The Golden Master
The loom in the center of the room did not hum. It clicked. A dry, rhythmic snapping that sounded less like the weaving of cloth and more like the breaking of small bones. I sat before it, my hands moving with a mechanical precision that felt foreign to my own body. My name was Elara, though the Master had not called me that in three years. To him, I was Thread, or Loom, or simply, the girl who...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews