Guard the word and seal the lore!
Bar the thief at wisdom’s door!”
The voice goes on and on in a furious chant, but it cannot escape the silence bubble.Insteadit seems to batter at my ears from inside my own head.Iflinch and glance nervously toward the door, thoughIknow the spell is holding—for now.
“Hush,”Ihiss at it, and hurry to turn the pages.
TheGrimoiresmells of old leather, herbs long since turned to dust, and something stranger underneath—something slightly metallic–like rain falling on iron.Thepages are thick as petals and edged in silver.Everyturn of one feels impossibly loud to me, thoughIknow the silence spell is swallowing the sound.
AsIturn the pages,Isee there are spells hereIhave never even dreamed of.
The first pagesIpass are marked with titles in elaborate script, each one more tempting than the last.TheVerdantGateofSummerCrossing.TheBindingofMoonrootsBeneathWinterSoil.TheLanternRiteof theSleeplessGrove.
I want to stop and read them all—to know what they do, what secret doors they open, what power might be hidden in the curling lines of ink.Onanother pageIglimpseTheThousand-PetalVeil,which sounds like either a blessing or a disaster, andTheCallingofRainto aThirstingOrchard,whichIknow the farmers beyond the village would pay dearly to learn.
ButIdon’t have time for any of them.Ihave to keep looking.
The alarm voice is still chanting in the bubble around me, and my silence spell trembles like an overtaxed muscle.Iflip pages faster, searching desperately.
At lastIfind it.
The title alone sends a chill over my skin–TheWeavingBackofHours.
My pulse jumps.Thisis it.Thishasto be it.
I bend over the page, forcing myself to read quickly even while the alarm shrieks its muffled rhyme behind me.Theletters swim for a moment, then settle into place.
The spell promises exactly whatIhoped.Itcan send the caster—or another, if properly bound by blood and intention—back to any chosen moment in the recent past.Hours…days…weeks.Longer, if the magic is exceptionally strong and the working is perfectly done.
Hope fills me at first.ButthenIkeep reading…and my heart sinks.
I force myself to keep reading, even as dread begins to pool cold and heavy in my stomach.
The spell is not simple—not even close.Itisn’t just words spoken over a candle or a circle drawn in chalk.It’sa weaving, just as the title says—a binding together of all four elements into a single current strong enough to pull time itself backward.Andeach element can only be gathered by the one who intends to cast it.
I slow, my eyes going back over that line again.
Not given…not gifted…not taken by another’s hand but gathered–byme.Thespell won’t work unlessIget all these elements myself.Allright, so what doIneed?Myfingers tighten on the edge of the page asIkeep reading to find out whatImust gather from each element.
Air is first—a feather from the wing of anEmperorHawk.Thegreat sky hunters nest only in the jagged peaks of theNorthernmountains, where the air is thin and the winds are strong enough to tear a person from the rock.Thefeather cannot be found or traded for.Itmust be taken from the nest itself…by the hand of the one who seeks it.
I swallow hard.TheNorthernmountains are said to be impassable.Itfeels impossible and this is only the first element!
Still,Ikeep reading.
Water is next—a drop drawn from theSacredRiverof theEast.Butnot just any water–it must be taken from the center of the current, where the river runs deepest and strongest, and only after the one who gathers it has spoken a truth that breaks their own heart.
I pause there, my breath catching in my throat.Atruth that breaks your own heart…Forsome reason, that part frightens me more than the mountains.Forone thing,Ican barely swim and for another, there are some thingsIdon’t want to bring up.
I force my gaze down the page.Ihave to learn the whole spell before my meager magic gives out.
Next, the element ofFire—Ineed a living coal that never dies, taken from the hand of aFireDemonthat dwells in theSouthernwastelands.It’sa barren place where nothing grows and no sane person dares to travel.Thecoal must still burn when it is claimed, alive with heat and fury, or it will not answer the call of the spell.
I stare at that for a long moment, my mouth going dry.AFireDemon?Howin the world amIgoing to manage that?Asif climbing impossible mountains and wading into sacred rivers wasn’t enough.
My eyes move to the final requirement.
ForEarthImust find a jewel buried beneath the biggest root of the oldestGrandfatherTreein theWesternwilds.Anancient place where the land itself is said to remember the first breath of the world.Thejewel must be unearthed by hand, without tool or blade, or it will crumble to dust before it can be used.
