Weaver's Silence

 Prologue: The Weaver’s Lament

Before time was a concept, prior to the emergence of light swaying in the emptiness, was only the Web—and the Weaver who spun it.  

Ananse, the spider-god did not create out of love, or out of interest. It wove because that was what it had always done. Strand by strand, realities blossomed in the silence between its legs, each universe a glittering node in the infinite tapestry. It did not guide them. All it did was… weave.  

For eons, this was enough.

 But there in the infinite darkness lay the Antithesis, Adze Ma.  

The First Thread Cut  

At first it did not the firefly did not have a name, for names were things of mortals and it was anything but. It was Adze Ma—the Maw, the Devourer, the shadow that flickered at the edge of existence. 

Where Ananse wove, Adze Ma unraveled. Not out of malice. Not out of spite, but because it, too, could do nothing else. Its first successful consumption was a minuscule seemly insignificant world, a flicker a hurricane. Ananse did not notice.  

After the final hundredth, it finally did. The spider’s legs stilled. Its many eyes turned toward the empty space where a thread had snapped. A shudder passed through the Web.  

Ananse felt something, for the first time, a gnawing sense of annoyance. It plucked the frayed thread, examining the bite marks left behind. Then, with a sigh, it spun anew.  

The Web must hold.  

The Cycle Begins  

Adze Ma fed. Ananse wove.  

And between them, the dance continued—creation and consumption, endless and eternal.  

But the Maw grew restless. It hungered not just for the threads, but for the attention of the thing that made them. It wanted the Weavers Things to notice it, to fear and most to hunger through worship.  

So it devised a game. It would not just eat. It would corrupt.  

The First Forgotten  

The mortals called him Onuapa. He was not the first. He would not be the last. But he was the first to matter. When Adze Ma slithered into his world, it did not come as a devourer. It came as a god. It whispered to his people, fed them lies wrapped in honey, taught them to weave their own threads—threads of greed, of doubt, of entropy.  

Bayisem. The anti-song. And when the last of his people bowed to the Maw, when their voices choked on the very stories that had once sustained them, Onuapa stood alone.  

He looked to the sky. And for the first time in history, the Weaver looked back.  

Ananse’s gaze was not kind. It was not merciful. It was curious.  

Just like that a mark was seared into his palm in what feel like the slightest of nudges – a spiral. When he looks up he felt it, the stolen glance.  

“Remember.”  

Then it plucked him from his dying world and set him adrift in the Web. Just like that a witness and to a greater extent a weapon was created.  

The Loom Lies Waiting 

Throughout the countless eons, Onuapa lived, died and lived yet again. With each loom, the Maw grew bolder. Each cycle, the Weaver wove continued seemly unbothered. And now. The Web trembles. The Daro stirs. And the last Forgotten walks once more.

  

Chapter One: The Man With No Past

The first thing Onuapa noticed was frigid cold.  

Seeped into his bones was that damp, pewter chill that cleaved to his skin like the remnants of a forgotten dream. His fingers twitched against rough stone, grains of sand pressing into his palm. He inhaled sharply—the air was thick with smoke and something else, something old. Metallic, that’s blood.  

His eyes flicked open. The dreary atmosphere was of some comfort to him, for his sight immediately adjusted to it.  

Above him, the sky was a bruised purple, streaked with the fading embers of dying stars. Towers of blackened steel clawed at the horizon, their jagged edges silhouetted against a distant, flickering light. A city or what was left of one.  

Onuapa dragged his framed into sitting upright, his muscles screamed and protested as if they have suffered a century’s worth of inactivity. His body felt wrong. Simultaneously feel both too light and too heavy. He looked down at his hands—pale, unmarked, yet somehow ancient. A symbol glowed faintly on his right palm: a spiral, half-formed, like a thread waiting to be woven.  

“Where am I?” Onuapa wondered. His inquiry was met with the wind whistling through the ruins.  

Rising on unsteady legs, his bare feet pressed gingerly into the cracked earth. The ground was littered with debris—scraps of metal and shattered glass. Behind some walls Onuapa saw what he thought was bones that appeared human, perhaps something else. In the distance, a low hum pulsed through the air, a sound just beneath hearing. It made his teeth ache.  

“Move.”  

That thought wasn’t his, but he obeyed.  

His body moved on instinct as he stumbled forward, drawn toward the flickering light in the distance. The ruins stretched endlessly, a graveyard of a civilization that from his initial assumption had once reached for the stars. Now, only shadows dwelled here. And something else, a presence. 

“You are being watched.” It whispered.  

Onuapa froze. His skin prickled. Slowly, he turned.  

There, crutching between two collapsed pillars, was a figure small and hunched, a child? No—the shape was wrong, too thin, and too static. Then it moved.  

The head lifted toward him, gaunt and hollow-eyed with skin stretched tight over sharp bones. Its lips parted, revealing needle-like teeth.  

"You’re awake.”

The voice like dead leaves scraping against stone echoed in his head.  

Onuapa took a step back. "Who are you?"  

The creature, because it was no child, tilted its head. "You don’t remember?"   

It then let out a high pitched laughter.  

"Good. That means it is working."  

Before Onuapa could utter a word, the thing lunged.  

Its clawed fingers reached for him, its mouth a yawning black pit. Onuapa barely had time to raise his arms before it was on him, its weight knocking him to the ground. Hot breath pouring against his neck as it snarled, "He’s here! He’s awake!"  

Then, brain piercing pain as the creature’s teeth sank into his shoulder.  

Onuapa gasped, but the sound that tore from his throat was dissonant as if it wasn’t his own. It was something deeper, ancient.  

The symbol on his palm flared.  

Golden light erupted from his skin, searing through the darkness. The creature shrieked, recoiling as if burned. It scrambled back, its too-long limbs twitching, its eyes wide with terror.  

"No, no… not yet! He can’t be ready!"

Then it was gone, vanishing into the ruins like smoke.  

Onuapa clutched his shoulder. The wound was already closing.  

He didn’t have time to question it. The hum in the air grew louder. Closer. Shapes moved in the ruins.  

Tall. Hooded.  

They carried weapons—blades that glowed faintly blue, rifles humming with stolen energy.  

Hunters.  

Onuapa didn’t know how he knew, but he did. They were looking for him. He ran.  

His bare feet pounded against the broken earth, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind him, the hunters gave chase, their footsteps silent, their presence like a weight pressing against his spine.  

Faster.  

He ducked through crumbling archways, leaped over fallen beams, his body moving with a grace he shouldn’t have possessed. The city was a maze, a labyrinth of dead ends and shattered dreams.  

And then. A dead end. A wall of twisted metal blocked his path.  

He turned.  

The hunters emerged from the shadows, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods. One stepped forward, its weapon raised.  

"You are not supposed to be here."  

The voice was hollow. Mechanical.  

Onuapa pressed against the wall, his pulse roaring in his ears. The symbol on his palm burned.  

The hunter tilted its head.  

"You do not belong."  

Its finger tightened on the trigger.  

Then—  

A explosion rocked the ruins.  

The ground trembled. The hunters staggered as a blast of heat and light tore through the alley.  

Onuapa shielded his eyes as debris rained down.  

When the dust cleared, a new figure stood between him and the hunters.  

Tall. Armored. A woman.  

Her helmet retracted, revealing sharp features, dark skin gleaming with sweat, eyes like molten gold.  

"Move," she commanded.  

The hunters hesitated.  

She didn’t.  

Her blade flashed. One hunter fell. Then another.  

The last one turned to flee.  

She shot it in the back.  

Silence.  

Then she turned to Onuapa.  

"You’re lucky we found you first."  

He stared at her. "Who are you?"  

She smirked. "Enokwa’s blade. And you?"  

He opened his mouth. Closed it.  

He didn’t know.  

The woman—warrior, savior, executioner—studied him for a long moment. Then she reached out, gripping his wrist. Her fingers brushed against the symbol on his palm.  

Her breath hitched.  

"Oh." 

A whisper. A realization.  

"You’re him." 

Onuapa frowned. "Who?"  

She didn’t answer. Instead, she yanked him forward.  

"Come on. Before more come."

And as she pulled him into the ruins, toward the distant glow of a waiting ship, Onuapa knew one thing:  

This was only the beginning.  

---  

Chapter Two: The Blood of Forgotten Kings

The ship was called The Nyame’s Shadow, a sleek, dagger-shaped vessel with hull plates that shimmered like oil on water. Onuapa barely had time to take it in before the armored woman—Enokwa’s blade, she’d called herself—shoved him through the boarding ramp and into a dimly lit hold.  

"Stay here," she ordered, her voice clipped. "Don’t touch anything."  

Then she was gone, sealing the door behind her with a hiss of pressurized air.  

Onuapa exhaled, his shoulders sagging. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in his bones. He flexed his hand, staring at the spiral mark. It had stopped glowing, but the skin around it still tingled, as if charged with static.  

What am I?

The question echoed in his skull, unanswered.  

A low thrum vibrated through the ship as the engines ignited. Through a narrow viewport, he watched the ruins shrink beneath him, the skeletal remains of the city swallowed by distance and dust.  

Then—  

A voice.  

"You’re bleeding."  

Onuapa whirled.  

A boy stood in the corner of the hold, half-hidden in shadow. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, his dark curls matted with grime, his tunic frayed at the edges. But his eyes were old. Too old.  

Onuapa glanced at his shoulder. The creature’s bite had sealed, but dark stains streaked his torn shirt. "It’s nothing."  

The boy stepped forward. "Not that." He pointed. "Your hand."  

Onuapa looked down. Thin rivulets of gold traced the lines of his palm, welling from the spiral mark. It wasn’t blood. Not exactly. It shimmered, liquid light clinging to his skin.  

The boy’s breath hitched. "Nyankonton"  

The word sent a jolt through Onuapa. "You know what this is?"  

The boy hesitated, then nodded. "It’s the breath of the Weaver. The stories say only the old ones carried it in their veins." He tilted his head. "But the old ones are gone."  

Before Onuapa could respond, the ship lurched. A metallic groan shuddered through the hull, followed by the sharp *clang* of something striking the exterior.  

The boy’s eyes widened. "*Adze’s children*."  

---  

The door slid open. The armored woman stood framed in the threshold, her helmet resealed, her blade dripping with that same eerie blue fluid. "We’ve got company."  

Onuapa barely had time to brace before the ship rocked again. Through the viewport, shapes darted past—twisted, insectoid things with too many limbs, their carapaces glistening like wet coal.  

The hunters. But not the hooded ones from the ruins. These were something else. Something hungrier.  

The woman grabbed Onuapa’s arm. "We need to move. Now."  

The boy scrambled after them as they sprinted through the ship’s narrow corridors. Alarms blared, red light staining the walls the color of old blood. Crew members shouted, their voices frayed with panic.  

"—rupture in sector seven—"  

"—can’t shake them—"  

A explosion rattled the floor. Onuapa stumbled, catching himself against the wall. The boy grabbed his sleeve, his small fingers trembling.  

"They’re eating through the hull," the woman snarled. She yanked open a sealed door, revealing a circular chamber beyond.  

Inside, a figure stood at a raised dais, her back to them, her hands dancing across a holographic display.  

Enokwa.  

Even from behind, her presence was undeniable. Tall, regal, her dark robes embroidered with constellations, her hair coiled into intricate braids that spilled down her back like a river of night.  

"Matriarch," the armored woman said, dropping to one knee.  

Enokwa didn’t turn. "Report."  

"Adze’s swarm has breached the outer defenses. They’re targeting the cargo hold."  

A pause. Then—  

"And the man?"  

"Alive. Marked."  

Enokwa stilled. Slowly, she turned.  

Her face was sharp, elegant, her golden eyes the same as her warrior’s. But where the warrior’s gaze was fire, Enokwa’s was ice. Calculating. Endless.  

She looked at Onuapa.  

For a heartbeat, the world stopped.  

Then she smiled.  

"Welcome back."  

---  

The ship shuddered again. A distant screech of tearing metal.  

Enokwa’s smile faded. "We don’t have much time." She strode forward, her robes whispering against the floor. "You don’t remember me, do you?"  

Onuapa shook his head.  

"I didn’t think so." She reached out, tracing the air above his marked palm. "Bayisem has clouded your mind. But the Nyankonton remembers."  

The boy gasped. "It’s true, then? He’s—"  

"Quiet, Abjeku," the warrior snapped.  

Enokwa ignored them. "Tell me, Onuapa—do you know where you are?"  

The name jolted him. "You know me?"  

"Better than you know yourself." Her fingers hovered over his mark. "This is the Weaver’s touch. The thread that binds you to the web."  

Another impact. Closer this time.  

Enokwa’s jaw tightened. "We need to go. The swarm will overwhelm us soon."  

"Go where?" Onuapa demanded.  

Her golden eyes gleamed.  

"Home."  

---  

The bridge was chaos.  

Crew members shouted over one another, their voices drowned beneath the wail of alarms. The viewport showed a nightmare—the swarm had engulfed the ship, their black bodies clattering against the hull like hail.  

Enokwa took the captain’s chair, her fingers flying across the controls. "Prepare the jump."  

A man in tattered robes—some kind of priest?—flinched. "Matriarch, the calculations aren’t—"  

"Now, Ato."  

The priest swallowed, then nodded. He lifted a vial from around his neck, uncorked it, and drank. His eyes rolled back, veins bulging black beneath his skin.  

Then he began to chant.  

The words were ancient, guttural. The air thickened, the scent of ozone and burnt sugar clogging Onuapa’s throat.  

The ship’s engines roared.  

The swarm shrieked.  

And then—  

Light.  

Blinding. All-consuming.  

For a heartbeat, Onuapa felt something *pull*. As if a thread had been plucked deep in his chest.  

Then darkness.  

---  

Silence.  

Onuapa opened his eyes.  

The bridge was intact. The swarm was gone.  

Outside the viewport, stars streaked past in ribbons of blue and gold.  

"We’re in the slipstream," the warrior muttered. "For now."  

Enokwa rose from her chair. "We have a few hours before they find us again." She turned to Onuapa. "Come. You have questions. I have answers." 

The boy—Abjeku—grabbed Onuapa’s sleeve. "Don’t trust her," he whispered.  

Enokwa arched a brow. "You’ve made a friend."  

Onuapa hesitated, then followed.  

---  

The chamber was small, lined with shelves of old books and older artifacts. A single lantern cast flickering light across a low table where a map was spread—a star chart, but unlike any Onuapa had ever seen. The constellations were wrong. Twisted.  

Enokwa poured two cups of dark liquid. "You drink?"  

"Not sure," Onuapa admitted.  

She smirked. "Try it."  

The drink was bitter, spicy, burning its way down his throat. Memories flickered—sitting across from her like this before. Many times. Many lives.  

"You’ve done this before," he said.  

"Yes."  

"And I always forget?"  

"Yes."  

He set the cup down. "Why?"  

Enokwa sighed. "Because Adze Ma cannot steal what you do not remember." She tapped the star chart. "This is the web. The Weaver’s creation. And this—" She pointed to a pulsing red blot. "—is the rot. The hunger. The thing that eats."  

Onuapa’s mark throbbed. "The swarm."  

"Yes. And no." She leaned forward. "The swarm is just the teeth. Adze Ma is the mouth."  

"And you?"  

"A gardener," she said softly. "Tending the threads before the fire comes."  

Onuapa frowned. "You’re saving me."  

"I’m saving us." Her gaze dropped to his hand. "The Nyankonton is the key. The stories we tell. The lives we live. The Weaver listens, but only if we sing loud enough."  

A knock at the door. The warrior stepped in. "Matriarch. We’re being hailed."  

Enokwa’s expression darkened. "Who?"  

The warrior hesitated.  

"The Harvesters."  

---  

Chapter Three: The Harvest  

The name *Harvesters* sent a visible chill through Enokwa’s warriors. The armored woman—*Amina*, Onuapa had learned—tightened her grip on her blade, her jaw clenched. Even Abjeku, the boy who had shadowed him since the ruins, went unnaturally still.  

“Open the channel,” Enokwa commanded, her voice betraying nothing.  

A crackle of static filled the chamber before a voice oozed through the speakers—smooth, honeyed, and utterly soulless.  

“Matriarch Enokwa. How… fortuitous.”

Onuapa’s skin prickled. The voice slithered into his ears like oil, coating his thoughts in something thick and cloying.  

Enokwa’s fingers twitched, the only sign of her tension. “What do you want, Harvester?”  

A dry chuckle. “Only what is owed. You carry something that belongs to the Maw.”

Amina’s hand drifted to her weapon.  

Enokwa didn’t blink. “There is nothing aboard this ship that concerns you.”  

“Oh, but there is.” The voice deepened, a note of hunger threading through. “The Forgotten walks among you. The Maw has tasted his dreams before. It hungers for the rest.”  

Onuapa’s breath caught. The Forgotten.  

Abjeku’s small hand found his, squeezing tight.  

Enokwa cut the transmission with a sharp gesture. The bridge plunged into silence.  

“They know,” Amina hissed.  

“Of course they know,” Enokwa snapped. “Adze Ma’s whispers reach far.” She turned to Onuapa, her golden eyes burning. “They will board us.”  

A cold weight settled in Onuapa’s gut. “Why?”  

“Because you are a spark in the dark,” she said simply. “And they exist to smother light.”  

---  

 **The Trap**  

The Nyame’s Shadow wasn’t built for battle. It was a vessel of secrets, its hull lined with stealth plating, its engines designed for silence, not speed. But the Harvesters’ ship—a jagged, hook-shaped monstrosity—loomed on the viewscreen, its hull bristling with barbed boarding clamps.  

“They’ll latch on in three minutes,” Amina reported, her voice tight.  

Enokwa didn’t waste time. “Seal the lower decks. Prepare the void-locks.”  

“We can’t outrun them?” Onuapa asked.  

Amina barked a laugh. “Nothing outruns the Harvest.”  

Abjeku tugged Onuapa’s sleeve. “They’re not like the swarm,” he whispered. “The swarm is wild. Hungry. The Harvesters… they think.”  

“And what do they want with me?”  

The boy hesitated. “You’re ancient. Older than the empire. Older than the stars, maybe. They want to take your memories before you remember.”  

A chill slithered down Onuapa’s spine.  

Enokwa strode to a locked cabinet, inputting a code with swift fingers. The door hissed open, revealing a row of slender, silver cylinders—each no longer than a finger, etched with spirals that mirrored the mark on his palm.  

“Take one,” she ordered, thrusting a cylinder toward Onuapa.  

He turned it over in his hands. “What is it?”  

“A story.”  

Before he could ask, the ship jolted violently. A metallic *screech* tore through the hull as the Harvesters’ boarding clamps bit deep.  

“They’re in,” Amina growled.  

Enokwa’s face hardened. “Then we greet them.”  

---  

 **The Blood of Storytellers**  

The Harvesters came like a disease—silent, spreading