Lucian waited until everyone had crawled into their tents for the evening. By now, the fire had dimmed to gentle orange coals, and his only audience were the tall and imposing trees. They nearly covered the night sky, allowing only the barest of dappled moonlight through.
He sat on a low log at the very edge of the campfire, his Echoheart Grimoire open and the Loom in his lap. Just like the Spinnermaid said, it would expand and contract as he needed it.
And he was surprised at how quickly it adapted to him. Inside its case, the Loom was compact, smooth, and silent. But within was a strong melancholy he understood all too well.
He ran his fingers across its carved surface.
The clasp opened with a soft click.
And in front of his eyes, the Loom slowly unfolded. The spool was no longer midnight black, but a kaleidoscope of bright colors and shades. Stretched across the bone teeth were thread: light-thin, half-visible, and writhing gently as if underwater.
