Emmara Thistlefield's Arc

Chapter 8 of 9

Emmara pulled a fresh vial from her workbench and held it up to the window. The glass caught the light, clean and uncracked. She had spent weeks chasing shadows and doubting her own eyes, but now she understood what she needed to do. The spy wouldn't reveal themselves through maps or fungus circles alone. She needed to listen more carefully to the promises people made. Every vow she bound carried weight, and somewhere in those words lived clues she had missed. She set the vial down and reached for her collection of promise shards. The broken pieces cut her fingertips as she sorted through them, but each one whispered its story. Someone had made these promises and broken them. Someone had known her secret well enough to use it against her. The answer lived in the words themselves—in who spoke them, who witnessed them, and who benefited when they shattered. She would start binding promises again, but this time she would watch more closely. The spy had forgotten that broken vows leave trails, and she knew how to follow them. The market square would give her what she needed. Emmara carried a tall wooden chair with woven branch supports to the open space where people gathered. She set it down and stood back to examine it. This chair would hold anyone she needed to question. Let the whole town watch. Let them see her bind promises in glass and hear the words spoken aloud. The spy had worked in whispers and shadows, but she would drag the truth into daylight. She ran her hand along the chair's back, testing its strength. Tomorrow she would begin. She would invite each person who had witnessed her binding ceremonies to sit here and answer her questions. Their promises would either hold steady or crack, and either way, she would learn something new. The chair stood ready, and so did she. Before the questioning could begin, she needed to prepare her evidence properly. Emmara returned to where she kept her files and found many of them damaged from moisture. She carried them outside and set up a wooden frame with mesh panels that would let air flow through while keeping the papers upright. One by one, she hung the documents to dry. The morning breeze moved between them, pulling dampness away. She watched water spots fade as the paper stiffened again. These records held names, dates, and locations from every ceremony she'd performed. Once they dried completely, she would be able to read them clearly and match them against the promises that had broken. While the papers dried, she built a workspace nearby. A sturdy workbench with a broad wooden surface would let her spread everything out at once. She dragged it into position and anchored its moss-covered legs firmly in the soil. The natural light here was strong enough to read by. She laid out her notes, the broker's maps, and her sketches of the fungus circle side by side. Patterns she'd missed before became visible when she could see them all together. Three witnesses had attended multiple ceremonies. Two of those had made promises that cracked within days. She traced her finger across the connections and felt her pulse quicken. The spy had left marks after all, and now she had the tools to follow them. Tomorrow, the questioning would begin, and the truth would finally have nowhere left to hide.