The morning came like any other — grey, wet, unpromising.
Leia sat in the corner of the shelter, picking at a tear in her sleeve. The thread frayed easily now. Everything did. The cold had set into her bones, and her mother's cough hadn't left for days.
There was no food this morning. Just silence.
Selene had gone to ask the workers' guild if they had sweeping shifts for the week. Leia stayed behind to clean the space. It wasn't much — a cracked window, a dusty floor, a leaking roof. But it was theirs.
She found herself staring again at the hem of her cloak.
It was the same one she wore when they were cast out. A heavy, navy blue piece — torn now, stained with soot, the gold trim faded. Yet she hadn't let it go. Not because of what it was, but because of what it used to represent.
And maybe… what it still could.
She reached into a small wooden box they kept under the mat. Inside were scraps: torn fabric, a dull sewing needle, some tangled threads — things most would throw away.
Leia picked up the needle, ran her finger over it.
Then something shifted.
Her wrist burned — sudden, sharp, and hot like a brand pressed into her skin.
She gasped and dropped the needle. It clattered to the floor.
She clutched her wrist.
The pain pulsed once more — and then faded. A strange coolness followed, like water rushing beneath the skin.
She slowly rolled up her sleeve.
There, glowing faintly just beneath the skin, was a symbol.
A needle.
Curved gently like a crescent moon.
Thread looped around it — silver, fine, and pulsing softly with life.
Leia blinked.
She wasn't imagining it.
The symbol shimmered for a second before fading slightly, as though sinking into her wrist — not disappearing, just… resting.
Her breath caught.
Did I awaken?
It didn't feel like how she imagined. No surge of fire. No crackling sky. Just this quiet moment. Like a whisper under a scream.
She looked down. The sewing needle on the floor trembled.
Leia reached for it — and stopped.
The thread from the cloak hem had risen slightly, twisting upward like it was reaching for her hand.
She stared, mouth slightly open.
The thread floated. Only an inch, maybe less — but it moved without touch. Without wind. Without cause.
Just her.
And then it dropped.
The needle lay still.
The mark on her wrist dimmed again, but she could still feel it — waiting.
---
When Selene returned, Leia was still seated, cradling the cloak in her arms, eyes wide and distant.
Her mother noticed. "What's wrong?"
Leia looked up.
Her lips trembled for a moment before she whispered:
"I think… I awakened."
Selene froze.
"What do you mean?"
Leia showed her wrist.
The mark had faded further now, barely visible, like a shadow beneath her skin.
Selene knelt beside her, taking her hand gently. Her fingers brushed the skin, tracing the faint outline.
And for a long time, she said nothing.
Then she pulled her daughter into a tight, trembling embrace.
Leia didn't cry.
But she clung to her mother like something sacred had just returned.
Not power.
But possibility.
---
That night, while Selene slept, Leia sat alone by the dying lamp.
She rolled the needle between her fingers, watching the silver thread rise once more — slow, delicate, like breath.
This was not the power of fire or steel or wind.
It was the power to mend.
To weave.
To build.
And maybe, someday, to reshape the world.