Calia claimed that dawn‑sincerity alloy "sings in two octaves at once."
She was right. Whenever I laid the new filament against an older dawn‑thread strand, the faintest hum became a shimmering harmony one note rooted in orchard loam, the other pulled by something vast and high, as if the alloy already yearned for its promised orbit.
Preparations for the equinox launch consumed every breath of the Academy. The Custodian star‑smiths arrived with shimmering components: crystalline sails no larger than my hand, yet capable of catching solar tide; guidance runes inscribed on plates thin as onion‑skin. The Isles dispatched three cloud‑fliers loaded with mineral ballast Auron's price for a share of the alloy spindle. Even King‑Regent Myron overcame his shame enough to send a detachment of royal astronomers, eager to chart the satellite's path.
Echo and I worked side by side in the forge‑greenhouse, weaving the alloy spindle. Each pass of the shuttle felt like tightening a promise around the planet: do no harm, seek no throne, report imbalance. She hummed the tri‑pulse lullaby, and the alloy's twin octave settled into chord of resolve. When the spindle at last gleamed complete roughly the height of my forearm, light as frost, hard as diamond Ravan lifted it with both hands and bowed to the Loom, acknowledging weight far beyond its mass.
Launch day dawned beneath a sky so clear the distant ring of mountains looked etched by scalpel. The orchard's lanterns dimmed willingly, ceding radiance to sunrise. We assembled on the western ridge where the Veil‑Sails had once deflected mirror fog; now those great sheets formed a slanted cradle aimed at the firmament. Custodian novices knelt at anchor points, ready to release.
I held the alloy spindle while Echo recited invocation: "Let thread become watch, become mirror, become dawn unending." Calia stood beside trellis‑mounted chronometer; at exact equinox second she signaled. Novices cut retention knots. Sails snapped upward, capturing a gust that seemed to come from nowhere but purpose. The spindle shot along tension rails like arrow loosed from starbow, searing a gold‑turquoise wake. Higher and higher until it looked no larger than a mote. Then, with sudden gleam, it caught solar tide and curved out of sight.
Lys exhaled starlight. "Orbit acquired."
The orchard cheered children clasping hands, artisans crying, Vael beating wings in salute. Yet I knew the real test had only started: Could a thing forged in quiet sincerity resist all future shadows?
That evening, as festivities cooled, Esmenet requested private audience. We walked beneath hush of newly relit lanterns. She spoke without prelude. "Consortium hopes the satellite will beam trade forecasts to our ports. They plan to petition for encoded channels."
I stopped. "They helped fund launch, yes. But the satellite's function is guardianship, not commerce."
Esmenet's eyes glimmered caution. "Directors will press. If denied, they may cultivate alternatives rough copies. You've seen how quickly mimicries grow."
I nodded; truth cut. "Then we must offer them something worth more than private channels." I glanced at orbited star‑thread now a faint glint near newborn star. "Transparency. Live data on harvest, tides, ley‑weather. Shared openly. Profit in certainty, not secrecy."
She smiled, relief easing her. "I will convey."
Later that night, I found Ravan upon the terrace, studying sky through glass of root‑iron telescope. "Signal pulse from satellite," he said. "It beats same octave as orchard but faint red flicker tags the end of line."
We listened together. Heartbeat‑heartbeat‑heartbeat then quick red spark. A residual hunger? Or greeting?
Echo emerged, dream‑swept. "Satellite sees echo star far beyond. Not threat invitation to widen weave." She reached small fingers, tracing path across constellations. "Weft‑Eaters hunger only if tapestry ends at doorstep. Show them wider cloth, they might learn harmony."
Ravan raised brow. "You trust that which tried to devour you?"
She answered simply, "Hunger is lesson, not enemy, when fed with purpose." The words reminded me of Caelia's earliest counsel.
In the days that followed we broadcast satellite's first data burst: aurora patterns, micro‑dust maps, warning of polar storm heading to Aurelian coast. Myron's astronomers predicted disaster averted thanks to early notice, grain fleets rerouted in time. In gratitude he sent crates of star‑anise bread and, more importantly, a decree shielding orchard trade lanes from tariff hikes.
Yet other messages surfaced: coded pulses reaching from satellite down into deep north, answering lightning sigils we had once feared. Lys translated fragments: glimpses of civilizations beyond ice, islands ringed with glass reefs, unknown looms perhaps older than Aion. Possibility, whispering.
One crisp dawn I sat beneath mirror‑tree, Caelia's reflection shimmering above water bowl. "Orbit thread will tug at your horizon," she said. "Will you follow?"
I touched bark's gentle glow. "Eventually. When Glen can walk without my hand."
She smiled: "That day will come."
I rose to join morning class where apprentices practiced weaving sincerity into trade contracts. Looking across amphitheater seats lit by gentle lanterns, I realized orchard, sails, academy, even polished shadows each taught same lesson: Balance is a verb. It requires constant motion launching, listening, admitting greed, re‑weaving vows.
Satellite shimmered overhead, paired with newborn star, twin guardians tracing one tempo. Somewhere beyond, faint red point pulsed question not yet answered. I inhaled orchard scent, felt Loom hum content but curious.
The shuttle awaited next pass. For now, we had earned brief pause under balanced sky but mind already plotted future journey: to ice islands, to echo star, past edge where sincerity must speak to hunger in languages untested. Threads never sleep; they stretch toward stories still unwritten. And so will we.