They called her Orla, but her name was written in the constellations, carried on winds that never touched the earth. Orla was not born—she fell from the sky, like a star breaking from its home. When she landed, no one saw the light. Only the echo of her footsteps.
She lived on the highest mountain, where the earth reached up to touch the heavens and the air sang with forgotten things. There, in the ancient cave where the stars once slept, Orla wove.
Her loom was made of starlight and silence—an ethereal thing, shifting and breathing, as if it were a living creature. The threads were woven from the very fabric of the night sky, pulled from the spaces between stars, from the cold touch of distant galaxies.
Orla was a weaver of fates—not the destinies of individuals, but the threads of ent
