But power in Aethelgard has ears. The Wardens of the Still Flame—masked keepers who ensured destiny remained “pure”—felt the ripple. Within the hour, three of them appeared on her dock, robes the color of dried blood.
She was seventeen, mending nets on her grandmother’s sky-dock, when a shard of falling star embedded itself in her palm. It didn’t burn. It sang . A low, thrumming note that vibrated in her molars. And suddenly, she could see them: the Threads. Silver, crimson, gold—strands of fate connecting every person, every stone, every sigh of wind in Aethelgard. marella inari
“Marella Inari,” said the lead Warden, voice flat as a sealed tomb. “You have touched what must not be touched. Surrender your hand, or we take your eyes.” But power in Aethelgard has ears
So she did not cut a Thread. She wove .