"Get me more wine," Penelope's voice cracked across the room, slurred but sharp, as though command was all she had left to cling to.
Diana, small and slight, barely five years old, rose from the floor where she'd been sitting. The one-room apartment smelled of smoke, cheap wine, and stale bread. The walls were bare plaster, crumbling in places, and the only furniture was a narrow cot in the corner and a chair that sagged under Penelope's weight.
Her mother lounged there, hair disheveled, the jug in her hand already half-empty. She didn't look at Diana, her gaze fixed instead on the cup beside her elbow as if it were the most important thing in the world.
The little girl picked up the second jug from where it rested near the hearth. It was heavy for her small arms, but she carried it carefully to the table, her bare feet padding softly across the cracked floorboards.
She set the jug down with care, hoping the quiet thud would not spark anger.
"What are you waiting for, girl? Pour."
Penelope's words were a bark, more habit than thought.
Diana flinched but obeyed. She lifted the jug with both hands, tilting it carefully until the thin stream of wine splashed into the cup. Her little arms trembled with the effort, though she made no sound. The liquid caught the dim light of the lantern, dark red like blood.
Her sleeves slipped as she worked, exposing pale skin marred with faint bruises—marks too old for a child to carry, fading to yellow at the edges. Her movements were practiced, precise, the kind of skill born not from joy but repetition under fear.
Penelope leaned forward at last, snatched the cup, and drank deep. Wine dribbled down her chin, but she didn't bother to wipe it away.
Diana set the jug back on the table with care and folded her hands in front of her, waiting silently for whatever her mother might demand next.
enelope drained the cup until only a streak of wine clung to the rim. She slammed it onto the table, making the jug rattle, and slouched back into the chair. Her eyes were half-closed, not with sleep but with the heavy haze of drink.
"Light the lantern," she muttered, though it was already lit.
Diana hesitated, then reached for the wick anyway, adjusting it so the flame flared brighter. The shadows jumped back, revealing more of the little room—bare walls, a floor swept clean not from pride but from lack of anything to scatter.
Her mother's gaze flicked over her. Not to admire. To tally. To measure. To find fault.
"You've got your father's eyes," Penelope said, voice slurred and bitter. "Too sharp. Makes you look… arrogant. Best keep them down if you don't want trouble."
Diana lowered her gaze immediately, staring at her small hands clenched in her lap. Her knuckles were raw, a scab forming across one.
The door rattled suddenly, a hard knock that reverberated through the frame. Diana's head jerked up. Penelope groaned, waving her hand like swatting at a fly.
"Go. See who it is."
Diana crossed the room quickly, the boards cool under her bare feet. She lifted the latch with effort, the wood scraping as it opened.
In the doorway stood a tall woman cloaked in gray, her presence filling the narrow hall beyond. Her eyes, cold and piercing, swept over the little girl first, then shifted to the shadow of Penelope sprawled inside.
"I heard shouting," the woman said. Her voice was low, steady, a command hidden beneath every syllable. "And the neighbors speak of a child."
Diana froze, caught between fear and a flicker of hope she didn't yet recognize.
Penelope straightened in her chair, lips curling into a sneer. "Who are you to knock at my door?"
The woman stepped inside without waiting. Her cloak shifted, revealing armor beneath—not the plate of a soldier, but leather hardened and scarred by battle. A sword hilt rested at her side, worn but polished, its wolf-shaped pommel gleaming faintly in the lantern's glow.
She looked again at Diana, her gaze softening only slightly. "This is the girl?"
"What of it?" Penelope barked, clutching the jug to her chest like a shield. "She's mine."
The woman's jaw tightened. She crouched so her eyes were level with Diana's. "What's your name?"
The little girl's lips trembled. "D… Diana."
The woman nodded, as though the answer confirmed something unspoken. She reached out, brushing a thumb over the child's arm where the bruise showed, and her eyes narrowed with quiet fury.
She rose, her voice sharp now, turned on Penelope. "You've wasted your years drinking. You won't waste hers."
Penelope laughed, bitter and shrill. "And you think you can take her? Who even are you?"
The woman drew herself tall, her presence filling the room until the air itself seemed to thin. The lantern flame flickered.
"They call me the She-Wolf," she said.
And in that moment, Diana's life shifted.
****
The chamber smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, but beneath it lingered the scent of age—skin grown thin, breath grown shallow. The She-Wolf lay upon a simple bed, her body smaller than Diana remembered, her once-black hair gone white, fanned across the pillow like bleached silk. Time had carved lines deep into her face, but her eyes still held the same fierce clarity that had cowed warriors and senators alike.
Diana sat at her side, clutching the old woman's hand. She was no child now, no longer the frightened girl who had once hidden behind her cloak. She was grown, her arms marked with scars, her eyes burning with a warrior's resolve. Yet in this moment, she trembled.
"You can fight this," Diana whispered urgently, her voice cracking. "You've taught me—Mystery is life, Mystery is strength. Advance one more step. Take the final stage. Gain the vitality to live. Please. Don't let it end here."
The She-Wolf smiled faintly, her lips thin, her breath uneven. "Stubborn, just like me. But my thread is nearly spun, Diana. To weave it further would not be life—it would be defiance of the loom itself."
Diana shook her head, eyes glistening. "Then defy it! You've always defied. You're the She-Wolf. You never bowed. Don't bow now."
The old woman's hand lifted, slow and trembling, and brushed against Diana's cheek. "I bowed once, child. To fate. To accept that even wolves must return to the wild when their hunt is finished. And mine is finished."
Her breath rattled, but her eyes burned brighter for a final moment. "The rest is yours. You will go farther than I, see deeper than I dared. You are not just the child of a broken mother. You are my heir. My thread will not end—it will become yours."
Diana's heart thudded painfully as the She-Wolf drew one last deep breath. Her chest rose, then she exhaled slowly, her lips parting. The air between them shimmered, faint and silver, like a strand of moonlit silk unraveling from her lungs.
Diana felt it touch her lips, then pour into her like living fire. Her body stiffened as the thread wound into her core, weaving itself through her soul, fusing with her wind-born Mystery. For a heartbeat she saw visions—threads stretching across the world, cords that bound and broke, the tapestry of fate itself.
Then the shimmer faded. The She-Wolf's body sank against the bed, her eyes closing at last, her hand slipping from Diana's cheek.
"Rest… is for me," she whispered with her final breath. "The fight… is yours now."
Diana's hands clutched her, shaking. Tears streaked her face as the storm within her rose in mourning, rattling the shutters, making the walls creak. She bent low, her forehead pressed against the She-Wolf's still hand, whispering like a vow.
"I'll carry it. I swear it. Your thread won't be lost."
The loom within her chest tightened, and a new thread pulsed inside her—hers and not hers, old and new, the She-Wolf's gift woven into her soul.
The silver glow still lingered in Diana's chest, pulsing faintly, alien yet familiar. It threaded itself through her veins, her breath, her thoughts, until she no longer knew where her own Mystery ended and the She-Wolf's began.
Then the world broke open.
Her eyes widened as the chamber dissolved into strands of light—thousands, millions, an endless loom stretching into shadow. Each strand was a life, a fate, weaving in and out of the tapestry. Some frayed, some snapped, some tangled in knots. She stumbled, clutching her spear for balance though her body had not moved at all.
Her sight tunneled toward one thread, brighter than all the others. It burned with a fierce, golden flame, cutting through the dark like a torch carried in a cavern. Around it, other threads bent as if pulled by its gravity.
She saw a figure walking the loom. Not clear, not whole—shrouded in light, his face blurred, but his hand carried a blazing torch. Wherever he stepped, broken strands rejoined, tangled ones loosened, frayed ones sparked with life anew. Villages lit, cities flared, the night itself seemed to scatter before his path.
"The Torchbearer…" Diana breathed, her voice shaking. "The one who will spread the flame of hope."
The figure paused as if hearing her. Though faceless, she felt his eyes on her, felt the torch's light wash over her skin. Warmth surged through her chest, not the heat of battle but of promise, of renewal. For the first time, she felt the loom not as burden but as song.
The vision faded, threads unraveling into nothing. She collapsed back into herself, gasping, clutching at the edge of the bed. The She-Wolf's hand lay still, her body cold. Yet her gift lived—woven now into Diana, and through Diana, into what was yet to come.
Diana pressed her forehead to the old woman's still fingers once more. "I saw him," she whispered, her voice raw. "The one who will bring the flame. I'll make sure he rises. I'll make sure your thread binds him to the world."
The storm outside quieted, the sea-wind slipping through the shutters like a sigh. The She-Wolf was gone. But the loom had shown her a future worth bleeding for.
****
Diana awoke with a ragged breath, her eyes fluttering open as if surfacing from deep water. The memories she had just relived—the harsh hand of her mother, the fierce gaze of the She-Wolf, the passing of the thread, and the vision of the Torchbearer—still clung to her like smoke. For a moment she wasn't sure where past ended and present began.
Her body told her the truth.
Every muscle felt stiff, her ribs aching with each inhale. Her skin was mottled with bruises, cuts caked with half-washed blood. The spear lay beside her, its adamant shaft nicked and scorched from the clash. And though the wounds she had taken should have been mortal, they had closed—threads of fate knitting them shut in ways that left her trembling.
She had survived. But she knew at what cost.
The Moira Mystery had saved her, had shown her the cords to sever in the Hierophant's forge-born body. It had given her the sight to strike true, to end him. Yet power like that was not meant for mortal flesh. Diana could feel it—her thread had shortened. Years of her life burned away, consumed like offerings at an altar.
Her hand rose to her chest, where the loom tugged faintly, weaker now, frayed at the edges. A bitter smile touched her lips. So be it.
The world around her came into focus.
The sky above was iron-gray, clouds swirling heavy with rain. Droplets fell onto her face, cold against the fevered heat of her skin. The wind smelled of salt and smoke, still thick with the echoes of battle. All around her lay the ruins of the fight—blackened stone, smoldering fragments of Automatons, and the shattered staff of the Hierophant where it had cracked upon the rocks.
She sat up slowly, wincing as her joints screamed. The sea roared against the cliffs below, waves colliding with the shore in endless fury. Diana drew her knees close, the stormwater soaking through her robe, and pressed her forehead to her hands for a long, quiet moment.
She had won, yes. But victory had carved a piece of her away.
Rising unsteadily, she retrieved her spear, planting it firmly into the earth to steady herself. The wind coiled faintly at her shoulders, eager, restless, as if sensing that this was not the end. And as the rain washed over her, mingling with the blood and dirt, Diana turned her face toward Kolma—where the Iron Guild still awaited her reckoning.
Diana staggered down the coastal path, the storm at her back. Each step was a battle—her body heavy, her limbs trembling—but her spear planted firm in the earth kept her upright. The bruises and half-healed gashes sang with pain, but her eyes never left the horizon. Kolma lay north, and in Kolma, the Iron Guild still spun its lies.
The cliffs gave way to flatter land, where the grass grew tall and whipped in the wind. Rain slicked the earth, softening it to mud beneath her boots. She paused for breath, chest tight, when the sound reached her.
Hooves.
Diana turned, her body stiffening as dark shapes emerged from the mist. Dozens at first, then scores—a tide of horsemen fanning across the plain. Their silhouettes loomed against the stormlight, wolf-pelts draped over their shoulders, spears and axes gleaming wet. The air filled with the sound of snorting mounts, leather creaking, weapons rattling in practiced hands.
Within moments, they encircled her, a ring of riders closing until their steeds snorted steam into the rain. Their faces were painted in streaks of ash and clay, their eyes sharp, unblinking.
Dionians.
Diana's pulse quickened. She knew the markings, the way their armor was stripped down for speed rather than weight. This was the Moonhunt of the Karyai—a tribe feared even among Dionians, specialists in ambush and skirmish, their very name a warning whispered to caravans.
One rider dismounted, a tall warrior with a jagged scar across her jaw. Her cloak of black wolf fur whipped in the gale as she stepped forward, boots sinking into the mud. Her gaze fixed on Diana, searching, weighing, as though she saw more than her bloodied body standing defiant.
When she spoke, her voice carried in the storm, heavy with ritual.
"Thread-Weaver."
The name struck her like a blow.
Diana's fingers tightened on her spear. Her wind stirred uneasily at her shoulders. She had heard the Dionians whisper of Thread-Weavers—mystics of fate in their own rites, those rare few who touched the hidden cords. That she called her one meant they knew.
"What do you want with me?" she asked, her voice raw but steady.
The warrior's scarred jaw set. "Our people are gone. Taken at night. Chains where homes once stood. You smell of the storm, but your eyes… they see threads. The Iron Men have stolen ours as well." She gestured, and a murmur ran through the horde behind her, anger simmering like coals under rain.
Diana's breath hitched. The missing villagers of Perithia were not alone. The Iron Guild's reach had spread farther—kidnapping not only Imperium subjects but Dionians too.
The Moonhunt had come hunting. And now they stood before her, not as raiders, but as something more dangerous: allies or executioners, depending on her next words.
Before Diana could shape her answer, the sky itself seemed to shudder. A low rumble, like stone grinding against stone, rolled across the storm. Shadows rippled in the clouds, then broke apart as something vast descended.
The Dionians shifted in their saddles, spears angled upward. Horses pawed nervously at the ground, snorting clouds into the rain. Even Diana felt her breath catch at the sight.
A creature of obsidian plunged through the mist—its body glistening like black glass, veins glowing faintly as though fire ran beneath its skin. Two horns jutted like jagged spears from its head, curving wickedly, and its eyes were coals alive with flame, burning red against the gray storm. Each wingbeat stirred the air like a smith's bellows, scattering rain into sheets.
It landed with a quake that sent mud spraying across the plain.
Upon its broad, armored back sat two figures Diana knew instantly. Kallus, tall and broad-shouldered, with his wolfish grin despite the storm, and beside him, Benji, his bearded hair plastered to his face by the rain. Both wore the mark of the Red Jaguar company, mercenaries of blood and reputation—but more importantly, Diana's allies.
Relief pricked at her chest like a blade easing from a wound. If they were here on Helen's Bicorn, then Alaric had made it safely to her.
The Dionians did not flinch, but their formation shifted subtly. Spears lowered, shields tightened, and their scarred leader's eyes narrowed—not at the beast, but at the two men atop it. Mystiques. The weight of that power, unhidden, set every warrior on edge.
Kallus dismounted with a thud, his boots sinking into the wet earth. With a twist of his wrist, his trident shimmered into existence, its tips gleaming with condensed aether. He planted himself between Diana and the scarred Dionian warrior, his presence a wall of resolve.
"Lady Diana," he said, his voice low but carrying. He held the trident ready, every line of his body coiled for conflict.
The scarred warrior stepped forward, cloak whipping in the wind. She raised one hand, palm outward, a gesture of restraint rather than challenge. "We are not here to fight." Her voice was gravelly, heavy with age and battle. "My people and I hunt our own missing kin. We followed the trail to that ghost town on the coast. It was there I sensed you."
Diana's eyes narrowed slightly, her mind stitching together the threads. So she was the tracker. That meant her Mystery wasn't in steel or blood, but in pursuit. Sensory. Threads of presence woven into the land. No ordinary warrior could pierce the She-Wolf's charm—yet she knew the truth about her mysteries.
She must be Bathos, she thought, gaze flicking over her. Strong enough to look past the veils my mentor left me.
The storm hung heavy between the two sides, the coals of the obsidian beast's eyes glowing red in the rain. For a moment, the coast felt less like a battlefield and more like the center of a loom—threads of storm, iron, and blood drawing tight.
The scarred Dionian leader stood squarely before her, rain dripping down the jagged line of her jaw. Her riders closed the ring tighter, their spears bristling in the gray light. The obsidian beast behind Diana shifted its wings, scattering droplets in a heavy spray, its burning coal-eyes watching.
Kallus planted his trident firmly into the mud, a silent warning, but Diana lifted her hand slightly. Wait. She felt the loom tugging at her—threads pulling taut, waiting to be woven.
"I know why you're here," Diana said at last, her voice steady despite the ache in her body. "Your missing people. Stolen in the night. Chained like cattle."
A ripple moved through the Dionians—anger flashing in their eyes, a growl passing their throats. The leader's stare hardened. "You've seen them?"
Diana nodded once. "I have seen visions of the taken. And I've seen the ones responsible. It was not pirates. Not wandering slavers. It was the Iron Guild." Her voice sharpened like a blade. "They've hidden beneath your land and ours. They've taken villagers from the coast—your kin, my people. They feed them into their machines, into their abominations."
Gasps and curses rolled through the circle of riders. One spat into the mud, another raised his axe half a hand's length. The leader's eyes burned brighter than her torchlight war-paint. "Then we ride for Kolma now. We burn their nest to the ground. No stone standing, no throat spared!"
The Dionians roared their agreement, a savage chorus rolling with the storm. Spears rattled against shields. Horses stamped, sensing the frenzy.
Diana's spear planted in the mud with a sharp crack. The storm surged at her shoulders, wind whipping through her hair, forcing the Dionians to hold their cloaks tighter. Her eyes glowed silver-blue as she stepped forward into their circle.
"No."
The word struck harder than thunder. The roars faltered, the riders blinking at her audacity. Even the scarred leader's jaw clenched at the command in her tone.
"The villagers are innocent," Diana continued, her voice carrying over the hiss of the rain. "They are victims, not allies of the Guild. To cut them down would be no justice—it would be slaughter. Their blood would feed the same shadow you seek to destroy."
The Dionians growled, restless. One warrior snarled, "If they fed the Guild, if they kept silent—"
"Out of fear," Diana cut him off. She swept her spear in a slow arc, the wind hissing against its blade. "Do not confuse silence with complicity. I've already struck down the Hierophant of the Guild with my own hand. He lies broken on the coast. What remains is the root, hidden in Kolma. That is where our blades must strike—not at the necks of the helpless."
The storm quieted, the only sound the roll of the surf and the hiss of rain.
The scarred leader studied her, eyes narrowing, her scar pulling taut with the motion. Finally, she grunted low in her throat. "You claim to have slain their priest of iron?"
Diana met her gaze without flinching. "I did. And now I go to Kolma to finish the rest."
Silence held for a long moment, then the leader let out a sharp breath through her nose, like a wolf scenting blood. "Hnnh. You speak like a queen. Not a senator's whelp."
She turned to her riders, barking orders in their tongue. Their fury dimmed, though their hunger for blood simmered beneath the surface.
At last, she looked back at Diana. "Very well, Thread-Weaver. We hunt the guilty, not the broken. The Guild's blood first."
The Moonhunt roared their approval this time, but their fury was directed outward—toward Kolma, toward vengeance on the true enemy. Diana's grip on her spear eased, though her jaw remained set. The storm around her calmed, but did not fade. She lifted her chin toward the dark horizon.
"Then let us weave this thread together."