“She died protecting something more important than her own life.” His voice grows soft with memory. “Died buying time for the fortress to prepare for siege. I can respect that.”
I study his profile as he stares at the failing banner. “You really believe that? That some things are worth dying for?”
He turns those burning eyes on me. “Don’t you?”
The question catches me off guard. I think of my family back in Red Hollow, of my brother trying to shield me fromthe collectors despite knowing it was hopeless. Of the choice between safety and freedom, between survival and honor.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a position to find out.”
“You might be soon.”
The ominous words hang between us as I approach the standard. The closer I get, the more obvious the problems become. This isn’t just age or normal wear—this is systematic destruction, deliberate and calculated.
I reach toward the fabric, then pause. “May I?”
Vlorn nods, watching intently as I touch the banner with careful fingers.
The moment I make contact, I gasp.
The fabric feels wrong under my fingertips—not just damaged, but actively fighting itself. Like cloth that’s been woven against its natural grain, forced into patterns that create constant tension. The silver threads don’t flow smoothly; they catch and snag, their metallic shine dulled by whatever has been done to them.
“Someone’s been sabotaging this for months,” I breathe, tracing the damaged areas with growing horror. “Look here—these cuts are too precise to be accidental wear. And this pattern...” I point to a section where silver threads have been deliberately rewoven in the wrong sequence. “Whoever did this understands textile construction intimately. They knew exactly how to weaken the overall structure without making it obvious.”
Vlorn moves closer, close enough that I can sense his breath on my neck as he leans over my shoulder to examine the banner with me. “Sabotage.”
“Sophisticated sabotage. This wasn’t random vandalism—this was someone with knowledge, with access, with the patience to work slowly over time.” I continue examining the damage, my seamstress eye picking out details that others might miss.“They’ve been unraveling the protective structure thread by thread.”
His rage radiates off him like heat from a forge, but when he speaks, his voice is deadly calm. “Can you fix it?”
I study the damaged areas more carefully, trying to understand the underlying structure. The work is incredibly complex—far beyond anything I’ve attempted before. But the foundation is still there, a blueprint written in thread and silver, waiting for someone with the skill to read it.
“I think so. But I’ll need to understand what these patterns are supposed to do. I can see where they’re broken, but I don’t know what breaking them accomplishes.”
He kneels beside me on the stone floor, bringing us to the same level. “This section here—” His finger traces a complex spiral of silver threads without quite touching them. “It’s a ward against siege engines. The magic redirects the force of impact, spreads it across the entire wall instead of concentrating it at one point.”
His knowledge surprises me. I’d expected him to understand tactics and leadership, but this level of magical theory suggests education I hadn’t anticipated. There are depths to this man that I’m only beginning to glimpse.
I point to a different section, where geometric patterns create an almost hypnotic effect. “And this one?”
“Protection against sorcerous attack. It creates a barrier that turns hostile magic back on its caster, mirroring force rather than absorbing it.” His voice grows softer, touched with memory. “My great-grandmother wove these wards during the Bone March wars, when the fortress faced enemies who commanded fire and lightning. Every thread was placed with purpose, every pattern woven with intention.”
We work through the banner section by section, his deep voice explaining the function of each ward while I analyze theconstruction with growing fascination. The proximity required for this examination means we’re constantly close—shoulders touching as we lean over the work, hands brushing as we point out details, his breath stirring my hair when he moves to see something better.
But there’s no magical compulsion drawing us together. Just the natural result of shared focus, shared purpose, shared determination to solve this puzzle.
“This is incredible work.” I study a particularly complex section where protective runes spiral around wolf heads in patterns that seem to move with their own life. “Whoever created this was a master beyond anything I’ve ever imagined.”
“My bloodline has carried this gift for generations. Power in the blood, passed from parent to child. But the knowledge dies if there’s no one left to teach it.”
The pain in his voice is unmistakable now. Not just grief for the dead, but fear for the future. Fear that everything his family built will crumble because the chain of knowledge has been broken.
I open my sewing kit with hands that shake only slightly, selecting a needle and threading it with black silk that matches the banner’s base fabric. The familiar motions calm me, ground me in something I understand completely.
“This might take a while.” I settle into a comfortable position beside the hanging standard.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The first few stitches are tentative, experimental. I’m not sure how the magic will react to my work, if it will accept repairs from someone who doesn’t understand its full nature. But as I settle into the familiar rhythm of sewing, my confidence grows.
