The Weave had grown fast. What started as a handful of connected nodes now pulled in people from farther out than anyone expected.
They called themselves drifters—travelers riding the new threads between territories. Some came with honest offers of trade or stories. Others wore faces that didn't belong to them.
Atlas stood on a raised platform of living stone that shifted under his boots, watching the latest group arrive. The air hummed with fresh connections. Biomechanical beasts lumbered through the main gate, their metal joints wrapped in pulsing vines.
Riders sat tall in saddles that looked grown rather than built. Behind them, a cluster of floating lanterns drifted like lazy fireflies, each one humming a short tune based on the scent of whoever walked underneath.
"Looks friendly enough," Kael said, arms crossed. He had a new scar across his knuckles from yesterday's work crew.
