Read The Bone Weaver's Shadow free: the opening chapter

Dust and Shadows: Bone Dust Palette | The First Sign

The bone dust smelled of sun and old stories. Not unpleasant, not like decay, but… dry. Like the breath of a desert. I ground the femur fragment with the pestle, the mortar a smooth hollow worn into a piece of sunstone. It wasn't a perfect circle, this mortar. Nana Imbaya had chipped it years ago, trying to carve a bird into the side. She never finished it, said the stone had its own spirit, didn’t want to be bound by her vision. I liked that.

I pressed the dust through the finest silk sieve, separating the coarse particles from the powder. It settled in the shallow bone dish, a pale rose color. This was the shade for the late afternoon sky, the color of longing. I needed three more shades, ochre for the sun-baked earth, charcoal for the deep shadows, and a shimmering white from the rib bones of the sand skimmers. The skimmers were small creatures, almost like birds, but they swam through the bone fields on currents of warm air. Their bones were brittle, full of light.

I worked slowly, carefully. This wasn't just making paint. It was listening. Each bone held a whisper, a memory of the life it had been part of. The femur felt strong, enduring. The skimmer ribs… fragile, fleeting. It was a strange feeling, holding the echoes of living things in my hands, turning them into color.

“Still at it, Lyra?”

I didn’t jump, but my hand tightened around the pestle. Old Man Hemu. He always seemed to appear without a sound. He stood in the doorway of my workshop, a small lean-to built against the outer wall of our compound. He was the village potter, a gruff man who mostly grunted instead of speaking.

“Just finishing the palette, Hemu.” I kept my voice even. He wasn’t unkind, exactly. Just… cautious. Most people in Olorun were cautious around Bone Weavers. Even a ‘wild’ one like me.

He didn’t come inside. Didn’t ever, really. “Heard the cattle are restless. Been bellowing all morning.”

“The heat, maybe?” I offered. It was a scorcher. The sun beat down on Olorun, turning the bone fields into shimmering waves of white.

“Could be.” He paused, looking at the bone dust on my workbench. “Your grandmother… she had a gift. A true gift. Controlled, precise.”

I flinched, though I tried not to show it. Nana Imbaya had been the village Bone Mage for decades, revered for her skill and wisdom. I… wasn’t like her. My power was different. Untamed. They called it ‘wild weaving,’ and they didn’t like it.

“I’m just making paint,” I said quietly.

Hemu nodded slowly. “See that you do.” Then he was gone, disappearing back into the dusty streets of the Shadow Quarter.

---

The Shadow Quarter wasn’t a bad place, not exactly. It was just… forgotten. The Citadel, where the Bone Mages lived, sat on the highest ground in Olorun, gleaming white and gold. The Marketplace bustled with merchants and traders. But here, tucked between the bone fields and the outer walls, the houses were smaller, built from patched-together bone and sun-dried mud. People kept to themselves.

Nana Imbaya hadn't minded living here. She said the shadows held secrets, and the forgotten places held the strongest spirits. She used to tell me stories about the Old Ones, the civilization that had built Olorun on these bone fields. They understood the power of bone, she said, not just as a material, but as a connection to the past.

I added the ochre dust to the palette, mixing it with a drop of cactus sap to bind the pigment. The color reminded me of Nana Imbaya’s hands, weathered and strong. She’d taught me everything I knew about bonecraft, about listening to the whispers of the past.

She hadn't taught me control. That was the part I was still struggling with. My shadows weren’t neat and precise like hers. They flickered, danced, had a life of their own. Sometimes, when I got angry or frustrated, they would surge out of me, twisting and swirling like smoke. I'd accidentally darkened the sun for an entire block once. People had stared. Whispered.

Nana Imbaya had said it was a gift, a raw power that needed to be channeled. But she'd been gone for two years now, taken by the Dust Fever. And I was still trying to figure out how to do it.

---

I carried the finished palette out to the small courtyard behind our house. Nana Imbaya had loved this courtyard. She’d filled it with bone carvings, wind chimes made from skimmer ribs, and flowering cacti. I sat on the smooth bone bench, the sun warming my back.

I opened my sketching pad. Today, I was working on a portrait of Jaro, a young man who worked in the Marketplace. He sold woven bone beads, intricate designs that told stories. He’d asked me to paint his portrait a week ago, said he liked the way I captured light and shadow.

I dipped a thin bone brush into the rose-colored dust, sketching the outline of his jaw. Jaro had kind eyes and a gentle smile. He was one of the few people in Olorun who didn't seem afraid of me.

But even as I painted, I felt a prickle of unease. Something was off. The air felt heavy, stagnant. And the bone fields… they were unusually silent. Usually, you could hear the wind whistling through the bone canyons, the cries of the sand skimmers. Today, there was nothing. Just… stillness.

I glanced up, my eyes scanning the horizon. A dark shape moved on the edge of the bone fields, a flicker of shadow against the white. It was too big to be a skimmer. Too slow to be a sand cat.

My shadows stirred, responding to my growing anxiety. They danced around my hands, a dark halo around the palette. I forced them down, focusing on the portrait. I needed to calm myself.

Then I saw it. A cart, being pulled along the bone fields, heading toward the city gates. It wasn’t the cart itself that worried me, but the figure slumped over the reins. The figure didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

I narrowed my eyes, straining to see. The cart was getting closer now, and I could make out the details. The driver was wearing the grey robes of the Citadel healers. And the cart… it was filled with something covered in white cloth.

Something that looked suspiciously like bodies.

A chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way things happened in Olorun.

Nana Imbaya used to say that the bone fields always warned you of danger. They spoke in whispers, in shadows, in the silence. And right now, they were screaming.

…Nana Imbaya used to say that the bone fields always warned you of danger. They spoke in whispers, in shadows, in the silence. And right now, they were screaming.

I abandoned the portrait, the brush clattering onto the bone bench. The rose dust settled like a faint blush on the paper. Jaro would have to wait. This felt bigger than a commission, bigger than anything I’d ever experienced.

I stood, my shadows reluctantly receding, but still humming with tension. They were a mirror of my own fear, amplified. They always were. I hadn't fully mastered controlling them since Nana Imbaya… well, since she was gone. She’d known how to soothe them, how to coax them into serving her will. I mostly just tried to keep them from tripping people or extinguishing lanterns.

I glanced around, hoping someone else had noticed the cart. Old Man Hemu, perhaps, who sat by the Marketplace all day, watching the world go by. Or Iya Femi, the spice seller, whose sharp eyes missed nothing. But the courtyard was empty. Everyone was inside, escaping the midday heat.

Olorun was a city built on routine. Life moved at a predictable pace, dictated by the sun and the rhythm of the bone fields. A cart carrying shrouded figures was not part of that routine.

I hurried inside, finding Mama stirring a pot of stew in the kitchen. The aroma of roasted root vegetables usually comforted me, but today it felt… muffled.

“Mama,” I said, my voice tight. “Did you see a cart coming into the city? From the bone fields?”

Mama barely glanced up from her stirring. “A cart? There are always carts coming and going, Lyra. Merchants bringing goods, healers collecting herbs…”

“This was different. It was coming from the fields, and it was… full. Full of something covered in white cloth.”

Mama finally met my gaze, her expression weary. “Lyra, you’ve been spending too much time with those bones. Your imagination is running away with you.”

A familiar ache settled in my chest. It wasn’t imagination. I felt the wrongness of it, deep in my bones. And Mama, like so many others, always dismissed my sensitivities as fanciful. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me; she just didn’t understand.

“I’m telling you, Mama, something is wrong. The bone fields are silent. And that cart…”

“Enough, Lyra,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “I have enough to worry about without you filling my head with ghosts and shadows. Just finish your chores and leave this be.”

I bit back a protest. Arguing with Mama was pointless. She’d always favored practicality over intuition, a trait she said she’d learned from a hard life.

I retreated to my room, my frustration simmering. I knew what I had to do. I had to see for myself what was in that cart. I had to trust my instincts, even if no one else would.

But I wouldn’t go alone.

I found Old Man Hemu by the Marketplace, his weathered face etched with worry. He was the closest thing I had to an ally, a man who remembered Nana Imbaya and respected her gifts. He’d often sought her counsel, and he’d always treated me with kindness, never flinching at the sight of my shadows.

“Hemu,” I said, approaching cautiously. “Did you see a cart entering the city from the bone fields?”

His eyes, clouded with age, sharpened. “I did, child. A grim sight. They say it's the Dust Fever, spreading faster than the wind. But I've seen sickness before, and this… this felt different.”

“I thought so too.”

“The Citadel is keeping it quiet, of course. Doesn’t want to cause panic.” He spat on the ground. “Panic is easier to control than truth.”

“Will you come with me? To see what they’re bringing in?”

He hesitated for only a moment. “A Bone Weaver’s daughter asking for my help? How could I refuse? But be warned, Lyra. This feels like a darkness we haven’t seen in Olorun for a long time.”

Together, we followed the cart’s trail, winding through the narrow streets of the lower city. The Citadel loomed ahead, its white stone walls stark against the pale sky. The cart had stopped at the back entrance, a small loading dock usually used for deliveries.

Two Citadel guards stood watch, their faces grim. They didn’t acknowledge us as we approached.

I held my breath, my shadows pressing closer. The air was thick with the scent of dust and something else… something metallic and cold.

One of the guards began to pull back the white cloth.

I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that this wasn’t the Dust Fever. This was something far worse.

The First Sign, Ailing Beasts

The cloth fell away. It wasn’t bodies beneath, not entirely. It was animals. Sheep, goats, a few scrawny cattle. But they weren’t simply dead. Their bodies were… hollowed. The flesh looked pulled inward, as if something had been draining them from the inside. Their eyes were milky white, staring blankly at the sky.

Hemu let out a low whistle, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. “By the Ancestors,” he breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I gripped his arm, my shadows tightening around us both. A wave of dizziness washed over me, a strange echo of the emptiness within the animals. It felt…wrong. Violently, fundamentally wrong. The air thrummed with a muted energy, a vibration that resonated deep in my bones. I instinctively reached out with my power, not to touch the animals, but to see what had happened.

The shadows obeyed, flowing from my fingertips like liquid night. They danced over the animals’ bodies, tracing the contours of their illness. It wasn’t a disease I recognized. It wasn’t the quick burn of the Dust Fever, or the slow wasting of the bone rot. This was different. It was as if their life force had simply…leached away, leaving only empty shells.

“What is it?” Hemu asked, his voice rough with concern. He saw the concentration on my face, the way my breath hitched with each pulse of shadow. He knew I wasn’t just looking, I was feeling.

I pulled back, shaking my head. “I don’t know. It's like… something took their strength. Their very essence.” My fingers tingled, the shadows reluctant to retreat. It felt like reaching into a void.

One of the guards, a tall man with a shaved head, finally turned to us. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “This is a matter for the Citadel.”

“These are our animals,” Hemu retorted, his voice rising. “Animals that feed our families. We have a right to know what’s happening.”

“The Master Zale has decreed that no information is to be released without his express permission.” The guard didn’t meet Hemu’s gaze. “Now, move along.”

I could feel my anger rising. It wasn’t just the guard’s dismissive attitude, it was the Citadel’s secrecy, their insistence on control. They always acted as if they knew best, as if the people of Olorun were children who needed to be protected from the truth.

“He’s right, we deserve answers,” I said, stepping forward. I let a sliver of my power show, a subtle darkening of the shadows around my hands. It wasn't a threat, not yet, just a demonstration. A reminder that I wasn’t helpless.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the sign of a Bone Weaver, and a ‘wild’ one at that. “You’re Lyra, aren't you? Imbaya’s granddaughter. Stay out of this, girl. Your kind only stirs up trouble.”

His words stung, a familiar echo of the whispers that followed me through the Shadow Quarter. Troublemaker. Wild magic. Uncontrollable. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to unleash my shadows. Hemu placed a calming hand on my arm.

“Let it go, Lyra,” he murmured. “We won’t get anything from him.”

I forced myself to relax, to breathe. Hemu was right. Confrontation wouldn't help. Not here. Not now. We needed to understand what was happening, and that meant finding someone who would talk.

“Fine,” I said, my voice tight. “But this isn’t over.”

We turned and walked away, leaving the guard and the silent, hollowed animals behind. The metallic scent clung to the air, a grim reminder of the mystery we were facing.

---

We found Old Man Tobi in his small workshop, hammering away at a piece of bone. He was a bone carver, known throughout Olorun for his intricate designs. He'd made Nana Imbaya's most prized tools and often spoke fondly of her. The workshop smelled of dust and polished bone, a comforting scent that grounded me.

Tobi greeted us with a weary smile. “Hemu, Lyra. What brings you to my humble abode?”

“We need your help, Tobi,” Hemu said, getting straight to the point. “There’s something happening with the livestock. Animals are dying, but not from any sickness we’ve seen before.”

Tobi’s smile faded. “I heard whispers. Terrible things. Old Man Jaro lost three of his best goats this morning. Said they were healthy yesterday.”

“We saw the animals being brought in,” I added. “They were… drained. Like something had sucked the life out of them.”

Tobi stopped hammering and wiped his hands on his apron. “Drained? That’s… troubling. Very troubling.” He ran a hand over his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. “There are stories, you know. Old stories. Tales of shadow spirits that feed on life force.”

“Shadow spirits?” I asked, my interest piqued. “What kind of stories?”

“Legends, mostly. Passed down through generations. They say these spirits are drawn to weakness, to imbalance. They prey on the vulnerable, leaving only husks behind.” He shook his head. “I always dismissed them as folklore. But… seeing as how things are now…”

“Did these stories say how to stop them?” Hemu pressed.

Tobi sighed. “The stories are fragmented, incomplete. Some say offering a sacrifice will appease the spirit. Others say a powerful Bone Weaver can banish it with their magic.” He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “But those spirits are dangerous, Lyra. Even the strongest Weaver risks being consumed by their darkness.”

I met his gaze, my heart pounding. I knew he was right. My power was unpredictable, volatile. I had barely mastered the basics of shadow manipulation, and the thought of facing a creature of pure darkness terrified me.

But I couldn't just stand by and watch Olorun wither away.

“I have to try,” I said, my voice firm. “I have to see if I can help.”

---

The next day, I found myself at Jaro’s farm, a small plot of land on the outskirts of the Shadow Quarter. Jaro was a sturdy man, his face weathered by years of working under the sun. He was kneeling beside the empty pen where his goats had been, his shoulders slumped with grief.

“It happened so fast,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “They were fine yesterday, grazing peacefully. This morning… they were just lying there, lifeless. It’s like they just… gave up.”

I knelt beside him, my shadows stretching out to examine the pen. The ground was dry and cracked, but there were no signs of struggle, no footprints other than Jaro’s. It was as if the animals hadn't even known what was happening.

I closed my eyes, reaching out with my power again. The shadows flowed from my fingertips, probing the energy around the pen. This time, the feeling was stronger, more concentrated. I could sense a faint residue of… something. A cold, empty space where life once was.

Suddenly, I saw it. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. A shadow, darker than the others, flitting between the pens. I turned, my heart racing, and saw a small lamb, trembling in fear. It was one of the few animals that hadn’t been affected.

But something was wrong with it. Its coat was dull, its eyes glazed over. It looked weak, as if it was barely clinging to life.

I reached out to soothe the lamb, to try and ease its suffering. I channeled my power into my hands, focusing on warmth and healing. The shadows responded, flowing around the lamb like a protective cocoon.

But as I touched the lamb, a jolt of energy surged through me, knocking me backward. I cried out, my vision blurring. The shadows recoiled, writhing in pain.

The lamb bleated weakly, then collapsed, its body limp and lifeless.

I stared in horror, my hands shaking. What had I done? I’d tried to help, and I’d only made things worse.

Jaro rushed to my side, his face etched with concern. “Lyra, are you alright? What happened?”

I couldn’t answer. I was too stunned, too shaken. I’d thought I could use my power to heal, but it seemed I could only bring more death. My gift wasn’t a blessing, it was a curse.

I stood, my legs unsteady, and looked back at the dead lamb. Something was definitely amiss. This was beyond sickness, beyond anything I’d ever encountered. A dark realization settled over me. Whatever was happening to the animals of Olorun…it wasn’t natural. And I had a feeling I was the only one who could see it. But what could I do? I was just Lyra, the wild Weaver, the granddaughter of a legend, but a shadow of her power. What could I possibly do to save my city?

The sample ends here.