As an experienced apprentice to the Third Prince of Clothos, you'd think I completed the test swiftly.
I did not.
Now, before you say: But Daphni, you and Phoibus have history—surely the test was easy peasy?
Sure. If you consider emotional warfare under royal surveillance easy peasy.
Phoibus was never unkind. Nor was he cruel.
But he carried this annoyingly prudent sense of judgment—especially when it came to trials. Just like before.
Our story may have ended abysmally, but even I can admit one thing: Phoibus treats his work—and his candidacy for the crown—with unwavering seriousness.
And when Phoibus is serious about something, he doesn't simply focus. He organizes fate around it. He becomes besotted. Driven. Obsessed with keeping things in order—even if it means breaking what doesn't fit.
The trials were simple. "Even the children of Clothos can do this in under three minutes," he said, dimples deepening and eyes crinkling like he was trying not to laugh.
Annoying. I know.
The task? Straightforward.
1. Grab three threads.
2. Weave them into a plain.
That was it. That was the trial.
The thing is—I'm not a child of Clothos.
I hail from Iluyto. And do you know what Iluyto is known for?
Cooks. Those who weave the power of warmth so potent, the threads burn at a touch.
The Sartrix rarely welcomes Iluytris as Spinners.
They're usually redirected—turned into housemaids, cooks (the literal kind), and quiet little assistants.
Never a Spinster.
When I finally stepped forward—slow, deliberate—the sound of the Loom stopped.
Just like that. Silence.
I flinched as the thrum of the threads rippled through the air, straight into my bones. They were alive. Listening. Waiting.
Three. Just three.
Warmth began to seep in.
But I held it. Inhaled. Swallowed. Contained. This wasn't just a test of skill. It was a test of memory. Of place. Of whether I still belonged in a place that once shattered me.
When I turned back to the loom, Phoibus was already standing— his golden eyes locked on my hands.
The hands holding three threads. Three fates. Each one heavier than they looked.
"Good." He adjusts the loom, gestures toward the seat. "Come and weave."
I sit. Slowly.
His warmth lingers in the chair.
And I hate that I notice it.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten how to weave?" A bothersome voice quips beside me. "Do you need me to hold your hand and guide you through it?"
Warmth spikes—nearly escapes.
The Prince is testing my temper. (Note: do not test the temper of an Iluytri. Especially in the Sartrix. Just a warning.)
"Your Royal Highness," I say, tightly, "with all due respect… I think you're trying to sabotage my test." I feel my eyebrow twitch as I gently—gently—fasten the warp onto the loom. "Also, could you move a little? I can feel your breath on my skin and it's a little… annoying."
He laughs.
Annoying.
I press on—preparing the weft yarn, sliding the shed stick into the warp threads. Doing this with gloves is incredibly irritating, but I can't discard them. Not unless I want to accidentally ignite the three threads of fate I'm holding together by sheer spite and muscle memory.
I start to weave a plain.
"You've improved." I feel him shift beside me. Closer. Lower. He's kneeling now.
His presence hovers—his voice quiet. Measured.
"You're not saying my name anymore."
I continue weaving. Silently. Carefully.
"You used to weave and look at me." "'Is this okay, Phoibus?'" "'Phoibus, I can feel warmth! I think I should stop!'" His voice lifts into a squeaky, dramatic lilt—a terrible imitation.
"Now, you just furrow your eyebrows. What did the poor weave ever do to you?"
"I would appreciate," I say, sharp and flat, "if the Prince refrained from opening old wounds."
The warmth pulses. In and out. In and out. Like it can hear him too.
"Ah," he hums, not missing a beat. "But this is part of the test."
"What part?"
"Testing your patience."
He rests his chin on his knees.
"And you're slowly failing."
The gloves tighten. Start to glow. I let go of the loom. Fingers trembling.
Control. Contain. Inhale. Swallow.
I glare at him.
He smiles back.
"I see you've learned to control your warmth." His gaze lowers to my hands. He hovers near them—close enough to notice the tremble, never close enough to touch. "New gloves?"
"I think it would be wise if we stop with the small talk," I mutter, continuing to weave.
He's silent for a while.
"Ah, but apprentices and their masters should at least have some sort of relationship, no?" He hums the words like a tune he's half-forgotten.
I say nothing. Weave. Thread. Weave.
But—
Because I have a conscience.
Because I'm not as cold as I pretend to be.
"…Lionel's."
"Hm?"
His head snaps toward me. Eyes wide. Hopeful.
"The gloves," I say, still focused on the loom. "Got them at Lionel's."
Silence. Not long. Just enough for a memory to try creeping in.
I don't let it.
"Still puts the fire-thread silks by the window," I add, like it's nothing. Like it doesn't mean anything. "Easy to find."
His dimples twitch—small, unreadable.
"He always did have a sense of drama."
"Makes it easier to shop," I mutter, adjusting the tension. "Nothing else."
I don't mention the back room where we used to argue about color palettes. Or the time he stitched goldthread into the hem of my coat while Phoibus lectured him about imbalance.
I don't mention anything.
And he—thankfully—doesn't push.
So I keep weaving.
Under my fingers, the threads align.
Over. Under. Over. Under.
Like breath. Like control. Like every thought I don't say aloud.
The plain begins to take shape—clean, unburnt, and stable.
I adjust the shed stick. Tighten the tension. Inhale. Count.
And then, just like that, it's done.
Simple. Neat. Unremarkable.
Which, in the Sartrix, is the highest praise an Iluytri can hope for.
I turn. Offer the cloth with both hands.
Phoibus takes it like it's spun glass.
Delicate. Careful. Almost reverent.
"A magnificent plain," he says softly.
"You pass."
I smile.
Warm. Real. Stupid.
Then I remember myself.
"…Daphni of Iluyto. My second-aide."
Ah.
Victory