Moonlight spilled over the Meridian Pavilion's worktable, gilding the edges of the full screen fragment—its interlocking lotus carving glowing with a soft, steady gold, as if it had drunk in the night's light. Lin Wan ran her fingers along its surface; the wood, once worn and cold, now hummed with warmth, the tiny grooves of the lotus petals catching the light to reveal faint, thread-like patterns she'd never seen before. Her silver needle, resting beside the screen, trembled in response—its tip glowing the same gold as the carving.
Elara set a mug of mint tea in front of her, the steam curling around her knuckles. "Your brother's awake," she said to Lila, who was sorting spools of moonlight silk into a wooden box. "He kept asking about the swan embroidery you fixed."
Lila smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I told him I'd teach him to stitch when he's better. He thinks it's 'girl stuff,' but I saw him staring at the pattern."
Shen Yan leaned against the window, his dagger's jade fragment glinting in the moonlight. He'd been studying the screen for an hour, his gray eyes tracing the hidden patterns. "These aren't just carvings," he said, tapping a spiral of tiny lines woven into the lotus's thorns. "They're a code. The same symbols as the journal's margin notes."
Lin Wan's breath caught. She picked up the silver needle, touching its glowing tip to the spiral— and the screen erupted in light. The hidden patterns expanded, projecting a grid of symbols onto the pavilion's wall: each matching a mark from her mother's journal, but arranged in a sequence that made no sense without the screen.
"He has the journal," Shen Yan said, "but he can't decode it. Not without this."
A soft rustle at the window made them freeze. A folded note, tied to a black thread, had slipped through the paper pane. Its seal was the Thorn Weavers' spiral thorn.
Lin Wan unfolded it. The handwriting was Mr. Hale's—sharp, angular: "Midnight. Old Su Workshop. Trade the screen for the journal. Come alone, or the girl's brother disappears."
Lila's face paled. "He found him."
Shen Yan crumpled the note. "It's a trap. He'll bring more men."
"But we have the screen," Lin Wan said, her gaze fixed on the projected symbols. "And he has a fake journal."
Elara blinked. "Fake?"
"Mother's handwriting—she always slanted her 'y's to the right. The journal he took? Its 'y's slant left. She planted a decoy. The real journal's still here." She knelt, prying up a loose floorboard beneath the worktable. Tucked there, wrapped in silk, was the leather journal—its pages unmarked by the Thorn Weavers' touch.
Relief washed over Shen Yan. "So he's been carrying a book of lies."
Lin Wan smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We'll go. But we won't come alone."
By midnight, the old Su Workshop loomed like a skeleton against the sky—its windows broken, its doors hanging off their hinges. Lin Wan carried the screen, wrapped in a tattered cloth; Shen Yan had his dagger, his coat's frost threads humming; Lila and Elara hid in the rafters, their embroidery hoops loaded with defensive patterns (Lila's swan, its wings woven with moonlight silk, Elara's lullaby-themed stitches, sharp as thorns).
Mr. Hale was waiting in the center of the workshop, flanked by four men—their coats stitched with the spiral thorn, their hands curled around bundles of black thread. A boy, bound to a chair, was huddled in the corner: Lila's brother, his eyes wide with fear.
"Drop the screen," Mr. Hale said, nodding at the cloth in Lin Wan's arms.
Lin Wan set it on the floor, pulling back the cloth just enough to show the lotus carving. "Show me the journal."
Mr. Hale tossed a leather book onto the floor. Lin Wan knelt, flipping through its pages— the slanted "y's," the faint smudge of ink that wasn't her mother's. She looked up, smiling. "This isn't the journal. It's a copy."
Mr. Hale's face twisted. "Lies—"
The screen blazed to life before he could finish. The hidden code projected onto the walls, and Lila's swan pattern erupted from the rafters, its silk wings wrapping around the four men. Elara's lullaby stitches followed—sharp, glowing threads that bound their hands to their sides.
Shen Yan lunged, his dagger's frost threads freezing Mr. Hale's arm before he could grab the screen. "Where's your leader?" he snarled.
Mr. Hale spat. "You'll never find her. She was your mother's partner—before your mother turned her back on power."
Lin Wan's blood ran cold. "Her?"
Before he could answer, a whistle cut through the air. The four men dissolved into black threads, slipping through the workshop's cracks. Mr. Hale wrenched free, vanishing into the dark— but not before Lin Wan's silver needle caught his coat, tearing a scrap of fabric: stitched with a lotus and a frost thread, intertwined.
Lila cut her brother free, hugging him tight. Shen Yan picked up the fake journal, tossing it into a pile of broken wood. "Her. Your mother's partner. That's who's leading the Thorn Weavers."
Lin Wan touched the screen's glowing carving. The real journal's pages fluttered open in her mind—her mother's words, half-remembered: "Some weavers crave control. I thought I could change her. I was wrong."
Outside, the moon dipped below the roofline, leaving the workshop in shadow. But the screen's gold light still glowed, illuminating the scrap of fabric in Lin Wan's hand. The Thorn Weavers' leader wasn't just an enemy—she was a ghost from her mother's past, a weaver who'd once held the same needle, once believed in the same magic.
As they walked back to the pavilion, the silver needle in Lin Wan's hand hummed, and the screen's light wrapped around them like a shield. The fight wasn't just about the journal or the screen anymore. It was about choosing—between control and protection, between the ghost of the past and the legacy they were building.
And Lin Wan knew, as the first light of dawn touched the horizon, that the next stitch would be the hardest one yet.