Chapter 22: The Hollowborn Shadow
The Ashen Wastes swallowed sound, devouring it like a grave that never tired of claiming. Wind scoured the land in dry rasps, dragging loose strands of ash across the cracked, bone-dry earth. Far beyond the wastes, violet storms flickered on the horizon like mournful lanterns swaying in the dark. Thunder rumbled faintly—distant and bitter. Kael stood near the edge of the rift-village, its hunched huts clustered like frightened children around a dying hearth. Each structure leaned into the wind, wood warped and sun-bleached, cloth flaps snapping with each gust. The faint hum of the rift pulsed through the soil and into Kael's bones, as if whispering that it had not yet finished with him.
Beside him loomed a figure carved from shadow and age—Tynar, the rogue Weaver. Tall, his posture coiled and alert, his cloak tattered at the edges like something long forgotten. The man's face was a map of old wars, each scar a faded memory carved by magic or claw. One eye, bright violet and seething with rune-light, glared from beneath the deep hood. His hands bore etched runes, not inked but seared into flesh, pulsing faintly with inner heat.
"Train with me," Tynar had said minutes earlier, his voice hoarse as wind over broken glass, "or you're ash."
The words still clung to the air, thick with finality. Kael didn't speak immediately. His own runes answered in silence, flickering with a cool, cold burn that began in his fingertips and coiled inward. The resonance of them—his threads—flared as if in agreement with Tynar's presence, as if recognizing something dangerous and familiar.
A small crowd of villagers stood near makeshift barricades—sharpened logs, bundles of rusted metal, frayed rope. They stared, not in gratitude, but with a fearful reverence that bordered on dread. One woman stood slightly apart, gripping a weatherworn spear. Kael caught her name in a passing shout—Rhea. Her posture was taut, her eyes hard but not ungrateful.
"You drove them off," she called out, her voice raw from shouting over the winds. "But they'll be back. Always are. Always worse."
Kael turned slightly, sheathing his dagger in one smooth motion. His runes dimmed, still restless. "Not if I cut the source," he replied, eyes fixed on Tynar.
The older man's face remained unreadable, his gaze lost in the horizon, where stormlight danced above the cursed lands.
"You said legion," Kael pressed. "How many?"
Tynar exhaled slowly, stepping toward the rift's scar—a long, jagged wound in the dirt, still faintly glowing with dormant thread-energy. "Enough to bury this whole Wastes," he said at last. "The Tyrant's waking slow—but the rifts? They're not sleeping. They spit shadows. The Hollowborn stitch those shadows into soldiers."
His voice dropped, a low growl, like a prophecy or a curse. "I saw it in the vision. You did too. I'd wager we saw the same one."
Kael's stomach knotted at the memory. It wasn't just a dream—it never was. The Grimoire world unraveling at the seams, rifts cracking reality, shadow-scythes raining from above, and always—always—that silhouette. The Tyrant crowned in ash, a titan of hunger and will. And beneath it all, the voice, cold and patient: Now…
"I saw it," Kael said quietly, flexing his rune-marked hand. "There's a legion forming. North of here."
Tynar's eye gleamed. "Then you know. The ones with Gift can't survive unless they sharpen those threads. The Loom's gone, burned from time—but its echo's in you. In me. Unshackled, they used to call us. Move fast, Gifted. Or you're dead."
Kael thought of Moonfall's dawn—their last stand against the wraiths. Gavyn, wielding his spear like a thunderbolt. Lysa's enchanted coins exploding in bursts of metal and fire. Maraen's locket glowing with the memories of the fallen. He had fought monsters and walked away. But the strength it took still lingered in his bones. The wounds hadn't fully faded.
"I've fought worse," Kael muttered.
Tynar gave a humorless chuckle. "Then you'll know how much harder it gets. You're fast, but not fast enough. That pretty thread-work won't save you when the Hollowborn come in packs."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "So what's your training?"
Tynar's smirk was more scar than smile. "Speed," he said. "Not just movement. Reaction. Instinct. You hesitate, you die. You overthink, you burn. Your threads? They're legs. They're wings. You want to live, you move."
He raised a hand. Runes burst to life across his palm—sharp, complex. Threads flared out, spiraling with violet light, and then snapped into form—a whip crackled into existence, sizzling with raw speed and precision. In a blink, he moved.
Phantom Blitz.
A blur of light and motion. Tynar vanished from where he stood, appearing five meters to the left, then five to the right in an instant. Dust exploded in his wake, the whip striking the ground with a thunderclap, slicing a stone in half.
Kael's eyes widened. Not teleportation. Not flight. Something faster, tighter—thread compression at a scale he hadn't mastered.
"You move like a dancer," Tynar said, lowering his hand. "That's good. But this ain't a dance. It's a storm."
Kael stepped into the open, ash curling around his boots. He drew a breath, focused on his center. Threads began to spiral from his palm, slower, less controlled than Tynar's. They glimmered faintly in the wind.
"Show me," he said.
Tynar didn't answer. He simply waited.
Kael muttered the invocation—Thread Step: Sky Fang—and pushed off. Threads snapped beneath his boots, launching him upward in a high, arcing leap. He landed with a thud, skidding across the ash, off balance.
"Too loose," he growled.
"Again," Tynar said coldly. "Tight bursts. No leaps. You're not a comet—you're lightning."
Kael nodded, flexing his fingers. The runes on his arm flared brighter. He focused—pulled the threads tighter, compressed their tension, aimed not for height, but speed.
Thread Step!
This time, the burst was sharper. Kael shot forward three meters, stumbling but remaining upright. The burn in his legs was sharper now, the threads vibrating from strain.
"Better," he panted.
"Faster," Tynar snapped.
A whip cracked near Kael's ear, the shockwave kicking up ash. Kael hissed, more annoyed than scared. He re-centered, tightened the threads even more. Twelve strands now, glowing hot and fierce.
Thread Step: Phantom Blitz!
Kael flickered left. Then right. Then left again. A blur of motion, chaining dashes across the open field. His boots struck the ground hard—each movement a blur, ash trailing like smoke behind him. He skidded to a halt, breath heaving, but a grin breaking across his lips.
"Got it," he said.
Tynar's violet eye narrowed, pleased but unsurprised. "Strongest I've seen at your tier," he admitted. "But it means nothing until you fight with it."
He pointed north, where the horizon darkened. A violet pulse rippled over the next ridge, the rift's hum rising into a low wail.
"Rift-beast," Tynar said. "Gifted-tier. It's yours."
Kael didn't hesitate. His runes flared, syncing with the vibration in the earth. A cold burn climbed his spine, sharpening his focus. "Lead the way."
⸻
The ridge rose like the spine of a dead god, jagged rocks jutting from the ground like broken teeth. Kael followed Tynar in silence, each footstep whispering across the ash. The sound of his own pack was the only comfort—clinking relics from Moonfall: Maraen's locket, Lysa's coin, Gavyn's knife. Proof he wasn't alone, even out here.
As they crested the ridge, Kael's breath caught in his throat.
Below them, a massive rift yawned across the plain. It made the one near Moonfall look like a scratch. Violet flames licked its edges, and from within, threads pulsed outward—interwoven into a towering beast. A hulking bear-like monstrosity, made of ash and shadow, with limbs warped by rift energy and eyes like molten ruin.
It bellowed. The sound shook the ridge, scattering birds from dead trees. Below, panicked villagers—scavengers, not fighters—fled, their carts crushed beneath the beast's claws.
"Big bastard," Tynar muttered. "One of the Hollowborn's pets."
Kael drew his dagger, violet runes dancing across the blade.
"Stay back?" he asked.
Tynar smirked and stepped aside. "Your test. Not mine."
The beast saw him and charged—massive claws glowing with riftfire, maw opening in a snarl.
Kael moved—Phantom Blitz! Threads snapped, and he flickered sideways, evading a column of fire that scorched the earth behind him.
Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade!
Kael unleashed his threads, a storm of glowing strands slashing across the beast's flank. Its shadow-flesh split, black ichor spraying as it roared.
The creature spun—Rift-Claw Barrage!—and its claws unleashed arcs of flame and shadow, tearing the land. Kael flickered through them, chaining dashes mid-air.
"Too slow!" he shouted, launching himself—Sky Fang!—and flipped over the beast.
Thread Dance: Razor Weave!
His strands slashed deep into its back.
The beast howled, turning—its chest cracked open—Ashen Breath! A torrent of toxic ash and fire flooded the field. Kael raised his hand.
Thread Wall: Vortex Shield!
A spiral of threads snapped into a whirling barrier, colliding with the breath. The force shook him—his shield cracked—ash bit into his skin.
"Hold—!"
A whip cracked—Tynar distracting the beast for an instant.
Kael pushed.
Tempest Cascade!—his threads became a cyclone, ripping into the beast's legs, neck, chest. It staggered.
Phantom Blitz! He flickered beneath its arm.
Thread Dance: Crescent Slash!
His dagger became a blazing arc, cleaving into its core.
The beast collapsed, howling as it dissolved into ash. The rift flickered and dimmed.
Kael dropped to one knee, breathing hard, blood dripping down his arm. His cloak was torn, his chest burned—but he was alive.
"Stronger than Moonfall's," he muttered.
Tynar approached, nodding once. "Gifted-tier peak. You passed."
He tossed Kael a sealed parchment. "Came while you fought. Runner from the village."
Kael opened it. Gavyn's rough hand:
Kael—Moonfall's holding. Forge's hot, spear's sharp. Say the word, storm-god, and I'm north. Don't die out there—Gavyn.
A grin touched Kael's face, faint but real. He tucked the note beside the coin and locket. Home lived in small weights now.
"What's next?" he asked.
Tynar looked to the horizon, where shadows thickened and rifts pulsed brighter.
"Dreams," he said. "The Hollowborn weave them. You'll need to cut deeper. Move smarter. Ashka's out there—the Tyrant's blade. Train hard, boy. You're the strongest Gifted I've seen. And I need you alive."
Kael's runes flared. The Tyrant's whisper curled around his mind—Now…
The Wastes stretched out ahead, hungry and endless. But Kael stood tall, his threads burning with purpose. Unshackled. Forged anew.
And ready to fight the storm.