Shamura weaved.

Thread over thread, loop after loop. Patterns took shape beneath their fingers, careful and precise, the way they had always been. The thread spoke to them, whispered of where it wished to go, and Shamura listened.

They always listened.

The others called it unfair. Kallamar muttered under his breath as he tended fields, Heket huffed as she scrubbed, and Leshy grumbled while attempting to cook (Seriously, who let the blind one any where near a knife or fire?) Shamura should have suffered like the rest of them. But Shamura did not haul or scrub or cook. Shamura weaved.

(They did not say why. Perhaps they did not need to. The damage had already been done.)

They sat in their corner of the Cult, hands moving deftly, mind drifting. Once, their thoughts had been like a web—intricate, sprawling, vast. Now, they unraveled. Strands slipped through their grasp, tangled where they should have been tight. But weaving was simple. Weaving made sense.

Patterns did not slip away. Patterns stayed where they were put.

Shamura liked patterns.

A breeze brushed against them. The cloth fluttered. Shamura giggled. Giggled. They had once spoken in riddles, their words layered and laced with meaning. Now, they found joy in the way fabric moved in the wind.

How silly. How lovely.

They glanced up, their many eyes blinking slowly at Leshy, who stood watching with a look Shamura could not name.

"Green," Shamura said suddenly, plucking a new thread. "Green suits you."

Leshy’s eye twitched. He said nothing and stomped off toward the fields. Shamura only chuckled, returning to their work.

Weaving. Soft things. Gentle things. Things that stayed in place, that did not slip away like thoughts or time.

Yes. Shamura liked this.