Chapter 24: The Weaver's Echo
The Ashen Wastes brooded under a vast, violet-streaked sky, the colors bleeding like wounds across the heavens. A chill, metallic tang rode the dry wind, whispering across fields of cracked stone and blackened ash. At the heart of the desolation, the ruined Weaver tower loomed—a broken finger reaching toward the sky's bleeding canvas, its cracked spires crowned with the last defiant glimmers of old magic. Silent, watching, a sentinel over the battlefield.
Kael knelt in the ruin's shadow, the air thick with the sour scent of rift-ash. Before him, three scouts lay reduced to piles of black dust, the last remnants of those who had once been bound by Ashka's will. Their threads had unraveled under his hands, their woven minds shattered in the duel beyond flesh. A faint shimmer marred the ground where the rift-scar remained—a ghost of power, an echo of what had been.
His own breath came slow and steady, but his body bore the cost. Blood crusted one cheek where a stray shard had grazed him. His cloak was torn and singed, the ends flaring like burnt paper in the constant dry wind. Dim light pulsed from the runes etched along his arms and collarbone—the lingering afterburn of Reflecting Tempest and Tempest Cascade—fading now but still smoldering in his veins.
Behind him, Tynar stood like a specter of old wars, his whip coiled loosely at his side, his scarred face carved into a grim nod of approval—or maybe pride. His single violet eye, a rare and dangerous mark of deep Weaving, caught the light and reflected it in a glint as sharp as his words.
"Cut 'em clean," Tynar rasped, his voice like broken stone grinding against itself. He prodded one of the ash-piles with the tip of his boot, sending a puff of dark dust swirling into the air. "Strongest Gifted I've seen in a long damned while. Ashka's scouts don't fall easy, boy. Don't fool yourself."
He paused, voice dropping lower, heavier. "But that dream—the prison, the gate—that's worse. Means we're flying blind until you dive deeper."
Kael rose slowly to his feet, brushing a hand across his cloak, sending more soot into the air. His runes flickered faintly, reacting to the old magic bleeding from the tower ruins behind him. In the quiet, the Tyrant's whisper licked across his mind—a low, insidious murmur. Now…
Ashka's silhouette burned behind his closed eyes—her lips moving in chant, her hands weaving threads into a spiraling gate—her voice, a blade across his senses: Gate rises…
"Dreams again," Kael muttered, shaking the phantom vision away. He flexed his fingers, feeling the static hum of power coil down his arm. His eyes lifted to the tower, where faint runes pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, answering him. "Moonfall taught me enough to know—cut the thread inside, it breaks out here."
Tynar's scarred mouth quirked into something that might have been a smirk—a rare crack in the grim mask he wore like second skin.
"Aye," he said, voice low, approving. "Weaver trick, old as the Rift Wars. Hollowborn twist it nastier. But you—you've dived before. You've felt it. Broke it."
He stepped closer, lifting his calloused hand. Runes flared along his forearm, and a violet shimmer spiraled between his fingers. The air rippled—a dream-veil flickering into view and vanishing just as fast.
"Now you fight it direct. Soul Reaper. Pull their mind in. Shred their shadow 'til the threads scream."
Kael's jaw tightened. Memory flickered behind his eyes—Moonfall's wreckage, Gavyn's tide drowning the streets, Lysa's bloodied market, Maraen's burning ship. Nightmares he'd ripped apart with his threads. Nightmares that still coiled in the dark corners of his mind.
"Dangerous is fine," he said, voice hard as the cracked stone underfoot.
The runes along his body flared brighter as he summoned a test surge—Thread Pulse: Unraveling Cry—a shock of light that flared between his fingers, humming in resonance with the ancient tower. The runes etched into its broken stones answered, humming back like a half-remembered song.
"Show me," Kael said, voice steady.
Tynar nodded once.
"Reach their core—flesh to flesh," he instructed, his tone almost reverent. "Then pull. Threads weave the dream—you dance it. Cut the fear loose—the will breaks. Hollowborn weave tight, boy. Ashka weaves tighter. Don't hesitate."
He lifted his chin and pointed north, where the sky darkened even more deeply, violet storms pulsing against the horizon. Out there, rift-flares burned like dying stars—scouts wandering lost, hunters waiting.
"Scout's alone out there. Good start. Move."
Kael felt a cold burn crawl up his arms, threading through his veins. The Tyrant's voice echoed again—Now…—a drumbeat in his skull.
Without a word, he followed.
⸻
The Wastes stretched before them, endless and gray, a graveyard of broken worlds. Cracked plains sprawled in every direction, studded by the crumbled remains of ancient ruins—old shrines, battle relics, forgotten monuments leaning like broken teeth. The wind howled ceaselessly, dry and sharp, scouring the land until nothing remained but dust and memory.
Tynar led them with the silent precision of a man who had spent his life on killing fields. Kael moved just behind him, his every step measured, the steady clink of his pack a low, grounding rhythm: Gavyn's sealed letter. Lysa's coin. Maraen's locket. The last ties to Moonfall—each one heavier than steel, each one a reminder.
The air grew denser as they moved. Harsher. The scent of the Rift grew stronger—ozone and burning thread. Ahead, a rift shimmered against the cracked horizon—small, but alive, its threads writhing like wounded snakes. A scout stood by its heart—a tall figure, lean and savage, armor stitched from shadow-thread, claws burning with rift-flame.
It hissed, a low, grating sound that vibrated through the ground.
"Kael…" it whispered, its voice a fractured echo of Ashka's chant, of the Tyrant's promise.
Tynar slowed, eye narrowing.
"Yours," he said simply. He stepped back, whip in hand, ready to intervene only if Kael failed. "Dive it. Cut it. No second chances."
Kael drew his dagger—a simple thing, rune-forged, the steel etched with light. The runes along his body blazed in answer, violet light cutting against the gathering gloom.
"Close, huh?" he muttered, flexing his hand.
Then he moved—Thread Step: Phantom Blitz!
The world blurred, threads snapping as he dashed forward in a flickering rush, ash exploding behind him. The scout reacted immediately—claws slashing down in a wide arc—Rift-Flame Slash!—a jagged scythe of black flame tearing through the air.
Kael flickered sideways—then again—dodging left and right in rapid, stuttering bursts of teleportation, each movement chained, each gap threaded perfectly. The arc of shadow-flame missed by inches, the ground exploding in a gout of fire and ash where it landed.
"Fast bastard," Kael grunted.
He leapt again—Thread Step: Sky Fang!—threads launching him skyward, flipping over the scout's head in a spinning arc of motion. He landed behind it, his boots skidding across the cracked stone, raising a fresh cloud of dust.
His hand lashed out—Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade!
A dozen luminous strands burst from his arm, weaving a rapid cyclone of slashing light. They carved into the scout's armor in a whirling flurry—sparks and violet blood spraying into the air as the scout roared in fury.
It spun to face him, its claws igniting with new light—Shadow-Thread Bind!
Dark chains of thread lashed out, seeking to snare him. Kael moved instinctively—Thread Wall: Reflecting Tempest!—a spinning barrier erupting around him, catching the binds mid-air. They shattered against the spinning wall of light, shards of broken thread rocketing outward.
Several shards pierced the scout's chest, sending it staggering, black ichor pouring from the wounds.
"Now!" Kael shouted, flickering forward with a final dash—Phantom Blitz!—his hand slamming against the scout's chest. Runes burned. Power coiled.
Dream Dive: Soul Reaper!
The world tore apart in a surge of light.
⸻
Ash became shadow. Stone twisted into jagged black glass. The air thickened, tasting of burning iron and rotted thread.
Kael landed hard in the heart of the scout's mindscape—a battlefield sculpted from nightmare.
A jagged plain stretched out under a sky clawed by violet flame. Rifts pulsed in every direction, raw and weeping, like open wounds. The scout loomed in the distance, its form monstrous now—twice its size in the waking world. Its armor had become a shifting shroud of living shadow-threads, its claws gleaming like scythes, whispering promises of oblivion.
It hissed again, the Tyrant's voice threading through its call:
"Kael… Serve…"
"No chance," Kael spat, summoning his power.
Thread Dance: Razor Weave!
Threads of pure light slashed outward, carving into the creature's shroud. It howled, shadow peeling away in violet sparks. Rage twisted its features.
The scout retaliated—Rift-Scythe Storm!
A whirlwind of spinning blades made from shadow-flame erupted around it, carving the air to ribbons.
Kael danced between the blades—Phantom Blitz! again and again, chaining rapid dashes, teleporting through the narrow gaps left by the deadly storm. Blades grazed his cloak, tore fresh rents into the fabric, but missed his flesh.
"Your mind," Kael snarled as he leapt again, Sky Fang! vaulting over the whirlwind and landing behind the creature, "your loss."
He unleashed another storm—Tempest Cascade!—the glowing strands whipping low, slicing into the creature's legs. It staggered, roaring in fury and pain.
The dream trembled around them.
Rifts bloomed open within the dream, showing flickering visions—a black cavern, its stone cracked and bleeding light. The Tyrant's prison. Its silhouette stirred—a vast, coiled mass of malice.
Ashka stood before it, weaving a gate with her hands. Threads of violet spiraled around her, pulling the rift-wounds together. Her voice rang through the dreamscape:
"Soon… Legion rises…"
Dark shapes clawed their way free of the cracks, hundreds of them, maybe thousands.
Kael's breath caught, fury burning bright through his terror.
"Not yet!" he roared, summoning Thread Pulse: Heart's Cry! from deep within. A wave of light exploded outward, crashing into the vision. Ashka's gate wavered but did not collapse.
The scout lunged again—Shadow-Thread Lash!—a net of shadow-chains whipping toward him.
Kael spun—Reflecting Tempest!—catching the threads and hurling shards back into the scout's chest, cracking its shroud again.
"Break!" he shouted.
He flickered forward—Phantom Blitz!—closing the final distance in an instant.
From the motion, he birthed something new—Thread Dance: Nightmare Lash!—spectral threads unraveling from his fingertips, whipping into the scout's core, draining its will, slicing its essence apart thread by thread.
The creature staggered.
Kael roared and unleashed Crescent Slash!—a blazing arc of pure light that cut the scout clean through.
The dream shattered into a blinding roar of light and ash.
⸻
Kael jolted awake, the Wastes spinning into focus.
The scout collapsed before him, reduced to a crumbling pile of ash, the last remnants of its corrupted soul flickering away.
He gasped, his chest heaving. His runes dimmed. Blood dripped from his nose in thin, steady rivulets. His hands shook from the strain.
Tynar knelt beside him in an instant, whip still coiled, his face unusually pale.
"Got it?" he demanded.
Kael wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, breathing hard.
"Ashka's gate," he rasped. "The prison's waking. She's pulling the rifts together. She's building a legion."
Tynar swore under his breath, a rare crack in his usually steady demeanor.
"Hollowborn's fast," he muttered. "Faster and stronger than I thought. You cut its mind clean. None better at your tier."
Kael staggered upright, his pack shifting against his back. Maraen's locket slipped free—he caught it instinctively, feeling its faint, steady pulse against his skin.
For Torm…
Maraen's voice, a thread tying him back to Moonfall, to all they'd fought to protect.
He tucked it away beside Gavyn's letter and Lysa's coin—three memories, three burdens. And now, three flames he would carry forward.
"More scouts?" he asked, voice raw but steady.
Tynar shook his head grimly and pointed north.
"Worse," he said.
Against the darkening horizon, a new tower loomed. Its runes pulsed with vicious life, bathing the cracked plains in violet fire.
"The Legion's heart," Tynar said. "Ashka's close. Maybe too close."
He clapped Kael on the shoulder, a rare show of approval.
"Train harder, king," he said. "Dreams show the way."
Kael turned toward the storms and the rising shadows, his runes flaring to life once more, the Tyrant's whisper hammering in his veins.
Now…
And he moved forward, the Ashen Wastes stretching wide before him.
Ready to cut the thread.