The Weaver’s Knot
The path to the orb was slick with mud, rain-soaked leaves sticking to Lyra’s boots as she trudged up the slope to the top of the plateau. The devastation of the storm loomed around her—broken branches, uprooted trees, the faint smell of ozone still clinging to the air. She watched Skyline disappear into the storm, Victor a captive within the Creche’s protective sphere. The sight of their struggle—a Creche unwilling to harm even its enemy—ignited something in her.
Her mind was drawn to a memory of Meera’s voice, steady and clear like sunlight breaking through clouds.
They had been sitting near the embers of a dying fire, long before Lyra’s journey had truly begun. Meera’s wiry frame was silhouetted against the night sky, her sharp eyes reflecting the glow.
“Do you know the story of the Weaver’s Knot?” Meera had asked, her tone casual, as though she were about to recount a bedtime tale.
Lyra had shaken her head. “Is it about the Creche?”
“In a way,” Meera replied, picking up a thin strand of dried grass and twisting it between her fingers. “It’s about choice—and responsibility. The Weaver, so the story goes, was not always a creator. She began as a destroyer, unraveling the threads of the world. It wasn’t malice; it was her nature. But one day, she looked upon a fragment she had undone and saw something she had never seen before.”
“What?”
Meera smiled faintly, holding up the knotted grass. “Possibility. She saw what might be, not just what was. And so, she made a choice. She began tying threads together instead of tearing them apart. But the Weaver learned something about choices: once made, they are not so easily undone. Each knot she tied created ripples she could never fully predict.”
Lyra had frowned. “So… she stopped tying knots?”
“Of course not,” Meera said, her voice sharpening with conviction. “She understood that hesitation is also a choice—and that the absence of action can unravel just as much as deliberate destruction. What mattered was intention. She tied each knot with care, knowing she couldn’t control the ripples but could anchor them in meaning.”
Meera had leaned forward then, her gaze piercing. “Lyra, every intention you voice, every decision you make—these shape the world in ways you can’t foresee. You cannot control the storm, but you can decide where to stand as it passes. And sometimes, that’s enough.”
The memory faded as Lyra pushed through a cluster of shattered branches. Her breath caught as she spotted it again—nestled in the mud, faintly glowing like an ember in the rubble. The orb.
Her pulse quickened as she stepped closer, Meera’s words echoing in her mind. Every intention you voice…
Lyra reached down, fingers trembling as they brushed the orb’s surface. For a moment, she hesitated, feeling the weight of unseen ripples.