Leo's message burned in her mind. "Make yourself unnecessary."
It was terrifying. And it was right.
So Anya stopped being the connection. She started being the teacher.
Her first workshop was in a candle-maker's shop. The air smelled of beeswax and hope.
"Look at your contracts," she told the gathered artisans. "Not just the price. Look for the hidden costs."
She taught them the questions to ask, the patterns she'd learned to spot. She didn't give them the System's appraisal; she gave them its methodology.
What happens if you get sick?
Who owns the tools you're required to buy?
Can you walk away if the terms change?
People started bringing their contracts. They read them together. They found the traps.
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The next workshop didn't go as well.
In a woodworker's shop, the scent of pine sawdust filling the air, a young apprentice crossed his arms as Anya explained mutual aid. His skepticism was a physical presence.
"This sounds nice," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But Gareth's system gives us real contracts. Guaranteed work. Guaranteed pay. What does your 'sharing' give us? Good feelings?"
Anya opened her mouth. Closed it. She'd prepared for questions about mechanics, not philosophy.
"It gives you resilience," she said, but her voice lacked the conviction she'd felt just hours before.
"Resilience? Gareth's system is resilience. A big union that negotiates bulk rates. Power through size. Your way is just... a bunch of artisans being nice to each other."
The room was silent. Other workshop members shifted uncomfortably.
The master carpenter finally spoke. "I've been in this trade forty years, boy. I've seen 'guaranteed work' vanish when the guarantor decides you're not profitable enough."
He picked up a small wooden box—a collaborative piece, its visible joints the work of three different hands.
"This? This is insurance six ways. The finisher, the joiner, the carver—we all have stake. If one buyer backs out, we sell it elsewhere. If one of us gets sick, the others cover. Try getting that from a bulk contract."
The apprentice didn't look convinced. But he didn't leave.
As Anya walked out, she felt the weight of doubt. Not everyone would see it. Not everyone would believe.
Gareth's pitch is easier. Simpler. More... convincing.
She shook her head. One skeptic didn't invalidate the believers. But it reminded her: This wasn't a guaranteed win. It was work.
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By the third day, something had shifted nonetheless.
Anya walked through the Artisan Quarter. The air itself felt different. The scents of each workshop still existed, but now they blended. Clay and beeswax. Leather and pine.
It smelled like collaboration.
The golden threads of the Solidarity Network glowed in her vision. But they were changing.
They weren't all connected to her anymore. New threads were forming. Node to node. Without her help.
The System updated before her eyes.
[NETWORK NODES: 47]
[ACTIVE FACILITATORS: 12]
[SELF-ORGANIZING CLUSTERS: 5]
[STATUS: DECENTRALIZING]
[NOTE: PRIMARY STEWARD ROLE SHIFTING]
[NEW FUNCTION: GUARDIAN, NOT CONTROLLER]
A weight lifted from her shoulders. It was a physical feeling. Like setting down a heavy burden.
This is what freedom feels like. For all of us.
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She stopped by the Ironvine smithy. Tomas was at his forge, but he wasn't alone.
A young woman from the rope-maker's collective was with him. They were looking at a design together.
Tomas saw Anya and grinned. "We're working on a new pulley system. For their hoists."
The rope-maker nodded eagerly. "His metalwork. My cordage. Better than anything we could make alone."
Anya just smiled. They didn't need her. They saw the threads now.
As she turned to leave, an older workshop owner approached her. He ran a small glass-blowing studio.
"I don't need you to find my next connection," he said. His voice was rough, but his eyes were clear. "I can see it now. The patterns. The possibilities."
He looked at the thriving street around them.
"But thank you," he said. "For showing me how to see."
"Then my job is done," Anya said, feeling both proud and strangely empty.
The glass-blower shook his head. "No. Your job is just starting."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"We need someone to protect this," he said, gesturing to the busy quarter. "From people who'd try to own it. To control it. To turn it back into what it was."
They didn't say Gareth's name. They didn't need to.
Anya nodded. The weight was different now. Not the burden of doing everything. The responsibility of guarding what they'd built.
She was no longer the weaver. She was the guardian of the web.
And she knew exactly what she had to protect it from.