The Sweat-Drenched Priest and the Loom of Destiny
Where the hell did that priest come from anyway?
The head priest scowled, his brows furrowed in clear displeasure as he glared at Seneca trudging cheerfully along, still half-asleep and clueless in the midst of the now-mud-soaked training yard.
Seneca’s expression sharpened with every step, eyes narrowing at first—clearly unsure what had just happened—before they widened in genuine shock, his mouth falling open in astonishment.
The head priest raised a hand without emotion, pointing at the four mud-covered figures.
“These, my son, are the princes and princesses of our land, mere mud dolls after their bath.”
Indeed. Four lumpish, featureless mud people with only blank white eyes and foreheads visible. Nepetia and Stella were slightly less filthy. The others—Draconis, Serena, and Arkin—had remained untouched by any mud at all.
“What the…?”
Seneca stared at the identical white-eyed mud figures and his bewilderment was absolute. He could only tell a man from a woman by the shape of their bodies, let alone recognize anyone.
“That was hilarious.”
A bright, foolish grin split the face of one of the mud people. Seneca narrowed his eyes at the short, muddy figure and suddenly recognized her as Princess Petra, his shock nearly choking him.
“Holy crap.”
The order for the mud-war’s instigators was simple: after washing in the bath, they were to clean the yard until every speck of filth was gone.
“We’ll wash first and finish, then the men take their turn!”
Petra’s shout rang out, and the yard erupted into fresh chaos. The trainees, having enjoyed the game far too much, could barely contain their laughter.
“The trainees who behaved well may head down to the dining hall and rest now,” Seneca grumbled, rubbing his tired face as he shooed them away. Arkin turned his eyes away with deliberate disinterest and strode down the hill at a brisk pace.
He had only one thing in mind once the evening meal was over: lock himself in his room and never come out again.
“Arkin, you alright?”
As he descended the path, someone was hot on his heels. Elio caught up, breathing hard.
“Are you still sick? You’ve been looking terrible since earlier.”
“I’m fine.”
“You looked off days ago. I was worried.”
A jolt of unease ran through Arkin, followed by embarrassment. Elio had only meant to help, yet his concern had clearly shown on his face. Arkin hadn’t realized he was that transparent.
“I’m okay. Nothing serious.”
“That’s good.”
They walked side by side. Elio kicked at rocks along the path, then sighed deeply.
“Today’s mud fight… honestly, I was a little jealous.”
“Of who? Which part?”
“Zafiri or Nepetia. They looked so carefree.”
Elio gazed at the sunset bleeding across the blue sea and offered a wry smile.
“They could throw mud, tease, get completely filthy, and still not care. That’s freedom.”
The silver strands of his hair fluttered in the wind. Elio glanced down the steep path and turned to Arkin.
“I can’t do that. Showing weakness makes me uncomfortable. I always feel awkward, can’t speak properly. I’m terrible at talking to people. I don’t even know how to relax and say whatever comes to mind. You’re not like that, are you?”
Arkin’s throat tightened. He wanted to say *Yes, I am*—that he always felt burdened—but his pitiful pride sealed his lips.
Arkin walked on without answering.
Jealousy toward Nepetia had been a strange brew of feelings. Unlike himself, she seemed able to vanish anywhere at any moment without consequence.
Loosen up. Be free. Could Arkin ever allow that? Could he finally untie the ropes that had bound him his entire life?
If that day ever came, would he stop feeling such petty jealousy?
The sunset melted into the sea. The sky, already flushed purple, slowly darkened to black. As Arkin thought of Nepetia, his face grew paler and paler.
***
Time passed swiftly.
The first month of training was supposed to be about learning humility, yet Seneca assigned the trainees new tasks every single day.
Mostly they observed common people’s trades—planting crops, dyeing cloth, carving small wooden tools from logs. After several stages, today’s lesson was simple: weaving.
The weaving room was bathed in soft, ethereal light from high windows, giving it an almost sacred feel.
“Now, Lady Arachne will demonstrate.”
The priest stepped back. From one side of the room a woman with neatly coiled black hair emerged, walking with solemn grace.
She was a master weaver from Credo Island, known among the people as Lady Arachne. Her long, slender fingers rested on the loom.
Arachne first inspected the warp threads—hundreds of taut strands hanging straight down. She stroked them lightly and smiled.
“Watch carefully, everyone.”
She pressed her foot down on the long plank beneath the loom. *Thud!* The warp threads split neatly into two halves, one above and one below.
With the other hand she slid a wooden shed rod through the gap, then pulled it back.
“Now weave on the opposite side.”
She bent her wrist and guided the weft rod between the warp threads.
“Then you tidy it up like this.”
Arachne pressed the shed rod flat and pushed the weft into place.
“Simple, right?”
Dr-r-r-r, *clang!* Her hands sped up. Foot on the plank, warp threads spread, weft rod slid in, opposite side woven, rod pulled up, foot down again—repeat.
The speed of the loom quickened, and the trainees’ interest steadily faded. Only Arachne seemed truly absorbed.
She swayed to the rhythm, nodding her head as she chanted softly.
“Oh, it’s so easy! Too easy! Anyone can do it in a flash.”
Arachne clearly had no talent for teaching, but she loved weaving with all her heart.
“And our princes and princesses, yes?”
Dr-r-r-r, *clang!* Dr-r-r-r, *clang!* *Clang*, Dr-r-r-r, *clang!*
“You can do it this easily. Even someone as lowly as me can manage straight away.”
The wooden shed rod thumped rhythmically, filling the workshop. She moved the loom with growing passion. The thin threads, once barely thicker than a finger, now grew plump in her hands, forming a wide, airy cloth. The geometric patterns in red and yellow were breathtaking.
“Um, Lady Arachne… I think this is enough. The trainees only get to observe once.”
“Once? What are you talking about, Seneca? You all have palaces. You could weave at least one fine rug for your bedrooms and take it home with you.”
“But there are other schedules—”
Seneca tried to refuse, yet the two sides argued for a long time. When the stubborn Arachne refused to yield, Seneca glanced at the trainees and waved them to their seats. The lesson was already running long.
From behind her, Nepetia heard Petra muttering sharply.
“…She must be crazy, just weaving in a corner like that.”
***
“Damn, my fingers feel numb.”
Draconis had been forcing his way through the weaving for a while, then gave up. His movements slowed, and when the task became both dizzying and exhausting, he kicked his stool away and left. The head priest’s warning about penalties for skipping didn’t stop him.
The others kept at it with varying degrees of effort. Nepetia pushed her fingers through the warp threads exactly as Arachne had shown her. The wool yarn felt rough, and every time it brushed her fingertips, her skin stung.