A guttural cry tore from Zorab’s throat, a sound raw and desperate as the barbed spindle plunged. The splintering wood gave way with a wet rip, and a gush of dark, viscous fluid erupted, splashing against the rough stone of the chamber below. Tasmira clamped both hands over her mouth. She scrambled from her tight alcove, her body already aching from the cold, her lungs burning with the effort. She stared up at the spreading red stain where floor gave way to ceiling. The piercing iron point, now slick with blood, protruded through the floorboards. She could hear the frantic struggle above, the heavy thud of a body collapsing, the muffled curses of men. Then, silence. Nothing stirred except the drip of dark fluid. “Zorab!” The name tore from her, a ragged whisper she hadn’t intended to utter. She knew she should remain hidden, that Yezda’s cunning had kept her alive, but the sight of the blood, the sudden, terrible quiet, propelled her forward. She found the release mechanism for the hidden panel, a cunningly disguised lever near a rusted vent, and shoved it open. A cloud of stale air and the metallic tang of fear greeted her. She hauled herself through the narrow hatch, scraping her raw elbows against the frame. The small room above was a shambles. Porcelain cups lay shattered across the floorboards, pale dregs mingling with sawdust. Elder Yezda was nowhere to be seen. Zorab lay sprawled, half-on, half-off the splintered floorboards, a dark, pulsing bloom spreading across his back. The spindle, now retracting slowly with a sickening grind, had pierced him just beneath his left ribcage, the iron barb tearing through muscle and fat. His face, pale and contorted, was pressed against the rough wood, a faint moan escaping his lips. He was alive, barely. Tasmira’s artisan instincts, honed by years of intricate repair and delicate work, took over. Logic, resentment, and her own crushing illness momentarily faded. There was a wound, and she knew how to mend. “Hold still, you idiot,” she muttered, her voice hoarse, as she frantically searched the room. Her gaze fell upon a small, lacquered box Elder Yezda kept, usually filled with rare herbal teas. Tasmira emptied its contents, then rummaged through the small, hidden compartments beneath. Yezda, ever prepared, had a small, gleaming surgical kit, alongside several spools of a fine, almost translucent silk – the rare geothermal silk, spun in the deepest, steam-fed caverns, known for its incredible strength and natural antiseptic properties. It glowed faintly, a soft viridian, in the dim light. She tore at Zorab’s soaked tunic, her fingers surprisingly nimble despite their tremor. The wound was deep, gaping. Blood pulsed from it with a sickening rhythm. “This is going to hurt,” she warned, though he was barely conscious. She threaded a fine, curved needle with the glowing silk, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The first stitch was difficult, his flesh surprisingly tough. She swallowed the iron tang in her throat and leaned hard on one knee until the vertigo passed. Sweat stung her brows as her knuckles dragged against his skin. Her hands, once so steady, trembled. The geothermal silk, a marvel of craft, shimmered as she drew it through his skin, closing the rent with agonizing slowness. She had once mended fine damask vestments with identical tension. Now, she was mending a life, a life that had nearly destroyed hers. A short, dry rasp caught in her throat, tumbling into a wet cough. It took an eternity. The last knot secured, she pressed a clean linen cloth over the wound. Zorab’s breathing was shallow, but more even. He was no longer bleeding freely. Tasmira slumped back against the wall, utterly drained, the metallic taste of her own rising illness coating her tongue. She watched his chest rise, her fingers still tacky with his blood. Why had he done it? Why shield the quarry girl he had ground beneath his heel? Hours later, a faint groan escaped Zorab. His eyelids parted, his pupils contracting as they found her huddled against the wainscoting. A flicker of something — disbelief, agony, worship — crossed his face. He tried to heave his chest off the planks, but the split under his ribs tore open, dropping him flat with a hiss. His gaze, however, remained locked on her. “Tasmira,” he croaked, his voice raw, “You… you saved me.” A single tear tracked a path down his grimy cheek. “You should have let me die. I deserve it. More than that. Please… please hurt me. Torture me. Punish me for what I did. I can’t… I can’t live with it.” His voice broke, thick with anguish. “Let me atone. Anything you want.” Tasmira rose, pressing a palm flat against the cold plaster. She stepped over the ruined boards, each stride measured and slow. She looked down at his wretched, groveling form, his eyes pleading, filled with a desperate, self-loathing passion. Her expression remained set like dried mortar. “Atonement?” she echoed, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. “What would that even mean, Zorab? What could you offer? Your wealth? Your empire? Your life? It means nothing to me. You mean nothing to me.” She looked away, her gaze drifting to the ceiling, to the gaping hole where the spindle had come through. “The man I knew is gone. The man who stood before me tonight, the one who threw himself over that blade… I don’t know him. And I certainly feel nothing for him.” His chin dipped into the blood pooling on the boards, his mouth opening in a dry gasp. Just then, the door creaked open, and Elder Yezda stepped in, her eyes glinting with amusement as she surveyed the scene. She held a steaming mug of her bitter tea. “Such drama, children,” she drawled, taking a sip. “Almost as entertaining as the gossip from the Lower Vents. You’ll be thrilled to know, Zorab, that your old friend Fahir is making quite the exit. Booked passage on the evening dreadnought, the ‘Sky-Serpent’s Slumber.’ Apparently, he’s taking all of Tasmira’s weaving patents with him, along with a considerable fortune he’s ‘liquidated’ from your former holdings.” She paused, her gaze flicking to Tasmira. “Leaves in less than two hours. And with him, the last hope of reclaiming your craft, little weaver.” Tasmira looked up. She looked at the floor, where Zorab’s elegant, but now mud-splattered, pistol had fallen earlier. Her hand, still stained with his blood, reached down. Her fingers, still frail, closed around the cold, heavy metal. The brass receiver was cold against her scraped palm. She stood straight, digging her heels into the floor. She looked past Zorab’s bowed neck to meet Yezda’s amused stare. “No,” Tasmira said, her voice dropping to a rasp. “He’s not taking anything more. Not from me.” She turned towards the door, the pistol now clutched in her hand. “I will reclaim my life. Myself.” Zorab, despite his excruciating wounds, despite the soul-crushing words she’d uttered, watched her go. His fingers dug into the splintered pine. He dragged his knees under his chest, his breath catching on the fresh tear beneath his ribs. He had to follow her. He had to. Gritting his teeth, he staggered to his feet, a dark trail of fresh blood marking his path as he stumbled after her into the harsh, unforgiving world outside.

Blood on the Loom