joining Borin by the main gate. "They're here. Two of them. They'll try the gate first."
Borin nodded grimly. "We'll hold it. But they're strong, Kaelen. Stronger than any raiders we've faced before."
"One of them is a Weaver," Kaelen said, his voice low, for Borin's ears only. "Or touched by the Threads, at least. He sensed me."
Borin's eyes widened, a flicker of ancient fear in their depths. "A Weaver? Here? By the Ancestors… this is worse than I thought." The knowledge of another like Kaelen, one who could manipulate the very fabric of reality, added a new layer of dread to the night.
Kaelen ignored the fear. It was a distraction. He needed to think. He looked at the villagers, their faces etched with anxiety, their hands clutching crude weapons – farming tools, old hunting spears. They were brave, but untrained. He couldn't rely on brute force. He had to use the environment, their limited resources, and his own understanding of the Threads.
He scanned the ground outside the gate. The earth was uneven, riddled with small depressions and loose stones. He could subtly shift the Threads of the ground, making it treacherous, creating unseen traps. It wouldn't stop them, but it would slow them, perhaps even dismount them. And it would cost less than a full rockslide.
"Borin," Kaelen said, "we need to make the ground outside the gate unstable. Just enough to trip them, not enough to bury them. And we need to be ready to strike when they fall."
Borin looked at him, a question in his eyes, but he didn't press. He simply nodded. "Get the others. We'll do what we can."
As the villagers began to work, Kaelen placed his hands on the rough wooden gate, feeling the Threads of the wood, the earth, the very air around it. He began to weave, a slow, deliberate manipulation. He felt the familiar drain, a cold trickle of energy from his core, but it was manageable. He focused on the raiders' approach, their heavy footsteps, the rhythmic thud of their Sand-Runners. He could feel their impatience, their eagerness to breach the village.
The air grew heavy with anticipation. The only sounds were the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of dry leaves, and the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the Threads as Kaelen worked. He was setting the stage, preparing the loom for the night's grim tapestry. When the raiders arrived, they would find more than just a simple village. They would find a world that fought back, guided by a hand they couldn't see, a mind they couldn't comprehend. The first threads of the trap were laid. The night was long, and the gambit had just begun.