The Counterpoint

Bria had watched them from her loom, the rhythmic clatter of her own work a counterpoint to the silence that had fallen over the stonemason’s yard.

She had seen Finn work for many cycles, his hammer a constant, percussive force in the village. But this… this was different.

She set her shuttle down, the familiar weight of it a comfort in her hand, and crossed the dusty yard.

“What is it you’re building?” she asked, her voice quiet, careful not to break the spell of their work.

“We are not building,” Soren said, his voice as quiet as her own. “We are listening.”