“The Weaver demands an audience.” My vision swam, the grotto’s cool air doing little to douse the roaring inferno in my veins. Maliwan’s words, flat and cold, pierced the haze. Natthawut stiffened beside me, a low growl vibrating in his chest. His hand, still clasping mine, tightened, a silent defiance against the approaching threat. But my gaze was fixed on Maliwan. On her wrists. And then, mine. *** The sun beat down on the wooden planks of the floating market, warming them to a pleasant hum. A girl with hair the color of midnight, no older than seven, carefully unwound a length of river-silk from a wooden spool. Her hands, nimble even then, worked with a focused intensity. “No, Chailai, like this,” a slightly older girl, Maliwan, instructed, her own fingers already weaving a complex knot. “See? The first loop is a river’s coil, winding around the second. And the second… that’s the serpent’s embrace, holding fast.” Chailai tried again, her brow furrowed. The silk slipped, refusing to obey. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. “It’s too hard, Maliwan! Why do we need so many knots? Just one is enough to tie a boat!” Maliwan giggled, her dark eyes sparkling. “Because these aren’t for boats, silly! These are for us. The unbreakable knots of blood sisters.” She held up a small, sharp pearl-shell, its edge gleaming. “A drop of blood, a wish, and a knot that can never be undone. A promise that no matter what, we’ll always find each other. Always protect each other.” Chailai stared, thoroughly captivated. Maliwan pricked her own thumb with the shell, a tiny bead of crimson welling up. “Now you.” Chailai hesitated, then took the shell. Her own thumb stung. As the two drops of blood mingled on the silk, Maliwan carefully tied a small, tight knot. “The Blood Knot,” she whispered. Then, with a mischievous grin, she added a second, looser knot, a subtle twist in the silk that only they would recognize. “And this,” she explained, “is the False Knot. If you ever see me tie this one, it means I’m in trouble. It means I’m playing a part. It means I’m trying to tell you something without saying it.” *** The plaited river-grass biting into my skin throbbed. I tested the bindings subtly, the movement barely perceptible. My eyes flickered to Maliwan’s tied forearms. Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, but the precise way the river-grass bound them—a faint, almost invisible twist in the fibers—was unmistakable. The False Knot. A jolt, cold and sharp, cut through the fever’s heat. She wasn’t betraying me. Not truly. She was sending a message. Natthawut’s gaze followed mine, an edge of comprehension settling over his features as he took in the cord. The general was sharper than his quiet demeanor suggested. He was already working out the silent communication. Two burly syndicate guards, their tunics bearing the Crimson Lotus sigil, moved forward. One grabbed Natthawut roughly by the arm. “Up. The Weaver doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Natthawut merely stared at the man, his eyes like chips of river-ice, chilling the air. “Do not touch me again,” he said, his voice a low rumble that promised swift retribution. The brute, despite his bulk, flinched, pulling his hand back as if burned. Natthawut rose with fluid grace, his shoulders broadening, an aura of quiet power emanating from him. The second guard, a woman with a scar running across her jaw, nudged me with the butt of her spear. “You too, little spinner. Up.” I swayed slightly, my vision still blurring at the edges. “Oh, dear me,” I simpered, my voice light and airy, perfectly pitched to sound utterly helpless. “Such rude manners! I do hope the Weaver has better taste in company than in escorts. My head feels like a basket of overripe longan, quite ready to burst!” I batted my eyelashes, affecting a dizzying wobble. “Move,” the scarred woman grunted, clearly unimpressed. As she reached to grab my arm, I stumbled deliberately, my bound hands flailing. I bumped hard against Natthawut, who instinctively braced himself. In that brief, chaotic contact, my bound hands executed a swift, precise maneuver. A small, cool sliver of worked bone, no larger than my thumb, vanished from my sleeve and slid into his palm. A lockpick, crafted from a crane's rib, its tip sharpened to a needle-point. His palm closed around it, an almost imperceptible twitch, acknowledging the transfer. The scarred woman hauled me upright, shoving me toward the cavern entrance. “Such a strong lady!” I chirped, rubbing my wrist. “My, my, I do hope you’re paid well for such… strenuous work. My poor silk-weaving hands are simply not built for such rough treatment. Perhaps a soothing balm? Or a nice, warm bath with jasmine petals? No?” I kept up my ceaseless chatter, a stream of frivolous nonsense, as we were led out of the grotto and onto a heavily armored transport barge. Inside the barge, the air was thick with the smell of damp metal and unwashed bodies. Natthawut and I were shoved onto a bench, our captors taking up positions around us, iron points glinting beneath the swinging lantern. “Honestly,” I continued, my voice a high-pitched whine, “such a bumpy ride! My stomach feels all topsy-turvy. I do hope we’re not going too far. I’m quite prone to… well, you know, when the boat bobs too much! And these ropes! Oh, my delicate wrists are quite chafed. Would anyone mind loosening them just a tiny bit? Pretty please?” I fluttered my eyelashes at the burly enforcer who had first grabbed Natthawut. The man just snorted, turning his back. Natthawut, beside me, remained stoic, his eyes scanning the barge, assessing their numbers, their weaponry. I leaned closer to him, my voice dropping, though still maintaining a hint of the ditzy persona. “You know,” I began, ostensibly complaining about the bindings, “I used to watch the other children play, so freely, on the riverbanks. But I always stayed close to home. Father said it was for my own good. Said the world was too… sharp. Too many thorns. And every time someone tried to get close, to help, I just… pushed them away. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? To be alone. Because if you let people in, truly in, they always leave eventually. And then… then you’re truly alone.” My voice wavered, the feigned cheerfulness cracking, revealing the raw fear beneath. The confession, unbidden, tumbled out, a truth I had never spoken aloud. Natthawut turned his head, his dark eyes meeting mine. The silence between us stretched tight and taut. He saw me, truly saw past the performance, past the bubbly act. He saw the child who built walls to protect herself from an inevitable abandonment. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, steady balm. “I have stood in the shadow of war for a decade, Chailai. I have seen comrades fall, alliances shatter. Loyalty, to me, is not a passing fancy, nor a fragile bloom. It is a root, deep and tenacious. You need not fear my departure. My shield is yours. My life, if you will have it, is yours.” My breath caught. The heat in my chest intensified, no longer feverish, but a different kind of warmth altogether. This weary, silent man, the bringer of doom, was offering an anchor I’d never dared to dream of. The barge shuddered, then slowed. The grating sound of ropes and pulleys signaled our arrival. A sliver of light appeared as the heavy hatch door began to lift. The air, heavy with river mist, rushed in, carrying with it the scent of orchids and old stone. Through the opening, a breathtaking structure emerged from the mist – an entire palace, inverted, its spires dipping into the churning river, its foundations stretching towards the sky. Ornate lanterns, woven with luminous silk, cast an ethereal glow from what should have been its roof, now its base. It was the legendary Upside-Down Palace of the Sky-Artisans, a place rumored to only exist in tales. The barge docked with a gentle thud. The hatch opened fully, revealing a landing platform carved from dark, polished river-stone. At the edge of the platform, a figure stood, shrouded in a cloak of iridescent black silk, the fabric shimmering like a thousand trapped fireflies. As the figure stepped into the light, the cloak parted, revealing a face I knew, a face that had haunted my dreams since childhood, a face that was supposed to be dead. My heart lurched, a cold, sickening dread displacing the warmth in my chest. The Weaver, the architect of my family’s ruin, stood before me. She smiled, a chillingly familiar curve of the lips. “Welcome, my dear niece,” she purred, her voice a silken rope tightening around my throat. “It’s been far too long, Chailai.”

The Knot of Blood Sisters