The green hearth had quieted. Twilight pooled in the stone corners like ink, shadows stretching beneath the arched vines. The laughter from the day's games faded into silence, and the sentient ivy that curled around the columns shifted as if sighing in rest. Tyra had returned to the Drake Stables. Lyo and Miriya were preparing the twins for bed.
But tonight, the warmth of routine was broken by an unusual stillness in Doster. He sat beneath the whispering vine canopy, staring up at the mosaic sky, his golden hair catching the last threads of sunlight. Arnold lay beside him, head tilted, blue eyes following a lone spell-kite dancing across the stars.
Miriya approached quietly, the rustle of her skirts softened by the moss-veiled path. In her hands was the old book—soft leather worn at the corners, pages crinkled from time and touch.
"Your mother asked me to keep you both inside tonight," she said gently. "There's talk of disturbances near the lower arcane channels."
Arnold sat up, curiosity blooming in his expression. "Disturbances?"
Doster didn't look away from the sky. "Cracks again?"
Miriya gave a noncommittal shrug. "Could be. Or maybe just old tech failing. But that reminds me..." She sat on the garden bench, placing the book across her lap. "It's a good night for a story."
Arnold scrambled up beside her eagerly, already leaning into her side like he used to when he was smaller. Doster joined too, more slowly, eyes still distant.
"This one is about the man who made Loras shine," she began, opening the book to a page with a sketch of a tall, wiry figure in a soot-stained coat—one hand outstretched to a bolt of lightning captured in a glass coil.
"Hembolt Franklin," she said.
Arnold's eyes widened. "The statue near the central square?"
"The very same," Miriya smiled. "But long before he was bronzed and praised, he was nothing. The son of a glassblower and a runaway cook. Not a drop of noble blood, no pact with a Vjec, not even spell-sense."
"Then how did he...?" Arnold began.
"Through failure," she said. "Again and again. As a child, he broke every clock in his home trying to hear the 'heartbeat of time.' At ten, he burned half a market testing a copper-threaded flame trap. At fifteen, he built a lightning cage that nearly fried half the noble ring."
Arnold laughed. Even Doster cracked the edge of a smile.
"But one day," Miriya said, voice dropping into the hush of something sacred, "he succeeded. He crafted the first ley-core—a heart not of flesh, but of wire and rune. It could store energy. Magic. He discovered that technology could hold the gift of the Vjec without the need for their blessing."
"But wasn't that... forbidden?" Doster asked.
"It was heresy," Miriya said, eyes narrowing. "The Church tried to silence him. The old scholars called it blasphemy. Even some Vjec stirred in their dreams, sending warnings to their bonded."
"So what happened?" Arnold asked.
"He didn't stop," she said simply. "He gave Loras its breath. Floating rails. Arc-lamps. Golem sentries. The Tower of Echoes. All seeded by his work. He died young. Some say he was cursed. Some say he knew he would be. But he looked to the future and said, Let there be more than fate."
Silence followed her words for a time. The garden hummed faintly, as though echoing the story's weight.
Arnold broke it. "Do you think we could build something like that?"
"You already are," Miriya said, brushing back his red hair. "But not with gears and wires. With your choices."
Doster stood. His gaze now fell not on the sky, but the shadows gathering at the edges of the estate walls. "And what if our choices aren't ours to begin with?"
Miriya didn't answer. Neither did Arnold. The story had settled in them like an ember.
And somewhere beyond Loras's walls, the first cracks of unrest whispered through the ley-lines.
The following morning , the two brothers slipped into their father's study.
Kaelion, the father of the twins and current head of the Daelion family, had a study that felt alive in a way no other room in the estate did. It breathed, it listened. Runes shifted across the floor in slow spirals, books hummed faint notes of forgotten languages, and the fire crackled without burning anything at all.
Arnold and Doster entered quietly, summoned with no explanation. Their father stood before a shifting hologram of Aeloria's history, layered like rings in an ancient tree.
"You're both old enough now," Kaelion began without looking at them, "to understand not just who you are, but what has always moved behind the veil of your lives."
He waved a hand, and the chronomap expanded. Its rings turned—each a glowing stratum of history.
"There are five accepted eras in our time," he said. "But few speak of the one that came before all of them—the Era of Weaving."
Arnold furrowed his brow. "What is… weaving?"
Kaelion turned, the light casting deep lines across his face. "Not weaving as mortals know it. The Weave is not cloth or craft. It is the underlying pattern of existence. A framework of cause and consequence. It governs the bond between energy, memory, and time."
He moved his fingers slowly, and a lattice of golden filaments appeared in the air—each strand connecting points of light.
"This is the Weave. The silent law beneath all things. Magic bends to it. Machines unwittingly obey it. And the Vjec… are its servants and stewards."
Doster leaned in, fascinated. "So it's like a god?"
"No," Kaelion said sharply. "It is not sentient. It does not feel. It records and it maintains. The Weave simply is."
He touched one strand and it vibrated, rippling across the lattice.
"One change here," he murmured, "and a city falls elsewhere. The Weave doesn't dictate our choices—but it remembers every one. And when enough of them cluster in one direction, it pushes back."
Arnold swallowed. "So… what does that have to do with us?"
Kaelion turned fully now, and the weight of his gaze settled on them.
"Because someone—long ago—wove you into it. You weren't born by chance, my sons. You were written. Written into the Weave as instruments of balance… or destruction."
He gestured again, and the rings of history resumed their spiral:
The Age of Voice, when mortals first heard the Vjec and spoke back.
The Age of Flame, when kingdoms were consumed by greed for their power.
The Concord, a brief alliance of spell and machine.
The Age of Severance, where the Vjec vanished, and man relied only on steel.
The Return, when the Vjec came back—but only to chosen bloodlines.
"And now…" Kaelion whispered, "we are nearing something else. Something the Weave has never seen."
He walked toward them, slower now.
"There is a reason the Vjec give their power to so few. A reason they do not speak to entire nations anymore. The Weave is strained. Fractured in places. And you, both of you, were born not only to walk it—but to test it."
The light dimmed.
"Do not be naive," he said. "Hope is noble, Arnold. And caution is wise, Doster. But prophecy is not mercy. The Weave is not your ally—it is your trial."
And with that, he dismissed them. The door closed softly behind them, but the echoes of his words followed them into the darkened halls.
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