Chapter 3

Pa was getting impatient, his greed making him reckless.

He found an old, rusted pair of shears in the shed, the kind for shearing sheep.

He sharpened them on a whetstone, the grating sound setting my teeth on edge.

"Tonight's the night, Dreamweaver," he slurred, waving the shears menacingly. "You're gonna weave me a fortune, or I'll cut it out of you myself."

He was convinced her power, her essence, was something physical he could take.

Lily sat at the table, her hands folded in her lap. She looked small, defeated.

"As you wish, Jedediah," she said, her voice barely audible.

But I saw her fingers twitch, just once.

She was humming again, that low, vibrating tune. It wasn't sad this time, it was... hungry.

Pa laughed, a harsh, ugly sound.

"That's more like it. Get to it."

He laid the shears on the table, a clear threat.

The oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, making the small cabin feel like a cage.

I watched from my dark corner, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I knew something was about to happen, something terrible.

Lily closed her eyes. The humming grew louder, filling the room, pressing against my eardrums.

The air grew cold, so cold I could see my breath.

Pa shivered, rubbing his arms. "What in the hell is this? Just get on with it!"

Lily opened her eyes.

They were solid silver, blazing with an impossible light.

She smiled, a slow, terrifying smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"The conditions are met, Jedediah."

Her voice was no longer soft. It was power, ancient and cold.

Before Pa could react, silver tendrils, like moonlight made solid, shot from her fingertips.

They wrapped around him, tight.

He screamed, a choked, gurgling sound.

The shears clattered to the floor.

"What are you doing, witch!" he gasped, his face turning purple.

The silver light pulsed, and Pa's screams became weaker, his body thrashing, then stilling.

His eyes, wide with terror, fixed on Lily.

I saw it then, his life, his energy, his very essence, being pulled from him, drawn into those shimmering tendrils, flowing towards Lily.

It was horrifying, a grotesque violation.

His skin grew pale, papery, his hair lost its color, turning a dull, lifeless gray.

He aged decades in moments, becoming a withered husk.

When the silver light faded, Pa slumped to the floor, an empty shell.

His eyes were open, staring, but seeing nothing.

Lily stood over him, breathing deeply, a flush on her cheeks, her silver eyes glowing with satisfaction.

She picked up a strand of the shimmering essence that still clung to the air, a thread of what used to be Pa.

With deft fingers, she began to weave.

Not gold, not jewels.

She wove a small, intricate charm, dark and pulsating, crafted from the stolen life of my father.

I watched, frozen, a storm of emotions inside me.

Horror, yes. But also... relief. A terrible, guilty relief.

He was gone. The beatings, the yelling, the fear. Gone.

Lily held up the charm. It pulsed with a dark, captured power.

"Dreamweavers do not weave from their own essence, little bird," she said, her voice now smooth, almost gentle, as she turned to me. "We take. It is the only way."

She offered the charm to me.

"A gift. For your silence. For your... understanding."

My hand trembled as I reached for it. It was warm, thrumming with a stolen life. Pa's life.

My life.