The Fraying Edge

Elder Maeve’s gaze, sharp as a needle’s point, settled upon Elara as she walked home. The afternoon sun, a weak, watery thing in the perpetually overcast sky, did little to warm the chill that prickled Elara’s skin. It wasn’t the weather, though. It was Maeve. The Elder stood by the weaver’s communal loom, her hands, gnarled like ancient roots, resting on the muted grey threads. The air around her seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken pronouncements.

“Elara,” Maeve’s voice was a low hum, like the drone of a loom that had been running for too long, its rhythm monotonous and unchanging. “A word.”

Elara’s heart gave a little lurch, a flutter of grey unease. She clutched the rough fabric of her own tunic, the familiar, comforting dullness of it suddenly feeling like a shroud. She approached Maeve, her steps hesitant on the packed earth of the village path.