The valley fell silent.
Not the usual kind of silence. This was heavier—an expectant silence, as if the land itself paused to watch. Salemadon's gaze swept across the plateau. Pahtem glowed faintly, threads of energy brushing the stones beneath his feet.
Then she appeared.
At first, she was only a shape, pale and still, emerging from the far side of the plateau. Her presence did not move like a human's. It flowed, calm and unyielding, as though she were part of the land itself.
Salemadon instinctively stepped forward, sensing not hostility, but weight.
Althara's whisper was almost lost in the wind. "Do you feel that?"
He nodded. Pahtem pulsed sharply, almost in awe. Recognition without knowing.
THE FIRST GLIMPSE
She was tall, wrapped in layered cloth that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Her face, partially veiled, carried no expression, yet every line told a story—of centuries observed, of choices weighed, of threads held steady.
Salemadon's heart beat faster, but not with fear. Something in him knew to respect her silence.
The figure raised a hand slightly, just enough for the air around it to ripple. Pahtem responded instinctively, threads brushing toward her in subtle arcs.
"You walk paths not meant to be chosen lightly," she said. Her voice was calm, deep, and carried authority beyond sound.
Salemadon did not speak. He only nodded.
"I am Maweh," she continued, "the Keeper of Threads. And you—Salemadon—are now seen."
The words landed like stones in a quiet pond. He felt the weight, but not the warmth. She was not a mother… not yet.
She only watched.
THE WEIGHT OF HER PRESENCE
Brughan swallowed audibly. "She… she's not human, right?"
Althara shook her head. "Not in the sense we understand. But she is very… aware."
Salemadon stepped forward slightly. "Why now?"
Maweh's gaze held him, and he felt the threads of the world around him tighten subtly. "Timing is not yours to decide. Observation is not judgment. You have reached a point where what is unseen can no longer wait."
He felt Pahtem respond in deep resonance, humming in quiet acknowledgment.
"Do not mistake my presence for intervention," Maweh added. "I do not guide. I only witness—and protect the balance."
Her words were like a lock sliding into place. He understood: she was not here to help him, not yet to teach him, but to mark him, to weigh him, to ensure that what came next could not undo the fragile threads of his choices.
THE QUIET DECLARATION
Salemadon's chest tightened. He wanted to speak, to ask questions, but no words came. Pahtem glowed brighter, sending a subtle wave of energy around him. Even Brughan and Althara instinctively stepped back, feeling the air thicken with calm authority.
Maweh lowered her hand, and the threads around the plateau shimmered faintly.
"I will appear when the moment demands it," she said. "Not before. And not always with kindness."
Then, almost imperceptibly, she faded into the far edges of the plateau, leaving only the faint shimmer of threads in the air.
Salemadon felt a presence linger—weighty, patient, immovable. He did not need to see her to know: Maweh was watching, and the world had shifted because of her.
ENDING BEAT
Pahtem glowed faintly, resonating with the unseen threads she had touched. Salemadon exhaled slowly.
"This… changes everything," he said.
Althara's eyes were wide but steady. "Not yet. But soon, you'll understand how much is at stake."
Brughan muttered, "And I thought the Architects were bad."
Salemadon did not answer. He only felt the threads beneath his feet, the pulse of Pahtem, and the presence of someone who measured time differently than the world itself.
The storm of the Architects was still coming. But now, Maweh had marked him—and nothing would ever be the same.
Some presences stop the world—not with power, but with certainty.