I shrugged, intrigued despite myself. “They’re old. Pretty. Historical, I guess?”
He gave me a look like he was about to teach me something I wouldn’t forget.
“That one’s from the Uprising of 7E82,” he said, pointing to a sweeping battle scene. “Painted first, then woven by hand over nine years. Took three seamstresses and one blind monk to finish it.”
“A blind monk?”
“Mm.” He sipped again. “He was the only one who’d survived the original battle. Said it was better if he couldn’t see the blood again, just feel the thread and let the memory guide his hands.”
I stared at the tapestry—at the clash of armies, the flags, the flames—and suddenly it felt alive.
“You’re not just ‘new in town,’ are you?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Who are you, really?”
He turned, slow and deliberate, and s
