The loss stung like salt in an open wound. The arena's golden light felt mocking as the freed weaver bowed once—deep, graceful, silent—and walked off the battlefield without another word.
Her golden strings were gone, dissolved into nothing by the horn's note, but she moved with the same serene dignity, as if defeat were merely another thread in a larger tapestry.
Backstage, in the shadowed tunnel beneath the stands where most of Father Black's runes pulsed faintly like breathing veins, Father Black and Kanada waited.
The air was cooler here, thick with the scent of scorched sand and lingering holy ozone.
The weaver emerged, still featureless save for that small, calm mouth. She stopped before them and bowed again, deeper this time.
Kanada stepped forward immediately. "Young one… did you get it?"
