THE LAST STARWEAVER : THE SUNDERING
Chapter 4: Havenwood
The village was small.
Smaller than Thornhaven. Smaller than any village Zephyra had ever seen. A handful of cottages clustered around a central square, their walls made of pale stone, their roofs thatched with golden straw. A well stood in the center of the square, its water clear and cold. A garden bloomed beside it, filled with flowers she did not recognize.
And everywhere, people.
Not many—a few dozen, perhaps. They moved through the streets slowly, quietly, as if they had all the time in the world. They smiled at each other. They laughed. They helped each other carry baskets and mend fences and tend gardens.
They were happy.
Zephyra had never seen happy people before.
Thornhaven had been a village of survivors, not dreamers. The people there had been too busy trying to stay alive to smile. Too hungry. Too tired. Too afraid.
But here—
Here, the people had hope.
“Why are they looking at me?” Zephyra asked.
Theron stood beside her.
They were standing at the edge of the village, just outside the circle of cottages. The people had stopped what they were doing. They were staring. Not with fear—with curiosity.
“Because they know who you are,” Theron said.
“How could they know? I’ve never been here before.”
“They know because they have been waiting for you. For a long time. For generations.”
Zephyra’s blood went cold.
“Waiting for what?”
Theron looked at her.
“Waiting for the last Starweaver to come home.”
An old woman approached.
She was small and bent, her back curved like a bow, her hands gnarled with age. Her hair was white, thin as cobwebs, and her eyes were pale—so pale they seemed almost colorless.
But her smile was warm.
“Zephyra,” the old woman said. “Welcome to Havenwood. We’ve been expecting you.”
“You know my name.”
“I know many things. I know who you are. I know where you come from. I know what you carry.”
“What do I carry?”
The old woman looked at her chest.
At her heart.
At the light that Zephyra could not see but could feel—burning there, warm and bright.
“The last spark of the Starweavers,” the old woman said. “The ember that will light the fire. The hope that will save the world.”
The old woman’s name was Elara.
She was the eldest of Havenwood, the keeper of its stories, the guardian of its secrets. She had been born in this village, had grown old in this village, would die in this village.
She had been waiting for Zephyra for eighty years.
“Sit,” Elara said, gesturing to a bench beside the well. “Sit and listen. You have much to learn, and we have so little time.”
Zephyra sat.
The stone was warm.
“The Starweavers were not born,” Elara said. “They were made. Forged from the light of dying stars. Gifted with powers that no mortal should possess.”
“What kind of powers?”
“The power to create. To destroy. To weave the fabric of reality itself.”
Zephyra’s throat tightened.
“I can’t do any of those things.”
“You can. You just don’t know how. The power sleeps in your blood, waiting to wake. And it will wake. Soon. Whether you want it to or not.”
Theron stood at the edge of the square, watching.
His gray eyes were unreadable.
“Why does he watch me?” Zephyra asked.
Elara looked at the broken knight.
“Because he failed the Starweavers once. He will not fail again.”
“What happened?”
Elara was silent for a long moment.
“A thousand years ago, the Starweavers were betrayed. One of their own opened a door to the darkness. The darkness poured through. The world began to die.”
“Theron?”
“No. Theron was not there. He came later. He was sworn to protect the last Starweaver—the one who sealed the door. But he could not save her. She died in his arms.”
“And he’s been carrying that guilt ever since.”
“Yes.”
Zephyra looked at Theron.
At his cold eyes. His still face. His clenched fists.
“He blames himself.”
“He does.”
“Was it his fault?”
Elara shook her head.
“No. But guilt does not care about fault. Guilt only cares about pain.”
The sun set.
The sky turned orange and pink and purple, the colors bleeding into each other like watercolors on wet paper.
Zephyra sat on the bench, watching the light fade.
Theron walked to her.
“We leave at dawn,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“To the first trial. The Trial of the Broken Star.”
“What is it?”
Theron was silent for a long moment.
“A test of your heart. Your will. Your soul.”
“And if I fail?”
Theron looked at the sky.
At the fading light.
“Then you will die. And the world will die with you.”
That night, Zephyra dreamed.
She was standing in a field of stars.
Not the dying stars of her childhood. Not the new stars that had spoken to her in the Emberwood. Different stars. Brighter. Closer. More alive.
And standing in the center of the field, waiting for her, was a figure.
A woman.
She was tall and thin, with pale skin and silver hair and eyes the color of the void. She wore a gown of starlight, and her bare feet were pressed against the grass.
She was beautiful.
She was terrible.
She was the first Starweaver.
“Hello, Zephyra,” the woman said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You know my name.”
“I know everything about you. I have been watching you since the day you were born.”
“Why?”
The woman stepped closer.
Her eyes were depthless.
“Because you are my heir. My blood. My hope.”