Nightspire's observatory clocks had not yet chimed the tenth hour when I found myself back in the Charter Hall, ankle‑deep in scrolls and petitions that, by dawn, would either bind or unravel half the Academy's newborn alliances. The lantern triumph had roused a frenzy of provincial stewardships: border barons, salt‑marsh governors, even the glass‑blowing guilds of distant Sandreach now clamored for a share of "living light." Each request arrived wax‑sealed, each couched in urgent praise, each steeped in unspoken hunger.
Ravan stood at the oval window, tension visible along shoulders that had once carried entire battalions. He watched newborn star through a brass astrolabe while tapping quill against ledger margin. "Their offers escalate," he murmured. "Grain for ten lanterns. Silver for seedlings. One baron pledges loyalty oaths if we install orchard outposts on his manor lawn." He rolled quill between fingers. "Every price is gold‑leafed greed hiding in open daylight."
"Not all," I replied, sifting parchments by scent ink of cinnamon and bay signaled Aurelian ports; brittle parchment reeked of marsh peat, thus Ashvale. Some proposals were indeed earnest: remote hamlets eager to trade blankets and cured fish, not profit, for light to guide midwinter childbirth. Those deserved fast routes, not walls of tariff. Yet our spool remained finite seed‑weft had limits, and root‑iron taps could overgrow if we seeded orchards blindly.
Calia swept into hall with Echo trailing. The child balanced tea tray despite diadem's faint glow. Calia thumped ledger down, cheeks flushed. "News from the Graygrain Trail: counterfeit lanterns from Weft‑Eater sympathizers have appeared, fed by battery of harvesters siphoning orchard resonance at night. Whoever leads them uses polished shadow crystal, not dust harder to null." She opened ledger to reveal charcoal sketch: faceted black stone, edges lined with mirror veins.
Ravan's gaze hardened. "Valke again?"
"Too sophisticated," Calia said. "Polished contraband suggests funding, perhaps Consortium splinter uninterested in Esmenet's charter."
Echo set teacups, eyes reflective. "Crystals sing wrong lullaby," she whispered. "They copy orchard heartbeat but skip sincerity chord. If many ignite, orchard will echo false pulse and drain roots."
The Loom hummed faint warning in my bones. I recognized this rhythm like shuttle jerk when warp thread frays. "We must locate harvesters, disable crystals before they parrot orchard into exhaustion. First, though, we must not show panic. Greed listens for cracks."
As dawn paled sky, Vael reported spire‑top vantage: glints of coal‑dark prisms on ridge southwest, near Shatterglass Gorge where shattered volcano fired black sand centuries ago. Brina assembled ground scouts; Esmenet produced smuggling manifests listing "obsidian novelties" shipped to gorge. Custodian Lys charted cosmic texture swirls of imbalance forming over site.
I led a compact envoy: Ravan, Vael, Brina, Echo, and two custodian novices for starlight weave. We traveled by dusk when lantern glow diffused valley, cloaked in orchard's breath. At gorge rim, we beheld fields of polished shadow crystals arrayed like teeth, each tethered to root‑iron wires tunneling into soil, draining resonance toward a central dais.
Figures labored among them merchants in hooded silks, overseen by slender man wearing no mask but a necklace of broken mirror shards. Not Valke but a disciple. Around dais, crates labeled with Barony of Red‑Cliff crest so that mild‑voiced baron, promising loyalty, financed theft.
Brina readies scythe, but I stayed her. "Force will scatter them; crystals might shatter, corrupt soil." We needed inversion of greed, not brute. Echo inhaled, hum rose. I stepped onto ridge edge, projecting voice with soul‑fire clarity.
"Brothers of lightless glass," I called, "you collect lantern breath yet have never breathed it. Will you sell poison you dare not taste?"
Hooded workers froze; overseer turned, smile thin. "True dawn‑thread should illuminate all, not drip from imperial hand," he replied. "We harvest to prove abundance."
"Abundance proves itself when shared, not stolen," I countered. "Your crystals mimic life but devour roots. Drink your own draw now; shine lanterns. If they gift warmth, keep them. If they steal, cease."
His mouth tightened. Still, pride demanded demonstration. He snapped fingers; attendant struck flint. Crystals flared violet‑black, eerie. At once orchard's distant lanterns dimmed. Echo gasped, diadem flickering. Beneath us, soil fissured, root‑iron veins paling as energy siphoned.
But crystals also fed illusions: overseer's silhouette blurred, twisting into Weft‑Eater vision behind him hollow eyes, spiral jaws. Workers backed away. He realized error, lunged to extinguish, but Brina's scythe already sliced supply wires. Crack! Energy whiplashed from crystals to dais, fracturing prisms into facets.
Ravan channeled shadow into net, capturing shards before they struck ground. Vael swooped overhead, wings funneling residue sky‑ward, where custodian novices wove starlight lasso to compress dust into harmless spark that rained harmlessly into gorge. Echo sang tri‑pulse plus orchard chord restored; valley lanterns brightened again.
Overseer collapsed, mirror necklace crushed. He coughed apology through soot, offered shipping logs every buyer who placed crystal orders. Consumed by fear of Weft‑Eaters, he sought to appease them by delivering orchard energy. Greed married panic.
Back at Academy, we convened tribunal. Esmenet presented ledger, proving Red‑Cliff baron's financing. Delegates voted to blacklist barony; supply convoys rerouted to starving hamlets baron neglected. Overseer sentenced to service weaving orchard maintenance nets under Echo's supervision a chance to learn sincerity.
That night I walked lantern rows alone. Caelia shimmered in a ripple puddle. "Each time greed copies thread, roots test your vow," she mused.
"Will it never end?" I asked.
End? She smiled like cat knowing yarn is infinite. Tapestry grows. More thread, more hands. Teach them weave truth. Hunger will lose flavor.
I exhaled. Lantern above me pulsed, tree sap answered. I realized orchard now stronger; false siphon forced us to reinforce networks, refine charters, detect mimic early. Loom's hum steadied.
In council chamber Ravan drafted edict: every lantern exported must carry seed‑weft tag keyed to sincerity oath recorded in loom archives; tampering nullifies light. Consortium ratified, seeing profit in reliability.
Calia designed new lesson: "Economics of Integrity." Students joked syllabus heavier than scythe but accepted.
I penned letter to Auron, detailing fog event, polished shards, tribunal cautionary path for Isles. He replied quick: will establish mirror quarantine at salt coast.
Days later, newborn star flickered playful pattern but no crimson echo. Orchard thrived, sails gleamed, children ran under lanterns at dusk drawing constellations in air.
Yet I know polished shadows linger lesser barons, rogue guilds. Each step forward invites test. But spool of sincere thread still hums, seed‑weft grows with every honest vow, and Echo's tri‑pulse echo spreads through classrooms and marketplaces alike.
Tonight I stand on rampart, wind carrying lilac incense. Ravan joins, sets ledger aside. We watch lights ripple like living constellations across valley. He says softly, "We have purchased another sunrise." I rest head on his shoulder. "At price of polished shadows," I answer, "but we paid with truth."
Dawn is minutes away loom shuttle poised. I breathe deep, ready to weave again, stronger for fractures we've sealed. Threads of dust, dawn, and polished lessons intertwine, promising cloth that might one day shine brighter than hunger could ever dull.