Emberflame's Arc

Chapter 4 of 11

The chalk line was still fresh when boots stopped at the lab door. A crew member leaned in, arms folded, eyes on the burnt strip. They asked Emberflame straight out where the fire craft came from — not the weave, the craft. Who taught the hands. Emberflame set the shears down. The bloom on the bench shed one more flake of ash. The question hung in the small room, heavier than the deadline. The crew member pulled a weathered leather book from under their arm and dropped it on the bench. Ink routes and flame notes spilled across the open page. They tapped a diagram — a knot Emberflame used every day. Dockside trade craft, the crew member said. Not crew craft. Emberflame met their eyes and nodded once. They said they learned on the piers, from a sailor who taught them for bread. They did not soften it. The crew member closed the book, slid it back under their arm, and said the chief would hear it before sundown. Then they walked out. The lab door stayed open behind them. The truth was loose now, and Emberflame had until dusk to stand on it. Emberflame did not wait for the chief to come find them. They pulled the burnt strip, the cased swatch, and a folded bundle of weave notes into their arms and walked out to the yard. A bright striped tent stood over a small round table near the bunker wall, set up for crew meals. Emberflame spread the work across the table under the colored cloth and sent word for the chief. He came in slow boots, the crew member behind him. More crew drifted in and made a loose ring around the tent, hands at their sides, watching. A small figure with pointed ears and a tan coat slipped between two larger crew and stood at the front of the ring, brown eyes wide on the table. Emberflame spoke first. They named the pier. They named the sailor. They said the knots were dockside, the flame work was theirs, and the weave was built in the lab the crew now owned a piece of. The chief listened. He picked up the cased swatch, turned it in the colored light, and set it back down. He said the craft did not have to be born here to belong here, but lies did not. Emberflame had told it straight, so the bunk stayed. The deadline stayed too. The crew member uncrossed their arms. The ring around the tent loosened. The small fae boy reached out and touched the edge of the cased flame, then pulled his hand back grinning. The tent flaps moved once in the wind, and the table held the work between them. Emberflame had kept their place. Now the open weave was the only thing left to fix.