The chanting had been growing for what felt like forever.
It pressed against the walls like a storm, rattling the cracked panes and breathing through the seams of the old loft.
Weaver. Weaver. Weaver.
Each word hit like a heartbeat, steady and merciless, shaking the dust loose from the rafters. The rhythm crawled into my chest until my pulse wasn't my own anymore.
Jarek's loft — the one place that had ever felt safe — suddenly seemed too small, too fragile. The shadows trembled on the ceiling with every rise of the crowd below.
Councilor Veyra stood near the window, motionless, her back perfectly straight. The hood of her cloak shadowed her sharp features, but the torchlight flickered across the glint of her eyes. She looked carved from glass.
"You have two choices," she said quietly. Her voice was calm — too calm — the kind of calm that comes from standing at the edge of something burning. "Walk with me now, under Council protection, and survive. Or walk out there…"
She nodded toward the rattling shutters where light pulsed like distant fireflies.
"…and be torn apart by the mob that thinks you belong to them."
Her tone wasn't cruel. It was factual. Somehow, that made it worse.
Jarek let out a sharp laugh that cracked in the thick air. "Funny. I didn't hear her ask you for advice."
The boy stirred on the pile of blankets near the hearth. His skin shimmered faintly under the dim light, the glow beneath his veins pulsing in time with mine. The rhythm threaded through us both — my wrists, my throat, my heartbeat — until it was impossible to tell where my body ended and the hum began.
The hum wouldn't stop. It was my heartbeat now — faster, heavier, alive.
Veyra didn't even glance at Jarek. "You don't understand what's waiting for her out there."
He stepped closer, jaw tight. "And you think you do?"
Her eyes flicked toward him, cool and sharp as a blade. "I've seen what mobs do when they think they've found a god."
Silence settled, thick enough to choke on.
I looked between them — the Councilor in her pristine cloak, the thief pacing like a trapped wolf, and the boy caught between dreams and light.
None of this was what I wanted. Not the chants. Not the name. Not the power humming under my skin like a song that wouldn't stop.
But the sound outside didn't care what I wanted.
They wouldn't leave. Not until I gave them something.
I took a breath that burned on the way down, like swallowing fire.
"I'm not hiding," I said finally. My voice came out softer than I meant, but steady. "If they want me, they'll see me. But they won't own me."
Jarek stopped pacing. "Rade…"
Veyra's expression didn't shift, but something in her gaze did — a flicker of respect, maybe, or pity. It was gone before I could name it.
She drew her hood tighter. "Very well," she murmured. "Let's see if you survive your own legend."
Jarek swore under his breath. "This is madness."
"Maybe," I said. "But it's mine."
The words felt heavier than air, like I'd just spoken something into being.
The decision settled over me like a cloak.
The old door creaked when Jarek pulled it open.
And then the sound hit us.
The world outside wasn't noise — it was alive.
The heat of the crowd rolled up the steps, thick with smoke and breath and desperation. Torchlight spilled across the floorboards, trembling like the heartbeat of the city itself.
I looked once more at the boy by the hearth. His chest rose and fell in time with that unseen rhythm, the light beneath his skin soft but sure. The hum inside me answered.
Then I stepped forward.
The moment the night air touched my face, it was like plunging into a current.
The sound. The light. The raw, electric heat of it all.
Hundreds of faces turned upward. Hundreds of breaths caught in the same instant.
The chant faltered, breaking apart into whispers that shivered through the street like the wind catching glass.
And for the first time, I wasn't running from the name they gave me.
I was walking straight into it.
The crowd parted as I stepped into the torchlight.
It wasn't silence exactly — more like a collective breath caught mid-beat.
Faces swam in and out of the orange haze. Some wide-eyed. Some furious. Some trembling like they were seeing a miracle they didn't believe in.
The air was thick enough to taste — smoke, sweat, glass dust. Every sound came slow, warped by the hum still thrumming in my veins.
Then, someone began again.
Weaver.
The word spread like a spark catching dry tinder.
Weaver. Weaver. Weaver.
The rhythm built, slow and reverent now — like a prayer they were too afraid to finish.
Jarek hovered close behind me, one hand near his dagger, the other hovering just above my arm. "Still think this was a good idea?" he muttered, low.
"Ask me later," I whispered, though my throat was tight.
The sea of bodies rippled, a murmur running through them as if something unseen passed overhead.
Then the crowd split.
A man stepped forward, tall and solid, his coat stitched with threads of ash and silver. A scar slashed across one cheek like lightning frozen in skin. His eyes — gods, his eyes — burned with conviction.
Kael.
The firebrand who turned whispers into riots. The one whose voice could make people believe they were already winning.
He raised one hand, and the noise fell away like a dropped curtain. Even the torches seemed to bow in that quiet.
"Shardweaver," he said, his voice smooth and iron-strong. "You are proof the Council's chains are cracking. You are what we've been waiting for."
The weight of those words hit hard. The people shifted, murmuring, their faces flickering between awe and uncertainty.
Kael's gaze didn't leave mine as he stepped closer. The torchlight caught his scar and made it gleam like molten glass.
"Stand with us," he said. "Lead us. Tear down the spires and the tyrants who built them. The city is ready to break its chains."
The air quivered — alive with the sound of belief.
Jarek leaned close, his voice barely a breath. "Well. No pressure or anything."
I almost laughed. Almost.
Because part of me wanted to say yes.
To lift my hand and feel the city rise with me. To stop running and start becoming.
But deep inside, the Shardbound's voice echoed — that low, molten whisper from the catacombs.
Fracture or fuse. Every choice bends the wound further.
And this city… it was already bleeding.
Kael's hand remained outstretched, steady, commanding. His tone softened just enough to sound dangerous.
"Stand with us, Shardweaver. Lead, and we'll follow. The city is ready to rise."
Something twisted in my chest — that old ache, that need for change. Freedom. Purpose.
But at what cost?
Jarek's fingers brushed my sleeve — a grounding reminder that I wasn't a myth. I was flesh and fear and too many mistakes. His eyes said it all: Think before you leap.
The crowd waited.
Faces shone in the torchlight, their expressions split — half hungry, half terrified. Hope and fear blurred together until I couldn't tell which side was which.
And beneath it all, the hum grew louder. The veins of glass under the cobblestones pulsed with light, keeping pace with my heart.
The city was listening. Watching.
Veyra's voice sliced through the silence like a scalpel. "Careful, Aradia. His kind only worship until they find a new idol to break."
Kael's head turned slightly. "And yours," he said, calm but sharp, "only protect until they've wrung you dry."
Jarek groaned softly. "If one more speech starts, I'm setting something on fire."
Despite myself, I almost smiled. It broke the tension for a heartbeat — then it was gone.
The chanting started again.
Softer. Desperate.
Weaver. Weaver. Weaver.
The sound tangled around me, each voice a thread in something vast and trembling.
They didn't want me. They wanted what I represented — a symbol, a weapon, a way out.
Maybe both.
The torchlight shifted. The air shimmered. The hum inside me built until it almost hurt.
And I realized the truth of it — I could either stay silent and let them decide who I was... or I could speak and make it my own.
I took one step forward, the cobblestones crunching beneath my boots. The sound cut through the hush like breaking glass.
When I spoke, it wasn't loud — but it carried.
"I am not your weapon."
A ripple passed through the crowd.
"I am not your queen. I am not your tool."
Each word felt carved from something deeper than breath.
"I am the Shardweaver. I will fight for this city — but not as your chain, and not as your crown."
For one impossible moment, everything stilled.
Then the world broke open.
The silence shattered.
One heartbeat — that was all it took.
Then the street erupted.
A thousand voices collided, clashing like steel. Some shouted my name like it was salvation. Others screamed it like a curse.
The sound became a storm — wild, furious, alive.
Hands reached for me, desperate fingers trying to brush against my light, to touch the myth they thought I was. Behind them, others shoved and cursed, breaking banners over each other's backs, fury sparking in their eyes.
The crowd was splitting.
Half cheering. Half breaking apart.
Jarek grabbed my arm, pulling me back as a torch swung too close, the heat licking at my cloak. "You just split a revolution in half," he hissed.
I barely heard him. My heart was pounding so hard it blurred the world around me.
"Better than letting it own me," I breathed.
The words didn't feel brave. They just felt true.
Kael hadn't moved. He stood in the heart of the chaos like a figure carved from fire and shadow, his gaze locked on mine. The flames painted him in bronze and bloodlight.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that I almost didn't hear it.
"Then you're dangerous to everyone."
There was no hatred in it. Just certainty.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
Behind him, the mob tore itself apart — shouts, crashes, the metallic sting of breaking glass. Someone threw a bottle; it burst near my feet, shards scattering across the stones like rain.
Then — clang.
A new rhythm rolled through the night. Deep. Metallic.
Bells.
Veyra's head snapped up. "Enforcers."
The word cut through everything.
For one suspended breath, the crowd froze — then panic tore through it like wildfire.
Some ran. Others armed themselves. Chaos bloomed in full. Smoke and torchlight twisted into each other, painting the air with fire and fear.
The cracked sky above was no longer dark — veins of fractured light crawled through the clouds, bright and trembling, as if the heavens themselves were straining not to break.
I could feel it.
The hum inside me sharpened, bright and unbearable, like the city's pulse was syncing to mine.
It was watching. Waiting.
Jarek cursed under his breath, tugging at my arm. "We need to move. Now."
But I couldn't tear my eyes from Kael.
He stood unmoving, the chaos swirling around him, his face unreadable. For a moment, I thought he'd call to me again — another plea, another order, another spark.
But he didn't.
He just smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly.
Just… knowingly.
"You can't stay neutral forever," he said.
And somehow, it didn't sound like a threat. It sounded like a promise.
The bells thundered again, closer now, shaking the street until the torches swayed and banners caught fire.
Veyra grabbed my shoulder, her voice hard, urgent. "Aradia. We have to go."
The smoke thickened, curling around us, carrying the acrid scent of burning cloth and glass. People screamed. Others prayed.
I turned one last time toward Kael — toward the chaos I had just ignited.
Then I followed Jarek and Veyra back toward the loft, through the collapsing doorways, the echoes of my name still rolling through the street like aftershocks.
Weaver.
Weaver.
Weaver.
Each chant was weaker now, but somehow more haunting — like the city itself whispering through the cracks.
At the threshold, I looked back once more.
The sky had changed. The fractures were glowing — thin, molten lines crawling outward, webbing across the horizon. It looked like the world itself was splintering.
And deep in my chest, I knew this wasn't about sides anymore.
It was never going to be.
The war that was coming wouldn't be fought with blades or banners.
It would be a war between mirrors.
And every reflection would carry my face.