“That stays.”
I let out a breath. “And if he misses something?”
“It comes back worse.”
I didn’t respond.
“Why is he called a weaver?” I asked after a moment.
“Because once he’s done tearing it open,” he said, “he has to put it back together.”
I held there, the cold water pressing against my skin, the weakness still dragging at my limbs.
He looked at me, more serious now. “It will hurt.”
I met it without looking away. “Fine,” I said quietly.
CHAPTER 4
The Weaver
Idried off while he turned his back. He didn’t move or look back, just stood there facing the wall. The air felt cooler now, my skin no longer burning the way it had before, the fever pulled back just enough to let me think. My body still felt weak, my leg worse than the rest, but I could stand. That alone felt like something.
I changed quickly, then crossed back to the bed and lowered myself onto it with care. The weakness lingered, waiting for me to push too far.
The door opened not long after. The weaver stepped inside, older than I expected, hands already stained, eyes moving over me before shifting to Teorin. Whatever passed between them didn’t need words.
Teorin moved first. He pulled the blankets over me carefully, covering everything but my injured leg and upper thigh. His hand lingered just long enough to make sure nothing shifted, as though he didn’t want the man seeing more than he had to.
I rolled onto my side, bracing myself. The mattress dipped. Teorin climbed onto the bed behind me, close enough that I could feel him at my back. He extended his hand in front of me.
I looked at it, then at him.
“You can hate me as much as you want,” he said. “But I’m still the only hand left to hold. And you’re going to need it.”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
The weaver stepped closer and told him to hold me still, and I felt my body tighten before I could stop it. The first touch came without warning, and the pain tore through me before I had time to brace for it. A scream ripped out of my throat before I could stop it, sharp and raw, my body arching as the sensation burned deep into my leg, far worse than anything I had felt before.
“Stop—”
It didn’t stop. It only got worse, the pain building before I could catch my breath.
Teorin moved instantly, on his feet before I could react, something in him shifting so abruptly it seemed to pull the air from the room. His eyes had gone completely black.
“Why does it hurt like that?” he demanded, his voice low but carrying something dangerous beneath it. “Fix it.”
“There is no other—” the weaver started.
The man’s words cut off. His belt tore free, snapping through the air before locking tight around his throat, pulling him upward just enough to break his footing.
“You will do this cleanly,” Teorin said. “You will not butcher her.”
The man clawed at the leather, choking.
“You do this wrong,” Teorin continued, quieter now, “and you die.”
The pressure vanished. The weaver stumbled, gasping, hands shaking as he forced himself back to work. “Yes—yes—of course.”
