Chapter 102. The Unweaving

We did not sleep. The line held because it didn’t know another hobby, but the Seers said the feeders we’d cut in the cistern were only ribs — the root still sat under the Veilgrove spring, drinking our vows and feeding them to Vesper. If we didn’t pull it, the war would just grow new bones.

The Seers found me at dawn under the Lion, my palms raw with stone-work and refusal. The New Moon wore soot on her veil. The Waning Moon had a bandage on her thumb. The Full Moon’s voice stayed even.

“You cut feeders,” she said.

“Unwove,” I corrected. “Left the knots for later.”

“Later has arrived,” the Waning Moon said, and her smile was the kind you give a patient you like. “The root anchors beneath the Veilgrove spring’s cradle. Not water. Below water.”

Orla’s mouth tightened. “Old bedrock.”

“Older,” the New Moon murmured. “Fossil of a river that forgot itself. That is where they set their altar.”

“And if we break it?” I asked.

“Veilgrove