Chapter 25: The First Stand
The Ashen Wastes thrummed with a restless hum, a low, vibrating dirge that seeped into Kael's bones. Over the northern horizon, violet storms churned, their swirling cores a tapestry of rage and broken skies where rifts pulsed like jagged, festering wounds. Each beat of the storm sent threads of tension through the cracked earth, stirring the ash into low, whispering clouds.
Kael moved steadily through the chaos, the ruined Weaver tower behind him a dim shadow against the bruised horizon. Its faint runes—once bright with purpose—were now little more than dying memories, their light gutted by failure. Ashka's gate had stood there once—an anchor against the Tyrant's prison. Now, it was just another tombstone in a world fraying at the seams.
Blood crusted Kael's nose, an iron tang biting his senses with every breath. His cloak hung from his shoulders in tattered strips, whipped relentlessly by the wind, but he pressed on, his boots grinding against the cracked stone. His steps were firm, unwavering. He could not afford to falter.
Not now.
Within him, his runes glowed a dim, restless violet, the aftermath of his last invocation—the Soul Reaper—still bleeding strain through every thread of his body. And deeper still, beneath flesh and rune, the Tyrant's voice stirred—sharp, intimate, a thread wound tight in his mind.
"Now…" it whispered, a silken pull tightening with every heartbeat, drawing him toward the storm like a hound to its master.
Beside him, Tynar broke the heavy silence, his voice a low rasp that barely carried over the keening wind.
"You feel it, don't you?" Tynar said, his scarred hand gesturing toward the distant pulse of light. "Gate's close. Rifts are merging—Ashka's weaving harder than ever. No more scouts. What's coming now…" he paused, spitting into the ash. "…are soldiers. Real ones. Gifted-tier. Hollowborn-forged. Fast, brutal, damn hard to kill."
Kael's gaze didn't waver from the north. His fingers flexed at his side, threads already coiling from his palm in instinctive preparation. They moved quicker now, sharper, more aggressive—gifts from Tynar's relentless training. His body ached from it, but it ached in the right ways.
"Then I'll hit harder," Kael said, voice low, flint-hard.
Tynar's crooked smile cracked through his grim face, a glint of fierce approval in his one good eye. He lifted his hand—and the runes etched deep into his skin flared with sudden violet fury. Threads erupted, spiraling with a rapid velocity, and then—
Boom.
A burst of force exploded outward, ten meters off, scattering the ash in a geyser of dust and debris. The very ground beneath them trembled.
"Weaver's Wrath," Tynar said, lowering his hand. "Rune-pulse technique. Doubles your threads—speed, strength, flow. You'll need it to break Hollowborn armor. Hit 'em 'til they're dust on the wind."
Kael tilted his head, watching the fading smoke from Tynar's demonstration. His mind flashed back to Moonfall—where his techniques had torn through rift-wraiths and clawed beasts. Where he had survived, barely, by chaining Tempest Cascade, Reflecting Tempest, Razor Weave…
But these would be no ordinary Hollowborn. He could feel it in the pulse of the land itself. Stronger. Smarter.
"Doubles it?" he repeated, skepticism coiled around his words. He flexed his right hand, the runes along his arm humming to life. Threads of faint violet light licked outward, testing the air.
"Not just doubles," Tynar growled, stepping closer. "It forces your power to spike—burns your core hotter, forces your will sharper. It's a burst, not a flood—you won't sustain it long without tearing yourself apart. But if you time it right…" He let the thought trail off with a brutal grin.
"Show me again," Kael said, dagger slipping loose from his belt in a fluid, practiced motion.
Tynar chuckled under his breath. "Feel the burn, Kael. Sync your runes to your will—then push. Fast, fierce, reckless."
He thrust his hand forward again—Rune Pulse: Weaver's Wrath!—runes flaring with violent intensity. Threads doubled instantly, a cyclone of force ripping outward, shredding a nearby boulder into dust with a sharp crack.
Kael narrowed his eyes. His turn.
He focused inward, the familiar weight of his runes pressing against his consciousness like a coiled serpent. He commanded the threads outward—Rune Pulse!—but only a sputter answered. Threads flickered, surged briefly…then guttered out, leaving a numb sting racing up his arm.
"Pathetic," Kael muttered, jaw tight with frustration.
"Harder!" Tynar barked, whip cracking sharply beside him. A blast of dust stung Kael's face, making his eyes water.
"Burn it out! Now!"
Grinding his teeth, Kael forced his mind into sharper focus, funneling every shred of will into his runes. He envisioned the threads not merely obeying him—but becoming him.
Rune Pulse: Weaver's Wrath!
This time, the surge answered his call.
Violet light erupted from his runes in a fierce, blinding storm. Threads multiplied, doubling in speed and density, slashing outward in brilliant arcs that carved deep scars into the ash and stone.
The earth shook beneath his feet. Dust exploded in every direction.
Kael stumbled back, gasping, the searing power making his bones feel like molten iron inside his skin. But the storm of threads sang to him—a perfect, furious harmony.
"Strong," he rasped, fighting to steady his breathing.
Tynar nodded once, a grim satisfaction settling across his brutalized features. "Stronger than any I've trained. Good. You'll need it."
Northward, the violet storm pulsed again—louder, harsher, an audible hum threading through the Wastes like a living scream. Figures emerged from the swirling chaos—dark silhouettes armored in shadow-thread and rift-flame.
Five of them. Tall, broad-shouldered, their weapons glowing with malevolent power. Gifted-tier soldiers, not scouts.
Their hissing voices slithered through the storm, fusing with the Tyrant's whisper.
"Kael…"
Kael's runes blazed brighter, responding to the summons. His dagger glinted in the dying light.
"Big bastards," he muttered, a half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ashka's serious now."
"Deadly serious," Tynar warned, uncoiling his whip with a crack. "Your stand. No retreat."
The soldiers moved in a coordinated wave, a deadly line of advance. Their shadow-threaded swords swung wide—Rift-Flame Barrage!—sending arcs of molten darkness scything across the battlefield.
Kael didn't hesitate. His runes pulsed—Thread Step: Phantom Blitz!—and he vanished in a blur of violet streaks, teleporting left, then right, his form chaining dashes through the rain of death.
Ash geysered where the arcs struck the ground, cratering the battlefield.
"Too many!" Kael barked over the roar of the storm.
He focused—threads weaving in rapid succession—Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade!—a furious storm of glowing strands erupting around him. The first soldier took the brunt of it, staggering back as the blades carved deep rents into its armor, shadow bleeding from its wounds.
The second lunged forward—Shadow-Thread Slash!—violet blades trailing from its sword, moving jaggedly.
Kael countered instantly—Thread Wall: Reflecting Tempest!—a swirling barrier of light intercepting the slash. Shards of force rocketed outward, peppering the soldier's arm and shoulder, splitting its armor open in a spray of shadow ichor.
"Back off!" Kael snarled, flickering into another Phantom Blitz!, appearing behind the second soldier, dagger flashing downward—Thread Dance: Razor Weave!—strands of light slicing through its back in rapid succession. Ash burst forth in smoking clouds.
Another enemy shifted tactics—claws fusing together—Rift-Ash Volley!—a bombardment of ash orbs rained down, thick and choking.
Kael spun—Thread Wall: Reflecting Tempest!—and caught the onslaught, deflecting the orbs into explosive bursts that staggered the enemy line.
A fourth soldier attempted to ensnare him—Shadow-Thread Bind!—but Kael reacted, executing a flawless Thread Step: Sky Fang!—propelling himself high into the air, flipping over the entangling chains.
"They're adapting!" Kael called, even as the fifth soldier unleashed a monstrous Rift-Flame Crescent!, the fiery arc cleaving toward him like a scythe.
"Cut it!" Tynar shouted, whip cracking again to draw attention.
Kael's runes surged hotter—Rune Pulse: Weaver's Wrath!—threads multiplying in a violent storm.
Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade! erupted from him, the whirlwind of glowing strands slicing the Rift-Flame Crescent apart in a shower of violet sparks and crumbling shadows.
"No holding back," Kael growled under his breath.
He blurred forward—Phantom Blitz!—closing the distance with terrifying speed, his dagger flashing, his threads slashing in perfect, deadly rhythm.
One by one, the soldiers fell to his relentless storm—Tempest Cascade shredding them, Razor Weave carving deep, mortal wounds. Their armor cracked, their bodies dissolved into drifting ash.
The rift-tower itself shuddered under the assault—its base fractured by the shockwaves of their battle.
Kael landed hard, blood trickling from cuts on his face and arms. His dagger hung loosely in his hand. His runes dimmed, spent but not broken.
Tynar strode toward him, whip coiled again, a grim pride in his voice.
"Gifted-tier kings…" Tynar said, shaking his head. "And you shredded them like wheat."
From atop the rift-tower, a new shadow appeared—tall, cloaked in threads of violet light. A scythe-like silhouette. Ashka.
Her voice lanced through the storm:
"Kael… Strong… Soon…"
The Tyrant's whisper braided with hers, more intimate than ever.
And then she was gone, swallowed by the roaring storm.
Kael wiped blood from his cheek, feeling the lingering sting of her gaze. His heart hammered, not from fear—but from anticipation.
"She's taunting me," he muttered, his knuckles tightening around the dagger.
But he could still hear them—Gavyn's booming laugh, Lysa's playful insults, Maraen's steady voice—all echoing in his mind. They anchored him, kept him from slipping into the Tyrant's hunger.
The keepsakes hidden in his pack—Gavyn's letter, Lysa's coin, Maraen's locket—seemed to burn against his back like brand marks.
"What's next?" Kael asked, voice hard as stone, turning his eyes northward.
Ahead, the heart of the storm pulsed—rifts converging in a maelstrom of violet fire.
Tynar pointed toward it grimly.
"Tower's heart," he said. "Ashka's weaving it. If we don't sever it—everything here burns."
Kael nodded once. His runes reignited, steady and fierce.
The Ashen Wastes stretched before him, a broken battlefield. But he was ready.
Strongest of the Gifted.
Forged by storms.
Bound by threads.
And ready to cut the Tyrant's legion apart.