Chapter 17 - Ancient Shapes

The silence stretched between them — not tense, not hostile — but heavy with the waiting stillness of a loom before the first thread is cast.

Kleo flexed her fingers, observing loose strands of mana spill from her touch. Fragile. Unshaped. Raw power had never been her issue; it roared in her veins like an unchained storm. Yet, this was something altogether different.

Not force.

Form.

Across the shimmering divide, the Weaver moved — slow as the tides, fluid as ink drifting through water. One clawed finger extended, each joint deliberate, drawing a line in the air.

No burst of power. No dazzling spectacle.

Just… a line.

Thin as spun glass. Weightless as breath. Perfect.

Magic not as power — but as truth.

Kleo swallowed, awe igniting behind her ribs. “This is… focus made manifest.”

The Weaver tilted her head — neither mocking nor indulgent — merely listening.

More impressions brushed Kleo’s thoughts: ancient hands guiding young hands. Breath slowing. Thread yielding to patience.

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Not control.

Harmony.

She attempted. Reached out. Too much force — her mana flared wild and shattered into nothingness.

Across the barrier, the Weaver remained. Unmoving. Unjudging.

Try again.

Kleo breathed slower.

Lighter touch.

Place, not seize.

A thread wavered into being — rough, imperfect — but present.

The Weaver’s eyes flared faintly. Not praise.

Recognition.

Kleo glanced at Rugr, unmoving as stone.

“Feels akin to threading a needle in a sandstorm,” she muttered.

But in answer came no words — only memory-not-memory:

Hands — Kullo’s hands — steady amidst chaos. Working with wildness, not against it.

That was the lesson.

Not dominance.

Communion.

Kleo stared at her small, trembling thread of light. “I could learn this,” she whispered.

Yet the truth already shone in the barrier’s pulse:

You must.

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Across the divide, the Weaver raised a palm. Claws softened. No threat.

An invitation.

And then came presence — spilling through the barrier without breaching it.

Not images.

Sensation.

The feeling of standing beneath something vast and mother-shaped — laughter spun into constellations.

The chill of iron sunk into bone.

The hollow ache of exile.

And — fiercest of all — the bright, spiraling wildness of herself.

Not a prisoner.

Not an heir.

A beginning.

A choice.

Kleo’s breath shook. Her thoughts tangled like loose thread.

“What… are we?” she asked — and comprehended the answer was not species, name, or role.

It was becoming.

Not fate. Not chains. Not inheritance carved in stone.

Choice.

Freely given.

Freely made.

She gazed at the waiting hand. At the loom stretched between them.

An invitation.

Kleo allowed her mana to stir — slow, cautious, reaching.

To accept, and to weave.

Together.

Her voice was small yet steady.

“Okay,” she breathed.

And softer still, for the Weaver alone:

“But… my pattern.”