The witch hunt, fueled by fear and paranoia, needed a victim. And it found one in the weaver.
Her coded tapestries, once a symbol of their ingenuity, were now seen as a potential source of leaks. Joric, the former Warden, led the interrogation. He twisted her words, reinterpreted her patterns, and built a circumstantial case that was flimsy, but in the current climate of fear, convincing.
Elara and Rhys argued for her innocence, but their voices were lost in the chorus of suspicion. The rebellion, which had been founded on the principle of solidarity, was now willing to sacrifice one of its own to appease its fear.
Lian watched the proceedings with a growing sense of dread. He knew the weaver was innocent. He was the traitor. He could save her with a single word, a carefully placed hint that would cast suspicion elsewhere. But to do so would be to risk exposing himself, to risk the wrath of the Tyrant.
He was a survivor. He had always been a survivor. And the survivor’s instinct was to stay silent, to let the weaver take the fall, to buy himself more time. But as he watched the weaver, her face a mixture of fear and defiance, he felt that old, unfamiliar flicker again. The flicker of conscience. The flicker of a world he had seen, but never believed he could be a part of.
The rebellion was about to commit its first great injustice. And the man who had been sent to destroy it was the only one who could stop it. The choice was his. And he had to make it now.