Zara Fen POV,
The weaving machine didn’t care about the ache in my lower back or the way the skin on my fingertips had worn thin enough to throb with every pass of the shuttle. It only cared about the tension.
Thump-clack. Thump-clack.
The silver thread was a temperamental mistress. If I pulled too hard, the metallic core would snap, ruining hours of precision work. If I let it go too slack, the jagged, diamond-edged design that was supposed to be my salvation would look like a mistake instead of a masterpiece.
I didn't hear the door open over the heavy rhythm of the workshop, but I smelled him. Rain, crushed sandalwood, and the sharp, clean scent of the Southern pines.
“The sun went down three hours ago, Zara.”
“I know.” I didn’t look up. “Deadlines don’t care about sunlight.” I rep
