For a moment, the cold air hit his skin and he felt a terrifying lightness, as if he might float away. But then, he heard a bird chirp. He felt the rough texture of the bench. He smelled the rain-slicked earth. He wasn't the Architect or the Scholar anymore. He was simply there . "It's quiet," Elias whispered. "No," the woman smiled. "It's finally real.".
Elias was a master weaver. His story-cloak was a shimmering tapestry of academic honors, a heart-wrenching lost love, and a promising career as an architect. People admired the weight of his cloak; it was so thick it nearly brushed the cobblestones. But Elias was exhausted. The cloak was hot, it restricted his breathing, and he found himself constantly checking the threads for frays. For a moment, the cold air hit his
"But who are you without your story?" Elias pressed. "If you aren't the Weaver of Echoes, or the Architect of the Plaza, what is left?" He smelled the rain-slicked earth
"Where is your story?" Elias asked, shocked. In Aethelgard, being seen without a cloak was like being invisible. "It's quiet," Elias whispered