Chapter Eleven: Blood in the Pattern
622 Words
Scene 1 – The First Arrow
The wind was too quiet.
Even the trees didn’t breathe.
From the north wall, Ehia watched the line of Eastern soldiers form—a sea of bone masks and dark war paint, every spear aimed at the heart of the city.
Then the first arrow came.
It flew straight for her.
But the veil moved on its own.
It whipped around her body, threads hardening into gold scales.
The arrow shattered.
And the battle began.
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Scene 2 – The Loom Unleashed
The bride stood at the palace gate, veil wrapped across her arms like a serpent. She raised her spear, gold thread flashing in the moonlight.
The first wave charged—silent, deadly.
Ehia was there before they reached the stairs. Her eyes glowed. The air shimmered.
She touched the veil.
And the world answered.
A wall of silk shot up from the earth, glowing with leopard spots, each one pulsing like a heartbeat. It wrapped around her enemies, tripping them, binding them, tossing them like leaves in a storm.
The elders watched in stunned silence from the upper towers.
“She’s weaving in battle,” one whispered. “It was only a myth…”
Not anymore.
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Scene 3 – Nso’s Secret
Far below, in the hidden archive chamber, Nso was searching.
She wasn’t a fighter. She wasn’t a weaver. But she knew how to read the old tongue.
And something in her gut told her there was more to the veil.
She found a scroll, brittle with age, sealed with red wax.
> “If the blood of the twin flows,” it read,
“and the veil is complete—
the past may rise.
Or be devoured.”
Nso froze.
Twin.
Not in the literal sense.
But mirrored. Reflected.
Just like Ehia and the bride.
She ran for the surface, heart pounding.
> If both lived... the veil might not hold.
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Scene 4 – The Fire Breaks
The Eastern warriors weren’t afraid of magic.
They had their own.
From the hills behind the city, a second battalion emerged—firecallers, their palms glowing with heat, chanting in a tongue that tasted of ash.
They hurled flame toward the palace walls.
The guards screamed. Stone cracked. Smoke coiled into the sky.
Ehia saw it—too far to stop.
Then the bride ran past her—and leapt.
She spun the veil in the air like a net.
It caught the fire midair and twisted it—reversed it.
The flames curved back.
And engulfed the enemy’s own line.
But the bride fell hard. Too hard.
When Ehia reached her, her hands were burned. The veil shook violently in Ehia’s grip.
> “You were never meant to bear it alone,” Ehia whispered.
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Scene 5 – The Price of Power
The battle dragged into dusk.
Ehia stood in the heart of the courtyard, veil wrapped fully around her body now—a second skin.
She could feel its will. Its hunger. Its memory.
The Oba stood beside her, blade drenched. “Finish it,” he said.
But she didn’t move.
She looked toward the Eastern commander now approaching through the broken gate.
His eyes locked with hers.
Then—he spoke.
“We are not your true enemy,” he said.
“We were trying to stop her.”
Behind him, from the shadows, a third figure emerged.
Not a soldier. Not Eastern.
A woman in black.
Veiled.
Eyes glowing red.
Ehia felt the veil in her hands scream.
> “Who is she?” she whispered.
The commander fell to one knee.
> “The original weaver.
The one they sealed in the cloth… before time forgot.”
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- Writer
