The Weaver's voice lingered inside Elias's head as a yell that could not cease.
The Reader will never wake up.
It was not a threat—not just a warning. It was a sentence.
The strips of ink lashed once more, snapping through the air toward the wall. The initial one hit armor and made hot oil spurting sounds as it left a smudge. The wood ignited and burned in two seconds.
"Don't let it get to you!" Selin shouted after him. "It burns everything it touches."
Brynn bellowed orders, recalling the soldiers to the walls. Aric wielded his staff around and struck a blazing arc at the creature. The flames engulfed the strands, burning hot for an instant before exhaling into black smoke.
The Weaver tilted its head. Strands burst from its body, radiating out like the legs of a spider.
Elias's gaze sprang to the Script hovering in midair:
The Reader will not wake.
Which means I die here, Elias thought. And I don't revive.
The realization struck him more forcefully than the threat. This was unlike the monster at Ash Hollow. This was unlike the prophecy of Brynn. This was not a reversal.
"Selin!" he cried, his gaze still on the Weaver. "How do you defend yourself against one?"
"You don't!" she growled. "You run!"
Not an option. If he became a politician, the Weaver could still murder Brynn—or worse, demolish the entire wall, leaving the city unprotected.
A strand struck him. Elias sidestepped, the tip slicing the stone where he'd been. The slice didn't bleed dust—it bled nothing, the rock simply not existing anymore.
Aric's cry broke the combat."The strands are branches! If we destroy the source, the rest could die!"
The source was the Weaver itself. Easy to say, hard to reach. Its shape shone like liquid night, and each step it took was slower than the sweep of its threads, purposeful, self-assured.
Elias's mind reeled. If he struck blindly, the curse would be fulfilled. But if he did not strike at all, the same would result.
Live on or postpone transformation?
One of the soldiers shouted as a tendril encircled his leg. In the blink of an eye, he was gone—no corpse, no blood, just empty air where he'd stood.
Elias gritted his teeth."I'll take its fire. Aric—attack when it's open!"
Aric didn't wait. Brynn cursed but shifted to cover his flank.
Elias vaulted from the battlement out into the street below with a jarring jolt that shook his knees. The Weaver's head swung to him in an instant. The strands whipped up, like writhing snakes.
"Get on," Elias growled, backing away, keeping it taut.
The first lash was low; he rolled under it. The second was high; he ducked and kept moving. All movement was a breath stolen from the Script's sentence.
When he stepped out through the empty plaza in front of the gate, he slowed his flight.
"Now, Aric!" he roared.
A column of fire flared up mightily from the battlement and struck the Weaver in the chest. For a moment, its form flailed spasmodically, the strands twitching wildly.
Elias charged. His sword met resistance—not flesh, not metal, but a thick, liquid-like substance. He pushed the blade in deeper, grinding his teeth, and the voice of the Weaver boomed in his brain.
CUTTING A LINE DOES NOT.
The threads lashed savagely, one raking his shoulder. Pain tore across him—not a pain a pain, but like rends of himself being eaten. Memories erupted, flashing in and out—faces, names, bites of his life on Earth.
He retreated, vision reeling.
Brynn's cry pierced through."Elias!"
The Weaver's form folded inward, falling like ink sucked down a drain. The threads dissolved into mist. And then—nothing.
He fell onto the floor, gasping for breath. Selin stood over him as if she had been alone with him the entire time.
"You're lucky," she said. "Most Readers who get touched don't have enough of themselves left over to buckle their boots."
Elias scowled at her."It cost… something."
"It always does," Selin replied gently. "What did it cost you?"
He faltered."I… I don't know."
Her eyes became slits, but she didn't question further.
The Script returned that night.
The line is lost. The price stays.
He stared at the shining words until they faded, then adjusted the band of his sleeve. The stamp of the first loop remained. And now, on his shoulder, another, a black, thin, snapped one, like a crack in china.
The next morning, Brynn stood before him in the barracks.
"You battled with your life against that creature," she said to him. "You could have died."
"I assumed that was part of the job description," Elias replied with a grin.
Her eyes eased slightly."Whatever that creature was… you've opened a window. The Guild is standing down. The Warden's putting more guards on the south quarter. Maybe that prophecy of yours isn't going to happen after all."
Elias hadn't told them the truth—that the prophecy was erased, but the gods who penned it now knew his name.
Selin found him later on the wall, staring out into the deserted road.
"You're past the point of no return," she told him. "The Weavers don't forget. They'll test you again."
"Let them," Elias replied, his voice unyielding. "If they want me to have left, they'll have to try harder."
Selin's lip curled."Be warned, Reader. Pride is an exceedingly loud sound in the Script. And loud sounds bring more than Weavers."
She stepped out, and Elias stood by the wall, tracing the black stain on his shoulder.
No matter the cost, he'd drive the Script to its limits until it broke. And if the gods did frown upon him, they could come and tell him so in person.