The expulsion of one of their own did not cleanse the Council; it poisoned it. The accusation, once spoken, could not be unsaid. It hung in the air, a permanent stain on the silence. The remaining members, now one fewer, regarded each other with a new, sharper suspicion. If one of their most devout could be the Weaver, then anyone could. The intricate web of trust, already frayed, began to unravel completely. They started keeping records of each other’s movements, scrutinizing every gesture for hidden meaning. The hunt for the Weaver had become a self-devouring obsession, and the Council was now more a collection of paranoid individuals than a unified body.