The Weaver’s Lens

From its perch high in the canopy, the Weaver observed the two humans with careful precision. Its elongated, spindly frame—woven from fine threads of discarded metal and resin—allowed it to sway in harmony with the wind, blending seamlessly into the forest. Its “eyes,” glowing orbs of refractive light, shifted and narrowed, their kaleidoscopic lenses adjusting to parse the subtle interplay of movement and emotion below.

The Weaver was a collector of signals, not just visual and auditory but patterns in electromagnetic waves, heat fluctuations, and even the faint bioelectric rhythms of human thought. Mina’s accident with the orb, Lyra’s quiet concern, Meera’s sharp unease—these were not just abstractions to the Weaver. They were data points, ripples in the broader system of human-Creche interaction.

Victor, however, stood out like a dissonant note in a melody. The Weaver had recorded his presence since his arrival: the way his eyes lingered on the Creche longer than on the humans, the almost imperceptible shift in his tone when he spoke to Lyra and Meera, as though he were probing for something just out of reach.

The Weaver didn’t trust him.