By nightfall, my name was no longer mine.
Whispers chased it through every cracked alley and shadowed corridor of Glassreach.
I could feel it moving — slipping between lips, curling like smoke through tavern air, echoing against the metal ribs of the towers.
Shardweaver.
A word that wasn't meant for me, yet clung like blood to skin.
A word that tasted like prophecy and ash all at once.
I sat in the far corner of Jarek's loft, wrapped in my cloak as if fabric could muffle the light crawling under my skin. The air smelled of burnt oil and dust, the kind that coated your lungs and made the world taste old.
The boy we'd pulled from the chaos slept near the hearth, a heap of small bones and exhaustion under a pile of threadbare blankets. His glow had dimmed to a faint pulse at his throat — soft, almost human again.
Mine hadn't faded at all.
Every breath I took shimmered faintly in the dark.
Every heartbeat hummed louder than the city outside.
Jarek was pacing — the floorboards creaking in a rhythm that matched the storm brewing behind his teeth.
He looked at me like he wanted to yell but didn't have the heart for it.
Instead, he exhaled sharply and said, "Do you even realize what you've done?"
I didn't lift my head. "Saved a child?"
Jarek let out a strangled laugh — half frustration, half fear.
"You revealed yourself to half the bloody market, Rade. Do you even know what kind of attention that brings?"
The sound of his voice pressed against my skull, sharp and real. I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to hold my thoughts together before they splintered like the glass veins beneath my skin.
"What was I supposed to do?" I whispered. "Let them kill him?"
He froze mid-step. For a moment, the room was all heartbeat and silence.
The glow from my hands spilled across his face — amber light flickering in his eyes, turning his anger into something close to fear.
"You crossed a line, Aradia," he said finally, his tone quieter but heavier. "Before tonight, you were just a rumor. A ghost. A story people argued about over cheap ale. Now…"
He gestured toward me helplessly. "Now you're real. And the city is already reacting."
He wasn't wrong.
Through the cracked shutters, Glassreach sounded alive — a thousand voices bleeding together, restless and wrong. Bells clanged out of rhythm in the distance, and the streets murmured like the city itself was whispering secrets it shouldn't know.
My name — that name — slid between those murmurs, twisted and reshaped by strangers' mouths.
Some said it like a prayer.
Others spat it like poison.
And all of it cut the same.
I could almost hear the city fracturing, lines spreading faster than the light under my skin.
The boy stirred in his sleep, the glow beneath his eyelids flaring once. I felt the echo of it in my chest, like we shared a pulse.
It terrified me.
I turned to the window instead, staring at the warped reflection staring back — my own eyes, faintly luminescent. Not entirely human.
Who was I now?
A girl who once stole bread from the docks?
A shadow who begged not to be seen?
Or this—this thing with a heartbeat that sang like a faultline?
Jarek's voice came softer now, the edge worn down by something gentler.
"They're talking about you out there. Not just the Council. The rebels too. Every side wants to claim the Shardweaver."
I gave a dry, hollow laugh. "They can have her. I don't even know who she is."
He rubbed his face with both hands, muttering, "You always do this. You act like you're fine, like this is just another bad night. But look at you, Rade."
Our eyes met.
And for a heartbeat, the mask fell away. No bravado, no scolding — just fear.
Not of me.
For me.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
I wanted to tell him I was fine. That I'd learn to control it — the light, the hum, the voice whispering just below my heartbeat.
But the truth was too heavy for words. It just hung there, a quiet admission neither of us dared to say.
I wasn't in control of anything.
Outside, glass shattered somewhere far below. A roar followed — not pain, not joy, just chaos. The city was unraveling faster than the night could hold it together.
Jarek glanced toward the window, jaw tight. "The streets are a mess. Fights breaking out over nothing. It's like everyone's gone mad."
"They haven't gone mad," I said softly. "They're hearing it."
He turned, wary. "Hearing what?"
"The hum."
I swallowed. "The same one I heard in the catacombs. The same one that woke the Heart. It's spreading."
He just stared — wanting to believe I was wrong, but knowing better.
The floorboards trembled faintly underfoot, a low vibration like the city was remembering something ancient and dangerous.
Jarek muttered, "That's bloody comforting."
He grabbed a flask from the shelf and poured himself a drink that smelled like it could strip rust.
I watched the boy's chest rise and fall, trying to match his calm breathing. But every inhale sent a shimmer crawling up my spine.
By dawn, I hadn't slept.
The city hadn't either.
The knock came just after dawn.
Three sharp raps.
Perfect rhythm.
Not the hesitant kind. Not a neighbor.
Jarek froze mid-step, fingers tightening on the dagger at his belt.
"That's Council rhythm," he whispered.
My pulse jumped.
Of course it is.
"They already know where I am."
He gave me a grim look that didn't even try to soften the truth.
"Guess you're officially famous."
The door creaked open before either of us could move.
Not hurried. Not forced. Just deliberate.
A woman stepped inside, wrapped in a cloak of silver-grey that caught the pale morning light like spun steel. Even before she lowered her hood, I knew who she was.
Councilor Veyra.
The youngest of the High Council. The one people whispered about — the diplomat with knives for words and a smile that could start a war.
She stopped just inside the threshold. Mud streaked her polished boots, but she carried herself like even the dirt bowed to her. Her eyes swept over the room — the cracked walls, the boy sleeping near the hearth — before landing squarely on me.
"You've made quite the mess, Aradia."
Hearing my name in her voice hit harder than the title ever could.
Aradia. Not Weaver. Not rumor.
She said it like it was a blade.
Jarek stepped in front of me before I could speak, his stance defensive, sharp.
"She's not yours to command."
Veyra didn't so much as glance at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on me, dissecting, coldly curious.
And in that moment, I understood — this wasn't a visit. It was a verdict wrapped in silk.
She walked further into the loft, each movement precise, quiet. The faint clink of metal from her belt broke the silence like punctuation.
Her hood fell back, revealing her severe braid, every strand perfect. Her face was calm, composed — carved from purpose.
Her eyes, though... her eyes gleamed like polished glass. Unyielding. Calculating.
"You've made quite the mess," she repeated, softer this time. The same words — but sharper. Like she wanted to see how deep they could cut.
Jarek didn't move. "You're not welcome here."
She ignored him completely. Her attention was a blade honed only for me.
"Do you know how many factions screamed your name last night?" she asked, her voice so even it chilled me. "Do you understand what you've ignited?"
I met her gaze. "I didn't ask to ignite anything."
Her lips curved faintly — not quite a smile.
"Ah. That's the thing about fire, Weaver. It doesn't ask either."
The title twisted in my chest, strange and heavy.
Somehow, from her, it didn't sound reverent. It sounded dangerous.
Jarek scoffed. "Spare us the poetry, Councilor. You didn't climb all the way up here just to scold her."
Veyra turned toward him slightly, not enough to give him her full attention — just enough to remind him he was smaller in this room than she was.
"You always were the loud one, Jarek Thane," she said lightly. "Still pretending rebellion counts as bravery?"
He took a step closer, voice sharp. "Still pretending control counts as peace?"
Her tone didn't waver. "Control is peace. Without it, you have chaos. And last night, chaos wore her face."
The words hit like ice water down my spine.
Still, I stood. Slowly.
The faint shimmer beneath my skin caught the morning light, painting the air between us with a thin thread of gold.
"Say what you came to say."
For a brief moment, Veyra's expression softened — not with kindness, but acknowledgment.
"The Council convened within the hour of your display," she said. "Some demanded your execution. Others, your confinement. I proposed something else."
Jarek muttered under his breath, "Let me guess — a gilded cage."
Veyra's reply came clean and cool. "Partnership."
The word hung there, absurd and heavy.
"The Council needs stability," she continued, "and you've proven you can command power none of us understand. With guidance, you could become an asset instead of a liability."
I stared at her. "An asset. That's your word for it."
Her gaze sharpened. "Do not mistake me, Aradia. This is not mercy. This is strategy. We offer survival — for you, for the boy, for what remains of this city. Refuse, and every Chainbearer and zealot in Glassreach will hunt you until they wear your bones as charms."
I wanted to argue, to throw her cold diplomacy back at her — but the truth of her words pulsed heavy between us.
She wasn't lying.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
Jarek's anger sparked again. "You think she's safer with you? The Council's the reason the city's breaking apart. You've been bleeding it dry for years."
Veyra's tone didn't change, but her words sliced cleaner than a blade.
"And yet, here we stand — alive — because of the order we built. You rebels love to destroy. None of you know how to rebuild."
Then her gaze flicked to me once more.
"But you might."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The hum under my skin grew louder, vibrating against the glass windowpanes like the city was listening in.
I looked at the sleeping boy — at the faint glow beneath his skin that mirrored mine.
At the memory of the market: the shards, the faces, the awe and terror mixed in every breath.
All of it whispered the same truth.
The city wasn't waiting for salvation.
It was waiting for a signal.
Before I could answer Veyra, a sound rose from outside — faint at first, like the stir of wind through broken glass.
Then it swelled.
Chanting.
Low and rhythmic. A hundred voices, then hundreds more.
Veyra turned toward the window, her calm mask cracking just enough for a whisper to slip out.
"No…"
Jarek crossed the room, pulling the shutters open just a fraction. "Who's they?"
I joined him.
The sight below stole the air from my lungs.
The narrow street was packed shoulder to shoulder — a living tide of people. Hoods, torches, makeshift banners scrawled with words that bled into smoke. The flames painted the walls with shifting gold and shadow.
Rebels.
Hundreds of them. Maybe more.
They weren't marching like soldiers. They were surging.
Like the city itself had woken up angry.
Their chants rolled upward, heavy and relentless, rattling the windowpanes.
Weaver. Weaver. Weaver.
Each repetition was a pulse. A heartbeat.
Some voices trembled with awe. Others spat the word with hate.
It wasn't worship. It was demand.
Veyra's voice came sharp, tight. "They want you."
Jarek muttered, "Brilliant. The Council at the door, rebels in the street. Everyone wants a piece of the glowing girl."
But I barely heard him.
The chant wasn't just noise anymore. It vibrated through the floorboards, through my ribs, through the places in me that hadn't healed.
The hum I'd felt since the catacombs — that deep, secret sound beneath the city — was alive in them now. It was answering.
I backed away from the window, light spilling faintly from my fingertips. "It's spreading faster than I thought," I whispered. "The hum's in them now."
Jarek swore softly, running a hand through his hair. "Then what do we do?"
I looked at him, then at Veyra.
She had already straightened, composure locked back into place, but tension coiled beneath her stillness. I could see it in the tightness of her jaw, the tiny tremor in her gloved hand.
Every path before me was a trap.
Stay with the Council, become their tool.
Go to the rebels, become their banner.
Either way, I'd be something used.
The hum rose again, louder this time — the sound of a thousand heartbeats caught in one impossible rhythm.
It wasn't just in the streets now. It was beneath them. The Heart was answering back.
Jarek touched my arm lightly. "Rade. Whatever you're thinking, don't—"
But it was already too late.
The air shifted.
A shimmer ran along the walls — soft, gold, and alive. Every shard of glass, every polished surface in the room caught the light and echoed it. The pulse of the city itself seemed to breathe with me.
The boy stirred, eyes fluttering open. The glow at his throat pulsed once — then again, in sync with mine.
Veyra's hand went to her blade, but she didn't draw it. She just watched, her breath caught between fascination and fear.
I closed my eyes.
The hum filled me — the same sound that had haunted every dream since the catacombs, the same whisper that had called me by name.
If I'm the Weaver... then maybe it's time I start weaving.
The glow surged.
Not bright, not blinding — but steady. Soft and sure, like dawn touching the ruins.
Outside, the crowd roared louder, their chant fracturing into chaos and devotion.
Inside, the world held its breath.
Veyra didn't move.
Jarek just stared, disbelief and something like awe flickering behind his eyes.
The boy smiled faintly, as if he understood.
And then, somewhere deep beneath Glassreach, the fracture answered — a low, resonant hum that shivered through the stones and glass, through my bones, through everything.
It wasn't power. It wasn't control.
It was recognition.
I didn't know what would come next. I didn't know who I'd become.
But I knew one thing with a clarity that cut like light through fog.
The city had found its Weaver.
And there was no turning back.