Chapter 2

Chapter 2: A Looming Question

Ophira and Valandor turned down a narrow side street. They passed several shops, most of which had already closed for the evening. Shutters were drawn over darkened windows and doors were barred against the night. The streets were beginning to empty, long past the peak of commerce for Bridgehaven, though the last echoes of trade still lingered. Somewhere farther down the road a cart rattled over uneven stone, and the faint smell of roasting meat drifted from a tavern preparing for the late crowd.

They came to a stop in front of a two-story building. Its red brick matched the others in the district—worn and sturdy from decades of wind and river weather—but the storefront set it apart.

Two wide display windows filled the front of the shop. Behind the glass, deep, bold colors spilled into the fading light of evening. Rich cloth hung in layered folds over small pieces of furniture, arranged with careful attention. A wooden ladder leaned casually along one wall of the display, bolts of fabric draped over its rungs so their colors flowed downward like a cascade.

On the other side of the window a large tapestry stretched across the frame.

It depicted the burnt oranges, reds, and deep crimsons of The One Flame’s sigil, its curling tongues of fire woven in thick thread that caught the last light of day.

Valandor studied it with quiet approval.

“Some of the finest weaving. It could be art.” he said.

Ophira tilted her head slightly, taking in the careful arrangement of cloth and thread. The tapestry dominated the window, bold and unmistakable. Even here, in a quiet side street, The One Flame watched over the city.

“It is art.” she muttered. “Sort of.”

Valandor glanced at her, one brow lifting.

“You don’t consider that artistic?” He asked.

Ophira didn’t answer immediately. Instead she pushed open the door, the bell above it giving a soft, tinkling chime.

Inside, the steady rhythm of a loom clacked patiently into the evening.

Push.

Swoosh.

Clack.

Repeat.

The door shut softly behind them.

“I don’t think devotion by decree is art,” she whispered sharply to Valandor.

“Merial?” Ophira called out.

She rested a hand over her satchel as they moved through the shelves of fabric bolts. Every color was neatly placed in its proper home. Little flecks of golden dust floated in the air, illuminated by the soft lamplight and the low evening sun still pouring through the display windows.

Ophira could feel that Valandor was still bristling beside her over her thoughts on the shop’s tapestry as they approached the back of the store.

“In here, dear,” a woman’s voice called.

It was rich as honey—the voice of many years and many deep conversations.

They found Merial seated at one of her many looms. Gray and white hair had been gathered loosely into a bun at the nape of her neck, and tied with a flame red ribbon. A few tidy wisps had escaped to frame her face. A pair of spectacles rested low on her nose, allowing her to peer over their rims as she studied the threads stretched before her.

She wore a well-used utility apron dusted with fine fibers and bits of thread. The bench beneath her had softened with years of work, its worn surface shaped by countless hours at the loom.

The steady rhythm slowed as she finished her pass.

Push.

Swoosh.

Clack.

Merial set the shuttle aside and rose carefully from the bench, one hand pressing lightly against the loom’s frame as she stood. The motion was unhurried, the quiet concession of a body that had carried many years.

Well now,” she said. “I’ve not seen you two together in some time.” Her smile was welcoming and warm as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“I apologize Merial.” Valandor said, there was younger tone to his voice as he addressed her. “The watch keeps me busy most days.” She made her way over to him, looking over the rim of her spectacles as she approached. Reaching up, she placed a weathered hand against his clean-shaven cheek, her thumb brushing lightly along his jaw as if checking that he was still in one piece.

Valandor didn’t pull away. For a moment he stood perfectly still beneath her touch, the stern set of his mouth softening as the tightness in his jaw eased.

Well,” she murmured, studying his face carefully, “they haven’t worked you entirely to the bone just yet.”

Ophira slid comfortably into the loom seat Merial had vacated and watched them over the emerging pattern in the threads. Deep emerald greens and what looked like the white trunks of trees were lined with glittering gold thread she didn’t even dare to consider the cost of.

She glanced up at Merial, who was still looking Valandor over while he endured her inspection with quiet patience.

From outside the shop, the bells of the city began clanging, a loud, hollow sound that carried through the evening streets.

Valandor stepped back from Merial, one foot already turning toward the door. Ophira watched him retreat for a moment before letting her attention drift back to the tapestry.

“Speaking of meals,” he said fondly to them both, “the dinner bell calls, and I can’t be late. Shield Sergeant Brenner will have need of me after.”

Valandor turned to Ophira, who was studying the loom more than paying him any mind.

“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow?”

She nodded, finally meeting his eyes with a quick smile and a small wave.

“Mmmhmm,” she said.

The shop grew quieter once the door closed behind Valandor. Without the loom moving, the room felt oddly still.

Ophira leaned forward slightly on the bench. It groaned beneath her as she studied the pattern beginning to stretch across the frame. One of the emerging trees had a much thicker trunk than the others.

It looked unmistakably like the forest she had begun mapping that morning.

“Careful,” Merial said gently.

Ophira looked up, meeting the deep brown eyes of her friend.

Merial was watching her over the rim of her spectacles, her hands resting lightly against the wooden frame of the loom.

“You’ll stare a hole straight through my cloth if you keep at it like that.”

Ophira glanced back down at the weaving.

“It looks like a forest,” she said slowly.

Merial followed her gaze to the threads.

“Yes,” she said.

Her voice was quiet and familiar. A chill crept into the warm shop from the satchel at Ophira’s side.

“It does.”

Ophira pushed back from the loom, rising from the bench.

“I found a forest today.” She came around the loom to stand beside her friend. “Got a table cleared off?”

Merial chuckled. “Unlikely, child. But we can clear one.”

They made their way to a workbench stacked with work orders inked in Merial’s scrolling hand. Ophira lifted the entire stack, careful not to disturb the pile. Merial shoved two bolts of fabric toward the end of the bench, plucking deftly at a few cedar pens and small cutting tools and placing them into a beautiful piece of spun pottery.

The fading light from the windows fell directly onto the workbench, which clearly doubled as a desk.

Ophira reached into her satchel and pulled out her map. She rolled the thin rope from around its middle and unfurled it across the bench. Merial tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ears before bending over the map.

“So this area here isn’t a meadow. It’s a birch forest. And not a young one either. These trees… seventy years old? Maybe more?” Ophira pointed excitedly, running a finger over the borders she had inked earlier that day. “And there was one tree in particular that was taller and broader than all the others. Honestly, I would have missed it entirely if not for the… well, the…”

She trailed off, wondering how to explain the void of sound and life and wind she had experienced.

“If not for the what?” Merial coaxed gently, her gaze roaming over Ophira’s face as she struggled for words.

There was a calmness in her eyes that settled the excitement beginning to bubble in Ophira’s chest.

“There was a nothingness,” Ophira murmured. “Nothing but the birch tree.”

Merial pursed her lips thoughtfully. She didn’t press Ophira for more but instead turned her attention to the map. Placing a steady finger on a location within the bordered forest, she indicated a precise spot.

“Was it here, child?” she asked calmly.

Ophira looked from her friend’s finger to her face and nodded.

“Yes. It was.”

A shadow slid across the map from the window as someone passed by outside. Merial moved her aged body in front of the bench, hastily rolling the map closed as she did.