Chapter 14. Weaving

Life for Sumarel's cellmates—Chatterbox and, as she later learned, Mumbles—had noticeably improved since she'd moved in with them. As if sensing who they were living with, others began giving them a wide berth, preferring simply not to get involved.

"Will you be practicing today?" Mumbles asked timidly, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"A little," Sumarel replied curtly.

The young man possessed a quality rare in this place—an absolute inability to fit into the prison's rigid hierarchy. Before her arrival, his existence had been a series of humiliations, but now, under her inadvertent protection, he could breathe more freely. Antisocial to the extreme, he found solace in only one thing—the art of weaving, where he displayed truly exceptional talent.

"Strange choice," Sumarel thought, watching his focused movements. But it was precisely his lack of desire to play games with others, his withdrawn nature and complete immersion in his beloved craft that made Mumbles the most comfortable companion. She had no doubt—only this passion kept his sanity from completely unraveling in a place that seemed designed to mock his quiet nature. How unsuited it was for him.

The workshop occupied the third floor—a vast space divided into seven sections for the primary arts. Gray walls without a single decoration, roughly hewn tables, the simplest tools—everything here breathed utility. In the sculptors' corner, unworked stone and wood chunks were piled high, with pottery wheels covered in dried clay nearby. The musicians' section held battered instruments with out-of-tune strings. There were shelves of various books too—all practical, no fiction. But the workshop's true treasure lay in the shelves of weaving materials: rolls of special paper, quills of varying stiffness, inks of every shade and consistency.

The dogs, primarily intended for combat operations, also needed specialists in artifacts and runes. Sumarel well remembered her possibly anomalous talent for magic and decided to extract maximum benefit from it.

"The form must be impeccable, don't proceed with the next element!" a sharp, demanding voice sounded behind her. "There's real talent here, but you're too impatient—always moving on before you've mastered what's in front of you."

The transformation was striking. Mumbles, unable to string two words together in everyday life, became a completely different person in the world of art. Sentence structure, voice timbre, his very manner of bearing—everything changed, as if ordinary communication with people outside his craft robbed him of solid ground, while art gave him the anchor around which he could gather all the fragments of his crumbling personality.

Not wanting to label him, she had learned his name—Albrecht. Whether in response to his good treatment or out of sentimentality, she always called him by name once they'd started practicing together.

His meticulousness in teaching bordered on obsession. But Sumarel wasn't fooled by the apparent severity—behind it lay attention he was ready to lavish on her without reserve. Until she mastered a new weaving, he wouldn't allow himself to relax, constantly honing his own skills.

A small library in the workshop's corner held treatises on the fundamentals of all arts. Magic, unsurprisingly, proved the most complex discipline, interwoven with numerous fields of knowledge. Weaving was part of visual art, creating images—names that referenced various ideas. Each idea possessed a unique name, expressed in a numerical sequence that could be embodied as a single line drawn in the correct pattern. Length, volume, curvature, even pen pressure—everything mattered. And it was called weaving because this branch of magic consisted of many lines interwoven with each other.

"Here, at the intersection, too much pen pressure," Albrecht tapped his finger on the table, standing behind her shoulder. "You'll create an excess that will distribute energy in uneven surges."

He took his quill, drawing a barely visible line:

"You're pressing too hard. The main channel can be thin—that way, if you make a mistake, the damage will be less."

Sumarel raised her eyebrows, examining her drawing that seemed perfect to her.

"And if I mess up? What sort of damage?"

"I'm no expert in magic, I only know the basics of drawing," he shrugged.

"For a person from the Lower City, you're remarkably well-informed," Sumarel looked him in the eye intently.

She knew he was holding something back about his past. Once he'd mentioned where he came from, apparently to dispel suspicions about his origins. But as Sumarel later discovered, when referencing analogies and known points that should have been there—he knew nothing about his supposed home, which was quite strange. Or perhaps predictable.

Alpha, noticing that Sumarel was spending more and more time in the workshop, also began appearing there, distracting her with his presence.

"I lose concentration when you watch," he suddenly said, drawing another line.

Sumarel rolled her eyes:

"You asked me to watch. Can't deliver, so now it's my fault?"

"Alright, I think we're rushing," he set down the quill, interlacing his fingers and leaning back in his chair. "First we need to step onto the first tier—after that, perception will improve, and everything will come easier. What level do you think I can reach?"

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"Level?" she asked.

"Don’t you know?" he turned his head, studying her face. "Stepping onto the first tier of cultivation happens in two ways: either through forced awakening using special drugs, or through the dream world, which we'll enter using weaving. You could awaken on your own out of nowhere, of course, but that phenomenon is as rare as a phoenix feather or a qilin horn."

"Tell me more," Sumarel requested.

Alpha turned his whole body:

"Finally piqued your curiosity? But look at you—still carved from stone." He watched her intently, desperate to catch even the tiniest shift in her unreadable expression.

"Tell me more," she repeated dryly.

"Let's go train..." he paused, smiling, "normally." And stood up, straightening his back.

"Can't you just tell me?"

"Predictable," Sumarel thought. He jumps topics, creates intrigue, tries to impose his game. A good enough move, if the person you're trying to play with doesn't nip it in the bud.

"I'll tell you later, it's quite a topic. Need to warm up," his smile grew wider.

"Fine, go train. I'm not finished here yet."

She approached the chair he'd vacated, sitting down and taking the quill. She couldn't see Alpha's face but was certain a sour expression had appeared on it.

"You're not interested?" his voice wavered, betraying doubt.

"I am interested. I just want to finish," she took a clean sheet and began slowly practicing lines.

"Come on, you can do that every day!" he said with greater insistence, sitting on the edge of the table, trying to catch her gaze.

"Tell me or go train, as you wanted."

She knew he'd pressed his lips together, trying to hide internal conflict.

"Fine, have it your way," he stood, heading for the door.

Continuing to draw lines even more slowly, Sumarel allowed herself a slight smile. "He's walking away thinking he got the upper hand. If only he knew."

As soon as Alpha demonstratively left the room, Albrecht immediately approached her, clearly pleased by his departure.

"Need help?" he offered.

"Do you know anything about cultivation awakening?" she asked without looking up from her work, allowing a light wave of curiosity to slip into her voice.

She had no doubt—he'd been eavesdropping on their conversation and would gladly share his knowledge without repeating Alpha's mistakes.

"A little," he answered after a short pause.

Sumarel raised a questioning glance, silently waiting for him to continue.

"When ascending to the first tier, a person is placed in a special room or capsule, creating particular conditions and putting them into a state of anxious sleep. The anxiety amplifies the dream, making it more accessible to consciousness. With the help from the Goddess of Weaving, the person is brought to a level with doors."

"And what about these doors?" genuine interest slipped into her voice.

"They say there are many. They serve as conduits to the dream world and differ by color, symbolizing different levels. In a sense, it's a trial—the higher the door's level, the harder it is to pass through, but the reward matches."

She continued watching, waiting for more, despite the pause—he was clearly waiting for a clarifying question, a sign of engagement.

"Are you familiar with the idea of isomorphism?" Albrecht asked, deciding not to drag it out.

"No."

"The idea is that form creates meaning. When we limit ourselves, our will strengthens, gaining the ability to create and manifest in the world. If there's no form—we're everything and nothing at the same time. On the other hand, by clothing ourselves in form, we cut ourselves off from other possibilities..." He looked up, choosing his words. "So, the higher the door's level and trial difficulty, the more potential can be extracted, gaining a form that holds much more. It's believed that the harder the trial a beginning mage passes, the stronger their foundation—one that others lack."

"How do you know this?" she kept her steady gaze on him.

"Please, don't ask. You've already figured out I'm not exactly from the Lower City?"

"Yes," she admitted, surprised by such candor.

"Please, don't tell anyone about this. There are things I'd like to keep secret. What I've shared... consider it gratitude for the protection," he stuttered slightly, as if momentarily losing his footing.

Sumarel nodded, deciding not to press. Life had taught her a simple truth—never insist. If people see something important in you, they'll tell you themselves. That's why she remained cold and taciturn. Uncertainty, mystery captivated people, making them reveal themselves hoping for reciprocity. They thought that mixture of sincerity, lies and half-truths could get her talking. But she only let them go further in their revelations, getting what she needed—information she barely possessed.

"So mages don't just channel energy into objects, creating tools as commonly believed," she reflected, simultaneously drawing lines. "They themselves are the tool."

Albrecht's account, though sparse on details, surprised her. Everything could be much more complex than her previous notions about mages.

What bothered her most was the Goddess of Weaving, helping to reach the necessary level. This directly indicated possible access to candidates' consciousness. Sumarel wasn't sure if the Goddess at her level could review memories and see what had happened to her. This uncertainty remained unresolvable at her current level.

Her friend—if Albrecht could be called that—also presented a puzzle. She'd long noticed his oddities, as if he really wasn't from the Lower City. And she understood perfectly what protection he meant. Humiliation and complete submission—that was the order here for those who couldn't stand up for themselves. She'd seen firsthand the creative brutalities that boys with something to prove could invent. Sometimes, watching it happen, she could see the shock in their eyes—soft boys who'd never known real violence before.

But she wasn't a hero ready to protect others and establish her own order. Extracting maximum benefit while staying in the shadows—that was her plan for the near future.

The thought of the time loop immediately resurrected the memory of the reflection that had looked at her that day. The blackout in the cafeteria caused anxiety. Whatever had stared back at her that day wasn't ordinary—it was tied to the time loop, she was certain. But how could she untangle it when even dwelling on it felt like walking into a trap?

Looking around, she confirmed the workshop was almost empty. Albrecht, apparently surprised by his own revelations, had immersed himself in his beloved weaving.

Deciding to risk it and figure this out, she imagined that face... her face, which she'd looked at in the reflection. The very one that had ordered her to die.