The Last Wind-Knitter

The salt-scoured wind whipped strands of hair across your face as you stood at the edge of the spire, the city of Cindral sprawled below you like a patient animal. The sky-roils churned in the distance, storm-bellied and slow, and somewhere beyond them, the wind-tyrant's flagship hung in the clouds like a blade suspended over a throat.

Elara’s voice cracked through the wind—not her words, just the sound of her fear.

You turned. Thorne held her by the arm, his face a mask of stone. He would not look at you. Behind them, the tyrant’s flag snapped black against the grey.

“You have until the third bell,” Thorne called, and his voice was wrong—flat, hollow. “Knit the gale, and she walks free.”

Elara shook her head, hair plastered to her cheeks. “Don’t.”

But her voice broke on the word.

You looked past them, to the city below. The market where you’d bought bread with your father. The alley where your mother once sang. The rooftops where the children ran, still running, unaware.

You looked at Elara again. She was so young. So bright.

Third bell. Two hours. Maybe less.