The lecture hall's dawn‑thread seats were barely warm from the ethics seminar when a winged courier burst through the western clerestory, feathers scattering notes of the root‑song we had just finished chanting. Breathless and soot‑streaked, the young demon alighted on the rostrum and pressed a wax‑sealed cylinder into my hands before blurting: "Urgency, Your Grace Aurelian treasurers call emergency council; they want you in River‑Hold by sunset." His wings quivered with the strain of speed travel; I signaled Calia to guide him to infirmary for tea that would quiet racing heartbeats.
Only once the doors closed did I break the seal. The parchment smelled of harbor fog, spriggrain ink, and desperation procurement clerks' signatures scrawled beneath a single, tremulous request: "Please. The Void‑Dust sickness has taken the South Warrens. We beg instructions, supplies . . . or mercy."
My throat tightened. We had suspected counterfeit dawn‑thread bandages might cause infections, but a sickness? I could feel the Loom quicken in my pulse every misused thread, every unsincere weave tugging the warp itself. Counterfeits were no longer a matter of intellectual alarm; they were killing people.
Within minutes Ravan, Vael, Brina, Esmenet, and Lys were convened in the mapping alcove. The orchard's fresh perfume drifted through shutter slats, a sweet contrast to the grim tokens now placed upon the central slab: shards of mirror‑dust caked with black residue from the infected Warrens, and a scrap of shimmer cloth that looked at first glance indistinguishable from authentic dawn‑thread. Under Caelia's reflection in a scrying bowl, however, the cloth's threads frayed constantly, knotting themselves into snarls that emitted faint violet smoke.
Esmenet's face paled as she recognized the weave pattern. "Not Consortium," she declared. "Look at the selvedge. My former board uses merchant's weave. This is River‑Warrens gang‑loom." She exhaled through teeth. "They've perfected mimicry faster than rumor travels."
Brina slammed her palm on table. "Council of treasurers is a trap. They'll scapegoat Dawnroot, blame academy, then bargain thread secrets from black‑market brokers."
"Perhaps," Ravan said, voice even, "or perhaps they are simply drowning." He looked at me. "Either way, we cannot let the sickness spread. The forest taught us that hunger takes many forms."
I studied the map of Aurelian canals. The South Warrens sat like a knot near the river delta labyrinthine passages carved beneath the city's oldest districts. If counterfeit cloth had laced itself into trade networks, we would need not only cures, but proof of origin and a ceremony strong enough to pacify reflection misalignment. The spool of sincere thread was thin; seed‑weft required personalized oath. We needed something different: a filter that could cleanse the mimic cloth itself.
Echo, listening from perch by the window, lifted her porcelain‑streaked chin. "Mask pieces hum near dust sickness," she whispered. Her voice still chimed faint glass. "If we sing again, mask shards show real from false."
The idea unfurled in my mind: use residual resonance of Valke's broken mask as detector. He had forged mimic threads through Weft‑Eater approval; their frequency should expose counterfeits. But forging such detectors would mean embracing a fragment of hunger, repurposing it to diagnose. Dangerous, but less so than letting sickness spread.
Lys produced three preserved mask shards from a starlight pouch. The fragments quivered when placed near the counterfeit cloth, emitting harmonic dissonance audible to all present. Proof.
We worked swiftly. Esmenet drafted manifest of supplies phoenix‑tear vials, lilac infusion ampoules, dawn‑thread seeds for authorized healers. Caelia, through reflective water, taught Echo a brief motif a triple‑pulse hum attuned to mask resonance. Calia encoded that motif into small ceramic whistles shaped like lotus pods; blow one near true dawn‑thread and it yielded soft chord; near mimic, the whistle shrieked dissonance.
By mid‑afternoon we were airborne on Vael's transport skiff, shadow‑steel wings gliding over silver rivers. Ravan piloted; Lys charted cosmic bearings to keep us aligned with Loom's quiet heart. Echo sat between me and Calia, clutching diadem with one hand, whispers with the other. Brina guarded hatch; Esmenet studied ledger of treasurer names to anticipate bribes.
As we neared River‑Hold, the sky changed. Gone was Dawnroot's crystalline blue; instead a low tarnish smeared horizon, as if the world exhaled smoke though no fire burned. At dock, treasurers waited, faces gaunt, sleeves rolled to show bandage after gray‑veined bandage. Their eyes widened when Echo stepped forward and pressed whistle to nearest wound dressing. The whistle screamed. Panic rippled but beneath it relief too: a test, a boundary at last.
I heard quiet thumps echoing under wharf: hidden smugglers abandoning crates into canal. Vael signaled wing patrol; legionaries swooped fish‑like to scoop crates before they sank. One cracked open the mimic cloth inside writhed, threads trying to grasp living skin. Brina sliced the bale with ash‑scythe; violet smoke drifted, then my lullaby stole its power, mixing scent of lilac into toxic sweetness until only dew remained.
Inside the warren infirmary, we uncovered deeper horror: mimic cloth had bonded to patients' wounds, feeding on life‑thread. Ravan's shadow severance freed skin from parasite, but lacerations gaped, heartbeats weak. Phoenix‑tear sealed tissue, yet resonance damage lingered souls frayed, echoing emptiness where memory threads once aligned.
Calia laid spool seeds upon tongues of dying. Each patient spoke reason for living; seed blossomed into sliver of dawn‑light, re‑weaving torn soul‑fibers. Tears glimmered as color returned to cheeks. I realized seriousness: spool seeds demand honesty; those who could not voice sincere purpose would not weave. Some young thieves faltered, choking. Echo knelt, shared her own scaffold memory. So moved, thieves named desire to repay debts. Seeds accepted them, weaving slow.
We worked through night. By second dawn, mimic epidemic halted. Treasurers gathered before us while Echo held mask shard high. I addressed them: "Greed posed as hope and nearly cost your city its heartbeat. The Academy will supply dawn‑thread, but only in measure equal to oaths of responsibility. Sign this charter addendum root‑song in Aurelian tongue and you receive training, not product." Many trembled but signed; others fled, seeing no easy profit.
Esmenet posted consortium enforcers at canal gates, brandishing whistles that shriek at counterfeit.
Yet one treasurer, a woman clad in crimson lace, lingered by crates lost to canal. Her eyes tracked broken mask shard. "The Weft‑Eater clergy will not be pleased you repurposed their relic," she muttered. "They built altars in Old Catacombs; hunger has new congregation." Before I could question, she melted into crowd.
Lys's cloak flared caution. Hunger changes forms.
We sailed home weary but victorious. At Glen, orchard blossoms had doubled; sails shimmered serene. Loom hum gentle. Ravan squeezed my hand on walkway. "We keep learning ways to turn enemy's remnants into balm. But each inversion thins barrier between us and abyss."
I thought of treasurer's warning. "Then we must learn their liturgy before it recruits more hearts."
Echo approached, diadem radiant. "Weft‑Eaters drew me once. Song of emptiness still echoes. I will teach you its notes; then you can weave countersong." Blink of fierce determination in mirrored eyes.
Back in library, night deepening, I inked new lesson plan: Contrast Chorales from Hunger to Harmony. Students would dissect mimic cloth and sincere cloth; would practice transmuting false weave into neutral fiber.
Caelia's reflection watched, expression unreadable but calmer. She whispered: "Purpose offered again."
I smiled. Outside, newborn star gleamed, unwavering. Tapestry frayed but repaired, patch by patch, confession by confession. The Loom would test us tomorrow; tonight we had earned its quiet.
I unrolled fresh parchment, wrote in bold strokes: Scarcity births shadow; sincerity braids light. Then set quill aside, ready for a few heartbeats' rest before shuttle beckoned again.