The Weaver of Shadows”
His name was Ruvan, but he rarely answered to it.
To most, he was a ghost. A figure glimpsed in moonlight, a whisper behind closed doors. He lived on the edge of the village, in a house made of ashwood and memory, where the walls didn’t echo and the mirrors were always covered.
Ruvan didn’t laugh like Tarin, or dream like Elira, or sing with the birds like Kaelen. But he saw.
Everything.
He wove at night, by candlelight. Not with color or cloth, but with secrets. Regrets. Half-truths tucked under floorboards and the fears people buried beneath smiles.
His tapestries were dark—not evil, but deep. When he unveiled one, people didn’t cheer. They stared. Some turned away. Some cried. A few finally understood something they’d run from for years.
At the Festival of
