Chapter 15: The Widow's Lament
The reset hit like a fist of cold light, snapping Kael's consciousness back to the windswept cliffs of Moonfall. Reality lurched—then steadied.
Above him, the rift-moon loomed vast and violet, its jagged halo a bleeding wound in the starless sky. Shadows spilled from its edge like ink, clawing deeper into the night. Kael stood still for a heartbeat, heart drumming to the pulse of runes etched into his skin. The cold hum was there again—constant, droning—an ache behind his eyes that only grew with each loop. Below, the sea churned in restless swells, black and unforgiving.
Two days left.
Again.
Gavyn hauled his net on the dock's edge, muscles taut, hands practiced. Lysa sat by her crates, counting her coins with a merchant's care. Maraen… not yet. The drowned cave—its rift-beast—the memory of their battle still clung to his bones, but it hadn't happened yet. The runes had rewound time with surgical precision, the echoes of battle and storm now just a taste of something waiting to stir again.
Kael pressed his fingers to his temple. The hum from the cliffs grew sharper with each reset, the words that threaded through it like a tightening noose: "Soon…"
The Sleeping Tyrant's whisper.
He could feel it in his marrow—time unraveling, the dream pulling tighter with every cycle. The drowned cave would not wait forever. But he needed more. Another dream. Another lock to break.
Another thread.
His boots splashed over the slick stone as he strode toward the docks. The salt wind slapped his face, laced with the scent of brine and old rope. He found Gavyn near the moored skiffs, the fisherman's spear gleaming faintly in the torchlight, seaweed clinging to his boots.
"Gavyn," Kael said, voice low.
The fisherman turned, brow lifting. "You're back earlier this time."
Kael didn't respond to that. Not directly. "The widow—Maraen. Where's she staying?"
Gavyn squinted, his hands pausing mid-coil as he looped a net. "Up the hill, near the old lighthouse. Keeps to herself. Lost her man in the Riftstorm, years ago. Why?"
"She's next," Kael said, his rune-hand twitching. Faint violet light bled through the cracks in his glove. "Fisherman. Merchant. Widow. The Moonweaver's drawing them in. It's not random—it's weaving. Patterns matter."
Gavyn's mouth flattened into a grim line. He tossed the net aside without another word and nodded. "Then let's go."
They moved swiftly through the winding paths of Moonfall, past shuttered homes and broken shutters. The village sagged under the weight of forgotten hope, and from every shadow, someone muttered, "Moon's falling…" A cry half warning, half prayer.
The lighthouse loomed ahead like a broken tooth, its once-proud beacon now a hollow eye staring out into the void. Beside it sat a weathered cottage, hunched and gray, its stones worn by time and wind. The sea raged far below, waves crashing against the cliff's foot.
Maraen stood just outside her door, a slender figure wrapped in a frayed shawl. Her silver hair danced in the wind, and her eyes stared out toward the dark horizon. She clutched a small silver locket in both hands. Her lips moved faintly, murmuring words Kael could barely catch.
"Gone… sinking… Torm…"
She swayed on her feet as though caught in a tide no one else could feel. Her gaze was vacant, pupils glassy. Not asleep—but far from awake. Her breath came in uneven pulls, like she was trying to breathe through water.
"Like us," Gavyn murmured, tightening his grip on the spear. "She's already too deep in it."
Kael stepped forward, kneeling before her. He raised his rune-marked hand—its glow colder than frost, threads whispering along his veins. "Maraen. I'm here."
There was no response. But Kael heard it again. A whisper—faint but sharp—threading through her breath.
"Soon…"
He looked up at Gavyn. "Guard the door. Whatever happens… don't let it in."
The fisherman nodded grimly, planting his spear beside the threshold. "You dive, I stand."
Kael exhaled, then pressed his palm against Maraen's chest, over her heart. The runes surged, light cracking through the air like shattered glass. The world blurred—colors smearing—and the veil tore open with a sound like the sky being ripped apart.
⸻
A storm screamed around him.
Kael slammed into soaked wood, the deck groaning beneath him. He staggered to his feet as the dreamscape formed around him—a ghost ship, its timbers rotted and patched with barnacles, adrift on a black sea that stretched into forever. Tattered sails flailed in the wind like torn banners of mourning.
Above, the sky boiled with violet lightning. The rift-moon was massive here, its cracked surface bleeding light. Every bolt of lightning fractured into dozens of thin lines across the sky, webbing the heavens in threads of agony.
At the helm stood Maraen.
Or what remained of her.
She was taller here, wrapped in a shawl of wind and stormlight, her eyes weeping black shadow. The locket around her neck pulsed with threads of grief so thick they curled in the air like smoke. Her mouth opened—and a keening wail spilled forth, the sound of grief too deep to name. The ship trembled.
"Maraen!" Kael shouted, bracing against the wet deck. His voice was nearly lost in the wind. She turned toward him—and her scream sharpened into a spear.
She thrust her hands forward.
The locket flared.
Threads of shadow erupted from her chest like a tempest, spiraling in wild arcs of anguish. Kael dove sideways—Thread Step: Phantom Drift!—his body fracturing into afterimages, threads trailing behind him like fading starlight. The shadows sliced through the mast, which exploded into splinters.
"Gone!" she screamed, and the sound nearly broke him. Her voice tore through the dreamscape, shaping it with grief.
The threads wove into forms—figures rising from mist and memory. A spectral crew, sailors of bone and fog, their harpoons burning with shadowflame. They moved in jerks, marionettes of sorrow.
They attacked.
Kael spun—Thread Dance: Razor Weave!—his hands moving in arcs, threads lashing outward in luminous fury. Strands of violet cut through the ghostly crew, sparks bursting from each strike. The dream groaned under the strain, but Maraen's storm only intensified.
The ship listed violently as a wave rose—towering, black, crested with skeletal hands. They clawed at the sky.
Kael planted his feet—Thread Wall: Shatter Pulse!—a glowing dome bursting from his palm. The wave struck like a hammer against anvil, detonating in a ring of foam and broken limbs. The hands shrieked as they dissolved.
"I'm not your enemy!" Kael shouted, threads burning in his veins.
Maraen screamed in reply, louder than before. "He's lost again!"
The locket surged, and from the sea rose a second ship—this one monstrous, twisted by the Rift. Its hull was warped wood and flesh, the figurehead a snarling beast with jaws of bone and fire. It came fast, tearing through waves—
—and rammed the deck.
Kael launched skyward—Thread Step: Sky Fang!—his leap a luminous streak as he flipped through the storm, landing atop a rail just as the ship groaned beneath him.
He didn't hesitate—Thread Lance: Falling Star!—he hurled a glowing spear downward. It pierced the enemy ship's deck, exploding in violet fire. The figurehead screamed, a gout of flame vomiting toward him—
Thread Dance: Spiral Evasion!—threads twisted around his form, deflecting the blaze as he tumbled through the air, landing hard on the upper deck.
Behind Maraen, something stirred.
A silhouette—tall, curved like a scythe. Its presence was a void in the storm, its whisper slicing through the thunder.
"Soon…"
The Moonweaver. Not just a symbol. A tethered extension of the Sleeping Tyrant itself. Watching.
Kael's blood turned to ice.
"Not her!" he snarled and surged forward.
Spectral crew closed in again. Thread Dance: Crescent Slash!—he carved a shining arc through their misty bodies, the path to Maraen opening for a breath.
She raised her locket. Threads struck like whips.
Thread Dance: Binding Lash!—Kael's counter lashed back, glowing tendrils entangling her wrists, holding the storm at bay.
Maraen struggled, sobbing. "He's gone!"
"I know," Kael said softly, threads holding fast. "But your grief isn't yours anymore. It's his leash."
He saw it then—a sunken helm behind her, half-buried in shattered planks. A ship's wheel, etched in the same ancient runes Kael had followed across dreams. Faint light pulsed from its center.
"There," he hissed.
The Moonweaver lunged.
Thread Wall: Vortex Shield!—he raised it in time. Light clashed with shadow. The barrier cracked, splinters flying, but held long enough. Kael rolled, diving past Maraen—hand slamming onto the helm.
Thread Pulse: Unraveling Cry!
Threads erupted like vines, snaring the runes. The helm ignited with violet light. The dream screamed. The sea collapsed inward. Maraen's locket blinked once—then dimmed.
And the storm—
—was gone.
⸻
Kael gasped awake beside the cottage. Cold night. Real night. Maraen collapsed beside him, clutching her locket to her chest, her eyes wet.
"Torm…" she whispered. "I saw him… sinking… again…"
"You're free," Kael murmured. He placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. His own hands trembled.
Gavyn crouched beside them, eyes wide. "She's back," he breathed. His gaze shifted to the rift-moon above, its shadow a darker cut against the stars. "What'd she see?"
Kael stood slowly, cloak damp with storm-dream. "A ship. Her husband's. Swallowed by the Rift. The Moonweaver used it—fed on her grief."
Maraen lifted her gaze, her silver hair tangled in the wind. "It spoke to me. Said it'd rise again. Said the cave would open in three days, with the tide."
Gavyn's grip on his spear tightened. "Same place as Lysa's vision. That drowned hole."
Kael nodded, the rune-light flickering along his palm. "Then we've got its name. And its lair."
He clenched his fist.
Thread Reset: Tide's Turn!
Time snapped.
The cottage blurred.
Gavyn's net hit the dock.
Lysa counted coins again.
Maraen stood by her door, locket clutched tight.
And Kael stood once more on the cliff, the rift-moon howling above, its whisper louder now—
"Soon…"
His resolve burned.
Two days.
Then the storm would break.