Chapter 23: The Legion's Thread.
The Ashen Wastes stretched northward like the cracked hide of some slain god—an endless, gray expanse split by ridges and chasms, lifeless and trembling under a violet-streaked sky. The wind howled ceaselessly, a dry scream that scoured stone and bone alike, dragging fine, glittering ash in ghostly spirals across the plain. Each gust carried whispers—fragments of words, echoes of screams, memories lost to the rift. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a pulse, a resonance that thudded behind the eyes and under the skin.
Kael crouched on the far side of a broken ridge, his breath steady despite the sting of blood crusted along his arm and the ache in his chest from the last encounter. Below, where the ground sloped into a wide basin of ash and ruin, the rift-beast's remains still smoldered—a collapsed, twitching shadow dissolving into dust. The echoes of its death had barely faded, yet the hum of the rift remained, low and insistent, like the distant toll of a bell that never stopped ringing.
Beside him, Tynar stood unmoving, a grim silhouette against the wasteland's empty light. Scars lined his face like ancient runes, and one of his eyes glowed faintly violet, catching flickers of magic as if attuned to the rift itself. That eye locked onto Kael now, hard with approval but edged with something colder—expectation.
"You're shaping up," Tynar rasped, voice like old rope dragged across stone. "Fast threads. Sharp. Phantom Blitz rooted in muscle now. You're not just fast—you're cutting the gap."
Kael flexed his fingers, palm open, and the runes etched into his skin blazed faintly violet. Threads spiraled outward, dancing from his palm like hungry fireflies, faster now, more responsive. His cloak whipped violently in the gale, the tattered edges trailing like smoke.
"Told you before," Tynar added, squinting into the horizon. "You're the strongest Gifted I've trained. But this?" He raised a calloused hand and pointed north. "This is where that means something."
Beyond the rise, a broken tower loomed—a jagged remnant of some long-fallen Weaver bastion, its spire leaning like a dagger thrust into the sky. Around its base, violet flickers of light pulsed irregularly. Rift-energy danced like fireflies drunk on madness.
"Legion's moving," Tynar said, lowering his hand. "Scouts first. Hollowborn. Woven from rift-threads and blood-echoes. Ashka's testing the Wastes with them."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Scouts for what? What's she planning?"
Tynar's eye narrowed, his grip tightening on the coiled thread-whip at his belt. "Ashka's not just a Hollowborn Weaver. She was Gifted once. Now she's the Tyrant's edge. She's stitching a gate—spinning it from rift energy, trying to crack the prison. These scouts? They clear the way."
A grim smile broke across his face—like a scar reopening.
"She's sending pieces of the gate ahead. Probes. Each one stronger than the last. They're reflections of her will. If you can't reflect that strength back—you're just more dust."
Kael's rune-lit eyes narrowed, the lines on his arms pulsing with fresh energy. "Then show me."
Without a word, Tynar raised a hand. Threads lanced out from his palm, faster than breath, weaving into a shimmering wall of light—a barrier humming with potential. Then, with a flick, he twisted it, reversed its weave, and the barrier exploded outward in a burst of crystal-like shrapnel.
"Reflecting Tempest," he grunted. "Catch. Turn. Send it back harder. That's how you break Hollowborn."
Kael didn't hesitate. He thrust out his palm. Threads spun into a defensive weave—Vortex Shield, his go-to. It formed quickly, reliable, a sturdy barrier against most attacks. But Tynar's whip cracked across the ground with thunder, sending a pulse that staggered Kael.
"More," Tynar barked. "Don't brace—return."
Kael's brow furrowed. Sweat trickled down his temple. He exhaled slowly, focusing on the weave—compressing the threads, twisting their tension, shaping the arcane geometry into something new. The shield pulsed, then shimmered—Thread Wall: Reflecting Tempest.
The barrier surged, spinning into a vibrant disc of humming light. Kael shouted as he flung it forward. It snapped outward in a storm of light-shards, slicing through the air and striking a distant boulder with a deafening crack, splitting the rock down the center.
Kael stumbled, panting, his limbs tingling with fatigue. "It's heavier than Vortex Shield," he muttered. "But it sings."
Tynar grunted. "Works better on rift-born. They're not ready for their own hunger reflected."
Kael's eyes darted to the north. The violet light pulsed brighter. The hum in the Wastes was rising again—louder, more urgent. The rift was waking.
"They're here," Tynar said simply. "Prove it."
⸻
The ruined tower loomed like a sentinel of death, its base choked with swirling ash. From its shadow, three forms emerged—rising from the rift's glow like nightmares birthed from ancient fever dreams. They were legion scouts—Gifted-tier wraiths, but taller, broader, twisted beyond recognition. Armor made of woven rift-threads pulsed on their bodies, dark and iridescent. Their limbs shimmered with flame-thread claws, and their eyes were voids—bottomless pits leaking hunger.
"Kael…" they whispered in unison, the Tyrant's voice threading through them—a low, unified echo of threat.
Kael stepped forward, cloak flaring, dagger gleaming in the stormlight. "Scouts, huh?" His voice was calm. Cold. "Bigger than Moonfall's batch."
"And faster," Tynar warned, backing away. "Your fight now. Don't die."
The ground trembled. The scouts surged forward—Rift-Ash Barrage!—dozens of flaming shadow-arcs ripped from their claws, exploding across the landscape. The world became chaos, earth cratering in smoking trails.
Kael vanished—Thread Step: Phantom Blitz! Threads exploded beneath his feet as he flickered left, right, through the storm, dodging the barrage by heartbeats. Ash burst around him. "Too wide!" he shouted, landing with a skid.
He twisted—Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade!—a storm of glowing strands erupted from his arms, spinning in lethal arcs. One scout staggered back, its chest slashed open, shadowy essence pouring like smoke from its wound.
The second lunged—Shadow-Thread Lash! Chains of violet thread whipped forward. Kael planted his feet—Thread Wall: Reflecting Tempest! The barrier surged, catching the attack. Light exploded. The threads snapped back like coiled steel, shredding the scout's arm.
"Back at you," Kael muttered, flickering again—Phantom Blitz!—then Thread Dance: Razor Weave! His dagger and threads carved into the scout's back. Ash burst in clouds as it screamed.
The third scout snarled, claws merging—Rift-Flame Crescent! A massive blade of fire-shadow tore toward him, gouging a path through the Wastes.
Kael vaulted—Thread Step: Sky Fang!—soaring into the air, flipping overhead. He landed behind the scout, slamming his dagger forward—Thread Dance: Crescent Slash! Violet sparks exploded as his arc met the creature's claw, cracking the air.
The first scout recovered—Ashen Volley!—a barrage of burning orbs filled the sky. Kael spun—Reflecting Tempest! The orbs collided, burst, and the barrier flung shards back. Two struck true, shattering its armor. The scout faltered.
"Stronger than you," Kael snarled, flickering forward—Phantom Blitz! He exploded through the fading light—Tempest Cascade! The scout screamed as its chest was torn apart, crumbling into ash.
The second scout charged again—Shadow-Thread Lash! But Kael was faster. Phantom Blitz danced him through the arcs. He struck low—Razor Weave!—shredding the legs. Then he launched upward—Sky Fang!—and finished it with Crescent Slash! through its skull.
The last scout roared—Rift-Flame Crescent!—wider, hotter, burning like a falling star. Kael stood firm—Reflecting Tempest! The barrier caught the arc, rebounded with force, slamming into the scout's chest. The rift behind it flickered, its hum breaking.
"End it!" Kael roared, dashing forward—Phantom Blitz!—weaving through the flames, then Tempest Cascade! His threads carved the scout's core to ribbons. It collapsed with a shriek, ash swallowing it as the rift dimmed to a scar.
Kael stumbled, chest heaving. Blood trailed from a gash on his cheek. His dagger was slick with shadow. The air was silent again.
"Stronger than Moonfall," he said quietly, sheathing the blade.
Tynar approached, his whip coiled. He eyed the corpses, then Kael. "You fight like a king. And those were no hollow scarecrows. Ashka's close. She wouldn't send these unless she was almost done weaving."
Kael's runes flared. The Tyrant's voice tickled his mind—Now…
"Where?" he asked.
"North. Rifts thicken like wounds there."
Tynar tossed him a pouch—leather, crusted with salt. "Runner brought this. From your fisher-folk."
Kael caught it, brow lifting. Inside, a familiar glint—Lysa's coin. A note:
"Kael—Moonfall's buzzing, rifts flicker. Coin's your cut—don't lose it, thread-weaver. Reckoning's due.—Lysa."
Kael smiled faintly. The coin joined Gavyn's letter, Maraen's locket. Anchors to a life behind the ash.
"More coming?" he asked.
"Always," Tynar said. "But rest. Next fight's in dreams. Tyrant's whispering deep. Dive the dream, or we're blind."
Kael nodded, but before he could breathe, a surge jolted up his arm. His runes ignited, violet light engulfing his vision.
The Wastes vanished.
⸻
A vast cavern stretched before him—walls of black stone split by glowing cracks. Chains of thread coiled across a massive silhouette, crowned in ash, eyes voids of night.
The Sleeping Tyrant.
"Kael…" it hissed, voice like thunder dragged through death. "Unshackled… Now…"
Legion forms clawed from the stone, scythe-shaped and screaming. Before them stood Ashka—her form wrapped in threads, chanting.
"The gate rises…"
Kael screamed—Thread Pulse: Heart's Cry!—gold and violet exploded from his palm, slamming into the chains.
"Not yet!"
Shadows lunged. The vision snapped.
⸻
Kael gasped awake, soaked in sweat, ash clinging to him.
Tynar grabbed his arm. "Saw it?"
Kael nodded. "Prison. Ashka's weaving the gate. Tyrant's almost free."
Tynar's face hardened. "Then we cut faster."
He pointed north. The rifts glowed like dying stars.
"Dreams show the path. Train harder, king. You're all we've got."
Kael stood, shoulders square, eyes glowing. Lysa's coin weighed in his pouch, the Tyrant's whisper now a heartbeat.
The Ashen Wastes stretched endlessly before him. And Kael—strongest of the Gifted—walked into them, threads at the ready, toward war.