The Unraveling

As the priestess unsheathed the ceremonial needle and prepared the dais for the coming sacrifice, I watched as a servant discreetly turned a dial near the entrance. In response, the shutters on every lamp shifted slightly, dimming the light of the great room. I marveled at the ingenuity, remembering how my father had described the years of trial and error before this synchronized system reached perfection.

The tapestry emitted a glistening silver-white light, causing the trinkets and baubles adorning the guests to twinkle.

My headpiece gleamed, creating an angelic halo in stark contrast with the deep reds of my gown. On trembling feet, I stood before the priestess and my father.

The priestess, her flowing opal robe pearlescent in the tapestry’s glow, raised her arms and spoke in a voice that seemed to resonate from the very threads around us. Amplification magic, I noted.

“Anastasia Celesta Albright, daughter of the late Vera Helena Albright and Marcus Albright née Lionel, two centuries have passed since the gods blessed our people with the sacred art of weaving. Through the hands of matriarchs, family legacies have been woven into the very fabric of existence. Today, as you complete your twentieth cycle around the great celestial wheel, you stand poised to take up the needle of your ancestors. The tapestry of the Albrights awaits your touch, your thread, your destiny. May the gods, in their infinite wisdom, reveal to you the pattern of your fate.”

Silence filled the space between breaths, as if the whole room was waiting to exhale as I reached for the ceremonial needle. I held it, surprised by its weight. Its tip glinted in the ominous light.

With trembling hands, I pressed it to the center of my palm. As the blood began to pool, so much more blood than I anticipated, the priestess grasped my hand and placed it atop the roots of the oak tree.

The instant my hand made contact with the fabric, I felt a jolt of energy course through my body. My vision blurred, the Great Hall fading away as my world turned white. As my eyes adjusted to this new realm between the veils of reality, an opaque glimmering form began to take shape before me.

***

Ten years. It had been ten years since I had looked upon this face - my mother’s face. The face of love and kindness and… home. I had envisioned moments like this every day since her passing - had imagined numerous conversations, but now that I was here, in this moment, I was speechless.

“Hello, my beautiful daughter,” my mother’s melodic voice lilted, each word feeling like a warm embrace. I gasped and choked on a sob, tears already streaming down my face. Her ethereal body shimmered into focus, reminiscent of the woman who once cradled me on cold winter nights. “By the sacred threads, look how you’ve blossomed,” she breathed, her words carrying the cadence of ancient melodies. Reaching out, she cupped my cheek with a gossamer touch. “My golden thread, woven so strong and true.”

I allowed the tears to fall freely as I leaned into my mother’s touch, embracing the familiar tingling sensation. “Mother, I miss you. Please let this be real. Please let this last forever.” I placed my hand over hers, savoring the feel of her. I wished this moment would weave itself into eternity. How my heart ached to live in a moment like this. My body was overcome with a plethora of emotions and I began to shake.

“It is real, my love, but I’m afraid it cannot last. The veil will only part this once,” Mother assured me, and dropped her hand, her voice tinged with both love and urgency. “I do not have much time, but Orla has granted us this moment. I am here to warn you, my bright needle, that your destiny is one of unraveling. The truth is yet to be revealed to you. I may only tell you this: do not trust the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

My brows furrowed as confusion knit itself across my face. “Wolf? What wolf? Mother, I don’t understand.” My breathing became shallow, my hand instinctively reaching out, my eyes pleading for understanding.

“All things will come to pass. You will understand when the time comes,” she explained, a sympathetic look in her eyes. In her hand appeared a golden thread. She held it up to me, “Take hold of your destiny, dearest daughter, and right the wrongs of our past. Restore the Albright name.”

Hesitantly, my hand hovered above the thread. I could feel a pulse, a pull enticing me to grab hold. I gazed into my mother’s eyes, the same eyes as mine. The same eyes as every Albright woman who came before. Met with a reassuring smile and a gentle nod from my mother, I grabbed hold of the thread.

Suddenly, visions of my ancestors flashed before my eyes, each image more vivid than the last:

A regal woman with the unmistakable green Albright eyes standing on a ship, her hand outstretched towards a gleaming crown, fingers grasping at air as the diadem slipped away into shadow.

In a blink, another woman, her face etched with determination, weaving furiously at a loom as flames licked at the edges of her workshop.

A third, tears streaming down her face, pressing a golden thread into the hands of a wide-eyed child before turning to face an unseen threat.

Each woman’s face bore the unmistakable features of the Albright line - the high cheekbones, the determined set of the jaw, the eyes that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom and sorrow.

As the visions whirled faster, fragments of a story began to emerge: a usurped throne, whispers of treachery in gilded halls, a betrayal that echoed through generations. I saw the gradual dwindling of my family’s status, our legacy stolen thread by thread, until we were left with only the memory of former greatness.

But with the pain and demise of a great family came a sense of determination. A refusal to yield. No, the Albright family would not unravel.

New visions emerged, slower this time:

A woman, hunched over a loom in the early dawn. Her surroundings a shabby, run-down cottage surrounded by hues of the darkest night. Despite the poverty evident in her surroundings, her fingers moved with grace and purpose, weaving threads of burgundy and gold.

Next, the same woman, older now on her wedding day. Guests and her groom wearing the dull brown of the Thornbrook family, a once-prominent clan now fallen on hard times. Yet, she stood tall, a subtle shimmer of gold thread woven into her simple gown.

Years later, the much older Albright woman and her daughter, my grandmother Lena, sitting side-by-side at the family loom. The Albright tapestry hanging on the wall behind them in their new home, a modest countryside estate. Their fingers worked in perfect harmony, weaving intricate patterns that seemed to glow with an inner light.

A series of quick flashes: Lena presenting a masterfully woven tapestry to a noble family, her work earning renown. The estate growing, expanding. My mother, Vera, as a young woman, proudly wearing the burgundy and gold of the Albrights at a royal function.

One vision after the other showing the resilience of the Albright women and their climb back to nobility. Each generation adding their own thread to the tapestry of our family’s legacy, slowly but surely restoring the luster to the Albright name.

And there, at the edges of these visions, a wolf circled. Its fur was as dark as a moonless night, its movements liquid and predatory. As it turned its head, my breath caught in my throat. Its eyes, a striking, familiar yellow, seemed to look right through me, filled with an intelligence that was both alluring and terrifying.

The wolf’s gaze held me, and for a moment, I felt as though I were falling into those eyes, drowning in their depths. They seemed to whisper of secrets, of power, of destinies yet to unfold.

As quickly as they had come, the visions faded, leaving me breathless and shaken. The weight of my family’s history pressed down upon me, along with a new, unsettling question: why did those wolf eyes seem so hauntingly familiar?

“A Royal Weaver!” the priestess decreed, taking hold of the golden thread and displaying it to the anticipating crowd. Cheers and applause echoed through the room as the lanterns increased to full illumination, and with it, I found myself returning to the living side of the veil - returning to a new reality of lies and deception.

As the excitement began to ebb, the priestess raised her hands for silence. “Let it be known,” she intoned, her silken voice carrying to every corner of the hall, “that on this night, Anastasia Celesta Albright has been blessed by the gods with the gift of Royal Weaving. May her threads guide us all to a brighter future.”

The golden thread in the priestess’s hands began to glow with an ethereal light. As if drawn by an invisible force, the thread floated from her grasp to the great oak tree on the tapestry. The guests watched in awe as it wove itself into the ancient fabric, creating a new branch before their eyes. The magic rippled through the tapestry like waves on a pond, making the wolves’ eyes flash and the roses quiver.

Upon this newly formed branch, a delicate vignette materialized, framed in intricate golden thread that sparkled like starlight. Within its borders, my own image appeared, captured in threads as fine as gossamer. Below the scene, the word “truth” shimmered into existence, each letter seeming to pulse with its own inner light.

I turned to my guests, a forced smile plastered on my face. The tapestry shone like the blaze of a fire, its brilliance almost painful to my eyes. My mind reeled, still disoriented from the visions. The cacophony of the celebration only added to my confusion.

As I scanned the crowd of revelers, their joy felt distant. My father’s face beamed with pride, his features easily expressing the elation he felt within. But Connor… his face was an unreadable mask. His eyes - those distinctive yellow eyes - bore into me with an intensity that chilled me to the bone.

Visions of the usurped throne replayed in my mind, each flash bringing with it a new wave of doubt. The truth unfurled in my mind like a tapestry, each thread weaving a picture too terrible to contemplate.

The Dodd family stole the crown. My rightful inheritance. Does Connor know what his ancestors did?

I plucked the absurd thought from my mind like a piece of piling, but it clung stubbornly, refusing to be dismissed.

I needed a moment - time to process all that I learned. Suddenly, the bodice of my dress became too tight. Clenching my fists at my side, I turned, prepared to address my father and request a reprieve.

He stepped forward, placing a supportive hand on my shoulder. The contact jolted me from my spiraling thoughts, bringing me sharply back to the present moment. Before I could gather myself, my father announced, “Esteemed guests,” his voice brimming with pride, “we invite you to join us in the gardens for a soiree in honor of this momentous revelation. Let us celebrate this joyous moment with refreshments and fellowship.”

I nodded mechanically, my smile fixed in place, as the crowd burst into applause. The sound washed over me, at odds with the turmoil raging within.

***

Outside, the crisp night air cooled the rising heat under my skin. I stood under an archway adorned with a line of pink and white climbing roses, their sweet scent a stark contrast to the turmoil in my mind. A line of eager guests trailed through the garden and into the manor’s solar, waiting for their turn to offer congratulations.

I closed my eyes, trying to center myself, to make sense of all that had happened. But before I could gather my thoughts, a familiar voice cut through my reverie.

“Of all the woven wonders of the world,” the voice began, “you are by far the finest.”

“Liam,” I smiled, shrugging off his compliment, “I didn’t know you had returned. How was Lysandria? Was it really as beautiful as the rumors claim?”

Liam Nightshade stood a head taller than me. His bronze skin contrasted against his white suit. His black tie was a testament to his family’s hue.

He had always been determined to rise in status, which is why he seized the opportunity to travel to Orlan’s neighboring kingdoms. Under the supervision of his textile merchant uncle, Liam had spent the past year in Lysandria, studying their unique weaving techniques and negotiating trade agreements. The experience had sharpened his already keen mind and added a new air of sophistication to his bearing.

“Lysandria is indeed a sight to behold,” Liam replied, his dark eyes twinkling with excitement. “But even its famed Festival of Lights pales in comparison to the spectacle I witnessed here tonight. A Royal Weaver, Ana. I always knew you were destined for greatness.”

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks. Liam had always had a way with words, but there was something different about him now. A new confidence, perhaps, or a hint of ambition that hadn’t been there before. As charming as he was, I knew he, like most males without sisters, needed to find a wife who could raise his status.

“Liam—” I began, but was cut off.

“We need to talk,” Connor demanded, cutting to the front of the line. His tone brooked no argument as he took my hand, his grip firm. The intensity in his eyes made my heart race. He hadn’t spoken a word to me since the ceremony and had quickly left the Great Hall before the applause ended. He had shed his coat and now, with his black sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing scarred, muscular arms, he stood in a dominating stance, every bit the alpha. Wheels were turning inside my head. What did he know? What did he want? And most importantly, could I trust him?

Liam began to protest, but Connor tossed his hand up dismissively, his expression daring Liam to challenge him. It was a rare occasion when Connor asserted what little royal authority he had.

My eyes darted between the two men. My heart pounded a rapid beat in my chest as Connor pulled me away from the line of well-wishers, his grip firm but not unkind. A ripple of gasps and murmurs swept through the gathered guests, their expressions a mix of shock and disapproval at the prince’s brazen behavior. Duchess Hartwell’s scandalized scoff cut through the air, followed by the barely concealed whispers of “Weaver’s eyes!” and “How improper!”

Ignoring the stares and muttered comments, Connor led me through the garden, weaving between topiaries and ornamental fountains. The sounds of gossip faded behind us as we quickly moved farther from the party until we reached a secluded alcove, hidden from prying eyes by a canopy of wisteria.

“Connor, what—” I began with a catching breath, but he cut me off, a new habit he acquired that evening.

“A Royal Weaver,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Do you have any idea what this means?”

I searched his face. He had shed his unreadable mask, his features now riddled with worry. I reached for him and gently placed my hand on his forearm. “I don’t know where this is coming from, Con, but you of all people should know that we can’t change our fates.”

Connor’s eyes darted around the alcove as if the wisteria might sprout ears. He leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fate isn’t always what it seems, Ana.”

I felt a chill run down my spine, my mother’s warning echoing in my mind. Do not trust the wolf in sheep’s clothing. I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. This was Connor, my closest friend. “Threads alive, Connor! It’s not like I had a choice in the manner.” I shook my head. “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to defy the gods? To reject their destiny for me… for my house? I am all that’s left of the Albright name.”

Exasperated, he released a heavy sigh. “I know. I just… It’s just that…” He trailed off. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes and took deep, shuddering breaths. This was not like Connor. He was never at a loss for words… never at a loss of composure. Connor, a literal prince charming, always knew exactly what to say and when to say it.

“It’s just what?” I pleaded. “What is it, Con? You’re not making any sense right now.” I paused, studying his face, looking for—I didn’t know what. Tugging on his arm, I said, “You are my closest friend. Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

Connor’s eyes met mine, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in their amber depths. For a moment, it seemed as if he might finally reveal what was weighing so heavily on his mind. But then, like a curtain falling, his expression closed off once more. He straightened and cleared his throat.

“It’s not that simple, Ana,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Being a Royal Weaver… it changes everything. The palace, the court, they’re not what you think. There are dangers you can’t even imagine.”