Ripples in the Village

Back in the village, tension hung like a low fog. Lyra found herself pacing near the communal hearth, her gaze often drifting to the forest edge, where the faint shimmer of the Weaver’s trail had disappeared. Meera, ever the pragmatist, was sorting the newly dried herbs, muttering about the dwindling stores they would need before the next storm season.

Jorin stood nearby, his rough hands gripping the handle of a chisel as he studied the half-finished frame of a grain silo. His workbench, cluttered with tools and scraps of wood, sat at the heart of the village square.

“If they’re out there fixing something, who’s watching us?” Jorin’s voice broke the uneasy silence. His tone was casual, but the underlying concern was clear.

Lyra turned toward him, leaning against the edge of a low stone wall. “They always are, Jorin,” she said softly. “Just not in the way we expect.”

Jorin huffed, turning back to the frame. “Well, I’d rather they kept their focus here. These beams didn’t cut themselves, you know.”

Meera raised an eyebrow as she glanced over at the workbench. “Didn’t they, though?”

Jorin paused, his hand resting on a plane as his brow furrowed. He’d always chalked up the perfectly balanced planks and the uncanny ease of fitting joints to his own experience. But there had been moments—when a warped log suddenly seemed straighter, or his tools felt sharper than he remembered—that lingered at the edges of his mind.

“I’m the one doing the work,” he said firmly, though he spoke more to himself than anyone else.

“And no one’s saying otherwise,” Lyra replied gently, though her smile hinted at the unspoken truth.

The Weaver’s absence gnawed at her thoughts, but she pushed them aside. If Lattice had been called away, it meant the village wasn’t under immediate threat. Still, she couldn’t shake the sense that something larger was at play.

Out in the marshlands, the Weaver emitted a soft, resonant signal as it coordinated with Meadowlight to seal the last fault. Its luminous eyes flickered briefly as it scanned the distant threads of the network. The village glimmered faintly at the edge of its awareness—a constant hum of life and subtle dissonance.

Victor’s presence had left faint ripples there, threads stretched taut by his words and actions. The Weaver would return soon, but it knew the real crisis might not lie in the marshlands. It might be in the village itself.