Liaza stumbled back from the loom, the dead fate-cord a dark stain on her palm. Grit hung suspended in the sunlight, drifting over the chalk lines of the warding sigil broken across the flags. The flagstones beneath her bare soles hummed, jarring her teeth with a slow, grinding vibration. Then, abruptly, the shriek cut off, replaced by a new sound: a piercing, insistent whistle, growing in volume. Not from the abyss, but from the heavens. A shadow swallowed the open-air courtyard, followed by a sudden downdraft that tore at the prayer ribbons strung between the rooftops. Liaza looked up, shielding her eyes from the sudden glare of the morning sun. Above, a colossal vessel of polished obsidian and brass descended through the cloudbank without a sound. Its underside pulsed with a soft, arcane light, holding it aloft. It hovered directly over Jheva’s central gathering space, dwarfing the low timber dwellings. A hush fell over the few locals who had crept out into the lanes, transfixed by the metal keel overhead. Used to the quiet of their isolated realm, the crowd stared at the engine's belly as if it were a falling star. A ramp, barely visible against the dark hull, extended downwards, a thin bridge of light. At its end, a figure appeared, tall and imposing, his silhouette framed by the ship’s internal glow. He descended the gangway with balanced, fluid strides, his dark tunic stitched with silver knotwork that marked high rank. His slate-grey hair was tied back tightly, sharpening the clean line of his nose and jaw. When his gaze scanned the gathered folk, his pupils gleamed like raw amethyst, pale and unblinking. This was Davit. Liaza knew him by reputation, a scion of the House Dadiani, one of the Ch’rdili Conclave’s most formidable families. He was rumoured to be as ruthless as he was skilled, a guardian of the Conclave’s borders. He stopped at the end of the ramp, his gaze landing on Liaza with an unnerving precision. “Liaza of Jheva,” his voice was a low rumble, carrying an undeniable authority. “The warding flare was for you.” Before Liaza could respond, a small, stooped figure pushed through the small crowd of villagers. It was Keto, the elder, his face a web of wrinkles, his eyes kind but weary. He carried a gnarled staff of kauri wood, a symbol of his office. “Young man,” Keto began, his voice surprisingly firm despite his age. “You speak with an arrogance unbefitting our custom. This is Liaza, a Weaver of Fate. She remains under our care.” Davit’s amethyst eyes did not soften. Instead, a flicker of something cold, something almost like amusement, crossed his features. He stepped forward, a single, deliberate stride that seemed to consume the distance between them. The air around him shimmered with a contained power, a silent threat. “Care?” he scoffed, his tone flat. “Elder, your ward is a moth's wing against a gale. The Mts’q’emsebi hunts her. Your warding flare drew *my* attention, not a prayer circle. And the Mts’q’emsebi. Do you understand what that means?” Keto, usually unflappable, flinched. The villagers shuffled uneasily. Davit’s gaze bore into the elder. “This girl,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet it cut through the silence like a honed blade, “is the living key to the Guli Kamara. Her life-force is tied to the world-ending artifact. Your settlement, your plateau, your entire way of life, will be erased if she falls into the wrong hands. Or if the Mts’q’emsebi simply… consumes her. Your shelter, Elder, is a death sentence.” Heat crept up Liaza’s neck, the elder's shaming burning like an open slap. Davit’s words, though true, were cruel, designed to diminish. “You have no right to speak to him like that!” she protested, stepping forward, her voice trembling with indignation. “He is our elder, and this is our home!” Davit turned his full, unyielding attention to her. “Your home is about to become a crater, girl. My presence here is the only reason it isn’t already. I offer you refuge, Liaza of Jheva. I offer you a chance to survive. But it comes with a condition.” He paused, letting his words hang in the heavy air. “Absolute obedience. To my house. To me. Your choices, your movements, your very existence, will be dictated by what is necessary to keep the Guli Kamara from being unleashed. There will be no room for sentiment, no room for your naive kindness. Do you understand the price?” Keto, recovering from Davit’s verbal assault, interjected, his voice pleading. “Liaza is not a pawn, young master. She is a Weaver, with a spirit as free as the winds of Svaneti Ze. You cannot bind her to your will.” Davit finally moved, a swift, almost imperceptible shift of his weight. He was suddenly standing directly in front of Keto, his imposing height casting the elder in shadow. His amethyst eyes, usually so cold, now held a dangerous spark. “Free spirit?” he murmured, his voice laced with contempt. He reached out, not to touch Keto, but to grasp the kauri staff. With a single, sharp twist, the ancient wood splintered in his hand, cracking with a sound like a pistol shot. He let the pieces fall to the ground, scattering at Keto’s feet. The elder stared at the broken wood, his face pale, his shoulders slumped. “The days of free spirits are over,” Davit stated, his voice flat, final. “When the Mts’q’emsebi breathes, nothing is free. You will surrender her, Elder, or you will all perish.” Liaza stared at the shattered staff, a symbol of her home’s authority broken so casually. The raw humiliation burned within her. She knew Keto was trying to protect her, even now. But Davit’s disdain, his cold dismissal of their customs, their dignity, made her chest ache with a fierce anger. “You think you can just descend from the sky and snap our heritage in half?” she demanded, stepping between them. “You don’t know anything about us, about me!” “I know enough,” Davit retorted, his eyes locking with hers. “I know you’re a walking cataclysm, and I’m the only one here who can stop it.” Before he could answer, the rock beneath them heaved upward with violent force. Not a rumble, but a seismic lurch that sent villagers sprawling. A collective gasp tore through the crowd as a colossal, shadowy limb, thick as a mountain ridge, surged from the cloud-sea below Jheva. It was a nightmare made tangible, writhing with an unnatural hunger, its surface slick and impossibly black. It arced upward, carving through the atmosphere directly toward Davit’s craft. “Get down!” Davit roared, a primal command. The black mass, however, did not hit the hull. Instead, it swept past it by mere metres, its immense bulk creating a vacuum that ripped at the air. The craft, for all its majesty, dropped ten paces in the wake, its hull-runes sputtering. The appendage whipped past into open air, striking a slender crystalline needle that pierced the clouds on a neighbouring outcrop. The spire, ancient and seemingly indestructible, exploded in a shower of glittering dust and fragmented light, its upper half simply ceasing to exist, consumed in a silent, horrific implosion. Chaos erupted in Jheva. Screams filled the air. Davit closed the gap between them in a heartbeat, clamping a leather-gloved hand around Liaza’s forearm. He pulled her against his chest, tucking her head under his shoulder while his eyes tracked the boiling clouds below. The monstrosity, having claimed its prize, sank back into the fog below, leaving the sour reek of ozone hanging over the square. His voice, tight with urgency, was a low growl against her ear. “Your choice is me, or that. Decide now.”

The Price of Protection