This is what I know how to do. Thread and fabric, needle and pattern—the fundamentals are the same whether I’m mendinga wedding dress or a magical ward. The tools are familiar, the motions practiced, the goal clear.
Vlorn settles beside me, close enough to watch my work but careful not to interfere. His presence is oddly comforting—solid and protective, a barrier between me and whatever dangers lurk beyond these walls.
“Your stitches are different from what I’ve seen before.” He leans closer to examine my work.
“Different how?”
“Smaller. More precise. And the way you hold the needle—my aunt always gripped hers in a fist, but you hold yours...” He pauses, searching for words.
“Like it’s an extension of my hand. I’ve been sewing since I was old enough to hold thread without tangling it. The needle isn’t a tool anymore—it’s part of me.”
He nods slowly, understanding. “My sword is the same.”
“Exactly.”
We fall into comfortable silence as I continue working. Each stitch requires careful attention—not just to repair the physical damage, but to restore the flow of whatever magical energy runs through these threads. I can sense it, faintly, like trying to follow a conversation in a language I don’t speak. But the more I work, the more I begin to understand the rhythm, the pattern, the way the magic wants to move.
“The magic doesn’t fight me,” I observe with surprise.
“Why would it? You’re helping it heal.” Vlorn shifts position slightly, moving to get a better view of my work. “The standard isn’t just fabric and thread—it’s a living thing, created through magic and sustained by will. It wants to be whole again.”
As if responding to his words, the section I’m working on grows slightly warmer under my fingers. The silver threads seem to gleam brighter in the morning light streaming through the windows, and for a moment, I could swear I see shapes movingin the fabric—wolf heads turning to watch my progress, eyes blinking with approval before fading back into mere pattern.
“Did you see that?” I whisper, not sure if I imagined it.
“The spirits in the weave. They approve of your work.”
A chill runs down my spine, but it’s not unpleasant. “Spirits?”
“The essence of every Iron Warlord who has ruled here, woven into the fabric when the standard was first created. They guard the fortress even in death.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if talking to the dead is perfectly normal. “They’ve been waiting a long time for someone who could help them fulfill their purpose again.”
The thought of ancient spirits watching me work should be terrifying. Instead, it’s oddly comforting. Having the approval of masters whose skill far exceeds my own.
I continue working as the morning progresses, losing myself in the meditative rhythm of repair. The damage is extensive but not irreparable—each section I fix seems to strengthen the whole, rebuilding links in a chain. Vlorn stays beside me the entire time, occasionally explaining the function of a particular symbol or sharing fragments of family history attached to different sections of the banner.
He points to a spiraling design. “My great-great-grandmother added this during the Goblin Wars. Protection against poison arrows.”
I trace another pattern with my eyes. “And this wolf head?”
“My grandfather’s work. He was particularly skilled with the hunting wards—protections that help track enemies and predict their movements.”
Each story adds layers to my understanding, not just of the magic but of the man beside me. He’s not just a warlord who conquered territory through violence. He’s the heir to generations of knowledge, the guardian of traditions that stretch back centuries. The weight of that responsibility explains muchabout his bearing, his careful control, his fierce protectiveness of what remains.
A loose thread snags my needle as I work on a particularly damaged section, and I pull too hard trying to free it. The thread snaps with sudden violence, whipping back to catch my finger with its sharp end.
I mutter a curse, watching a bead of blood well up from the small cut.
Before I can reach for a cloth to clean it, the droplet falls, landing directly on the section of banner I’ve been repairing.
The black fabric drinks it instantly, absorbing the blood with greedy hunger.
The moment my blood touches the cloth, something changes. The rune I’ve been working on flares with brief silver light, bright enough to make me squint. The entire banner shimmers for a heartbeat before settling back into normal fabric.
But the rune I was repairing is whole now. Complete. The silver threads flow in unbroken patterns that seem to pulse with inner life.
I jerk my hand back, startled by the intensity of the response. “What just happened?”
Vlorn stares at the completed rune, something approaching awe crossing his scarred features. In the silver light still fading from the threads, his amber eyes seem to burn with their own fire.
