Emberflame's Arc

Chapter 7 of 11

The next morning, a hard pounding hit the bunker gate. Emberflame looked up from the crystal pillar, dust still on their hands. A voice shouted through the slot — raw fiber, a full load, ready to trade. The jet-pack turtle hissed and held its post, red eye fixed, blue lights blinking slow. No word from Emberflame, no door open. The bench had stone. The gate had fiber. And the sentry stood between them, waiting. Emberflame crossed to the stone checkpoint and climbed the narrow steps inside. From the slit window they looked down at the trader — a bright-haired girl in an orange jacket and torn jeans, smiling up at the slot. She held a fat sack open at the mouth, showing clean white fiber inside, soft and unspun. No crew mark on her shoulder. No runner badge at her belt. Fiber under lockdown meant stolen fiber, or bait dressed up sweet. Emberflame's jaw set. They called down through the slot: no trade, move on. The turtle's jets flared once, a short warning burn. The girl's smile dropped. She cursed, knotted the sack, and dragged it back into the dust. Emberflame climbed down and returned to the bench. The fiber door was closed by their own choice now. They laid both hands on the crystal pillar and felt its cold weight. No shortcut. No soft sack at the gate. The weave would learn stone, or the weave would end here. Emberflame picked up a small chisel and tapped the pillar's edge. A thin flake split off, clean and bright. They held it to the light and saw the grain inside, fine as thread. The bench was quiet. The gate was quiet. The path was narrow now, but it was theirs. They set the flake down beside the loom and began to plan the first stone-fed weave.