Amara, a quiet weaver with eyes the color of polished mahogany, felt it first. It wasn’t the usual hum of the village market; it was a rhythmic thrumming deep within her chest, a song her grandmother had hummed before the Great Silence fell.
Amara, pushed by a destiny she never asked for, had to choose. She could remain the quiet weaver, watching her world wither, or she could step into the shimmering veil Kosi described. Amara, a quiet weaver with eyes the color
"The balance is tipping," Kosi’s voice was a low growl that silenced the crickets. "The spirits are restless, trapped between the concrete and the soil. And only a Weaver of Souls can bridge the gap." His gaze fell directly on Amara. watching her world wither