Nyalla deftly moved the needle in and out in what seemed like an unending task. It would be a wool cloak stuffed with feathers for warmth. Not the incredibly soft down of the underbelly of waterfowl, but simply the feathers of plucked chickens. Such luxury was hardly noticeable under a layer of wool anyways.


    She moved the material with a skill that showed her many years of experience as a seamstress. Soon, the task which had seemed unending would reveal its path to completion. Nyalla breathed deeply, feeling the ambient around her and in the fibers of the material, holding it all together as she moved the needle so quickly that it was lost in the many folds of the cloth that would come together to make this cloak.


    Nyalla’s stomach growled. Rationing had come more swiftly than anyone had anticipated. The Southern Coalition had abandoned its pretence of being uninvolved, and had moved forces into an open occupation of Empire territory.


    Still, this didn’t explain how sudden and severe the food situation had become. Staal, among many others, had gone to a plaza to demand answers, or at very minimum, try to find solutions. Some within the city could trap and hunt in the surrounding wood, which would not satiate in population, but would serve at least to boost morale. Doing nothing as people become more desperate would be a recipe for disaster. Nyalla knew this, as did Staal.


    He promised he would be safe, and she believed him. She had to believe him. She didn’t know what she would do if she were to lose another column from her life. Another, and she would surely crumble and break.


    And so she did as she always had done. She put down her head and went back to work, deftly continuing her task. Her hands moved in and out with the needle as the material flipped back and forth, seeming to flutter as if the cloth were a grounded bird struggling to leave the surface of the Earth.


    Ingrained in her tasks, she could be at peace. She had done this for a long, long time, so this could even be considered a meditative state for her. She could feel the cloth in her hands, the cloth covering her own body, and a meager area around herself that would allow her to know when someone entered the room. This was enough for her; it always had been.


    Some pushed and trained and strove for the ambient to grant them power. For Nyalla though, she was like most. Ambient was no path to power, only another tool by which the world functioned, like how a water wheel may seize the power of a river.


    And the cloak continued to come together, nearing its completion. Its outer layer was a subdued gray. Its inner layer was a deep black that hid the many pockets sewn in the folds of material within material. Men loved to carry things, Nyalla knew. Rane never had enough pockets, and would return home with pants full of rocks, bugs, and sticks. In many cases, his hands would also be full.


    As he got older, that became a bit of a problem, as his hands sometimes became full of things that were not his own. Her thoughts drifted, and her concentration waned.


    The pain of a needle in her palm pierced the fabric of her daydream and revealed before her a man with a look of pain in his eyes. His pain was not of the physical kind. She feared that soon, neither would hers.


    “M-miss Nyalla?” he stammered, clearly unsure of how to continue.


    She stared at him with a hollow look that betrayed her experience hearing some version of this. She knew the man, somewhat. His name was Nedhaam, and he was a friend of Staal’s. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    “Soldiers dispersed the assembly. Staal didn’t do nothing wrong, and they just cut him down. They’ve declared martial law in the city, and we saw fires from the city center. Its not safe… If you would, you can stay with my wife and-”


    “No. Leave me be.”


    “But the guard will-”


    “LEAVE.” Nyalla’s voice penetrated the air and shook the thin walls of their humble home. Dust fell from the eaves that stored their few excess belongings.


    Her tears did not betray her until Nedhaam closed the door behind him. After that, she did not think about time for a good long while.


    *****


    “Open up, on authority of Lord Luca Aethulwulf Matich Auryck. Nyalla, spouse of Staal, is being arrested on charges of treason and conspiracy to create a coup!” shouted the soldier leading the group of four guards.


    “She’s long gone,” said another shorter guard behind him. “The neighbors said that they aint heard nothing from this place since the night of the attack, and that was near a week ago.”


    “Do you feel anything, Quin?” the guard at the front asked.


    “No, should be an empty house. Lets just do our job,” he said as he stepped forward, brushing past his superior and bringing his boot up with a kick that splintered the door and left it hanging by a singular, curiously well made hinge that had replaced one of the originals.


    They flowed into the shack one by one, through the broken door, each taking a slightly different angle in a practiced fashion as they began to search the place, dumping boxes, opening cabinets, and smashing pottery that may be hiding any secrets.


    Quin went into a small room beside the main bedroom and came to a sudden halt. There was someone here. How had he not sensed them. They were draped with a grey cloak. In the dust around them he caught the smallest glimmers of light reflecting off of objects too small for him to make out in the candlelight. The cloak was of the deepest black on the inside, giving a sense that, in the dim light, there was nothing within. He still sensed nothing, which seemed to confirm his fear.


    “Capta-” he attempted to cry out when he found himself unable to speak as one of the glimmering objects had darted forward without warning nor shift in the ambient. They were needles, he realized as another shot forward, ending his thoughts.


    *****


    Nyalla stepped out of the house wearing the cloak that she had made for Staal. It was a bit too big for her, but she had adjusted it as best as she could.


    The loudest part of the incursion of guardsmen had been the kicking of the door. It was actually surprising how easy it was to escape their clutches. She shuddered to think what would have happened to her if they had.


    But they had not. Each of their necks now quite resembled the small cushions that she used to store her needles safely in.


    Nyalla began to walk towards the nearest gate. There was nothing left for her here, and she had made up her mind. She thought that she would wither away, but she had not. They had taken Winz, then they took Rane. Now, finally, they had taken Staal, and it occurred to her that it would be the greatest insult if they were allowed to take her also. She would not allow it.


    *****


    Back in the mess of Nyalla’s home, a soldier lay dead, still holding something in his hand. It was a small notebook filled with the loose scrawlings of a woman. Lists, dimensions for garments, and occasionally, poetry. It was open to its last entered page.


    You were like him to the end


    Kind and thoughtful


    With a heart waiting to be filled


    You were like him to the end


    Brave and adventurous


    Lacking the strength to be so


    Yet, perhaps you were like me too


    For I have not yet broken


    Though I have bent.