The next morning, Leia borrowed a spool of faded red thread from an old curtain in the shelter. It had long since stopped shielding them from the wind — no one would miss it.
She sat by the window, legs folded, eyes steady, and laid the thread across her lap like a ribbon of fate.
She exhaled slowly.
One loop at a time.
Her wrist tingled faintly.
The thread rose.
Not much. Just a lift, like a breeze had passed through. But it moved.
She flicked her fingers slightly, testing the limits. The thread trembled, twisted, then — surprisingly — bent into a loose spiral. Her breath hitched. The motion hadn't come from her hand, but from her intention.
She smiled.
But the smile faded quickly when the strand split mid-air and collapsed. Too fast. Too loose. The mark on her wrist dimmed in response.
Leia groaned and let her head drop forward. "Okay," she muttered, "so don't overdo it."
---
By midday, she had stitched two torn scraps together — without touching either. They curled slightly at the seam, uneven, but they held.
Selene returned with food — a handful of root crisps and a roll of cloth she'd found discarded. Leia quickly tucked her practice pieces into their hiding spot under the mat.
"You've been quiet today," her mother said, eyeing her closely.
Leia offered a small smile. "Just tired."
Selene didn't push.
She never did.
---
That evening, Leia sat outside the shelter for the first time in days. The outer district was unusually calm — no shouting vendors, no screeching carts. Just the distant hum of a machine press and the low wind.
She brought the red thread with her.
Across the street, two children chased a broken hoop, their laughter echoing between the buildings. Neither of them had abilities yet, probably. They were too young.
Maybe they'll get fire, Leia thought. Or shadow-stepping. Or even something cool like magnet chains.
Not thread.
Never thread.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the spool.
Still, as she looked at the red ribbon in her hand, she imagined it forming into a barrier. Or a whip. Or maybe… a trap.
The idea made her chuckle. A trap made of string.
But then again — hadn't it held the cloth together earlier? Hadn't it obeyed?
Maybe it doesn't have to look powerful to become powerful.
---
Back inside, Leia set the thread down and closed her eyes. This time, she didn't force the movement. She simply breathed and pictured the pattern she wanted — a loop, then a tie, then a soft pull.
When she opened her eyes, the thread had arranged itself into a gentle knot.
She stared.
And laughed — actually laughed, for the first time in weeks.
She untied it mentally.
It obeyed.
The symbol on her wrist glowed faintly.
Not bad, she thought. Not bad at all.
---
That night, before sleep, Leia lay staring at the ceiling.
Something had changed.
The pain was still there. The hunger hadn't left. The shame of exile still clawed at her. But now, just beneath all that, something new stirred.
A thread. A purpose. A name she hadn't yet earned, but could one day weave for herself.
She wasn't strong yet.
But she had something no one could take away anymore.
A beginning.