The undercity breathed like a dying thing.
Wet stone dripped with mildew. Rusted gates groaned open at the old man's touch. The deeper they went, the more the light dimmed, until Caelan could barely see his own hands. Only the old man's voice guided him.
"This place was a heart once," he said, tapping his cane against the stone. "Before the rot. Before the hunger."
"What happened?"
"Kings forgot it existed. Gods abandoned it. The Weave remembers what they don't."
The tunnel opened.
A forgotten chamber, circular and vast. Ancient murals covered the walls—gods with too many eyes, warriors with blades made of shadow, and something else—a throne eclipsed by a burning sun. The ceiling had long since collapsed, and roots spilled through the cracks like black veins.
The old man raised a hand, and Caelan felt it—a tug in the air. Threads.
They shimmered faintly.
Crimson. Gold. Silver.
And black.
Ashweave.
"This is where it starts," the man said. "Show me."
Caelan stood still. The sword at his side felt heavier now, like it had absorbed the silence of the place.
He reached. Not with fingers—with will. With that strange, jagged instinct rising in his blood.
Ash curled around his feet.
But then the pain came. Not physical. Worse.
Memories.
Her voice. Her scream.
The threads turned wild. The ash flared.
He fell to one knee.
The old man didn't move.
"Don't push it," he warned. "Feel it. Let it answer you."
Caelan bit down hard enough to draw blood.
And slowly, the ash began to spiral inward. Not chaotic. Controlled.
Not perfect. But enough.
A shard of darkness burst from his palm—raw and flickering. It scorched the stone. It smelled like burnt grief.
The old man nodded. "Better. You'll learn more through failure than success. But there's no room for either in death."
They trained until his limbs trembled.
Until the light above died.
Until the chamber forgot what warmth was.
Caelan collapsed against the wall, panting, hands raw.
The old man handed him a flask. Bitter liquid. It stung his throat.
"Why help me?" Caelan asked.
"Because I've seen what happens when power finds the wrong hands. And because, Caelan..." He leaned closer. "You're not the only heir."
Caelan froze. "What did you say?"
The man stood, cloak hissing over stone.
"Seven were born the night the sky split. One of them sits in the Silver Court. One wanders the Dusklands. One's already dead. And one… stands before me."
Caelan's pulse roared in his ears.
"You mean the Eclipse? That's just myth."
The old man smiled, bitter and cold. "So were gods. Until they bled."
They emerged from the undercity hours later, breath steaming in the midnight chill. Snow fell like ash.
Lowtown was silent. Unnaturally so.
The streets were empty.
And then Caelan saw them.
Bodies.
A trail of them—guards, beggars, even a child—limbs twisted, eyes burned black. Like the fire had come from within.
"What happened here?" Caelan whispered.
The old man knelt by a corpse. Ran fingers through the soot.
"Someone else has awakened."
He looked up, and for the first time, Caelan saw fear in his eyes.
"And they're not like you."
‹ Eclipsed Veil ›
Strength — 3
Willpower — 6
Perception — 7
Intelligence — 3
Charm — 2
Thread Control — 2
Resonance — 3
Resilience — 3
Compatibility: Ashweave — Waking
Soul Fracture: Type I — [Loss of Anchor]
New Entry: Unregistered Surge Detected — Western Lowtown
Eclipsed Veil evolving in response to ambient trauma.
Caelan closed the Veil.
The snow danced around his blade.
And for the first time since her death, he felt something like purpose.
He wasn't the only one marked by the eclipse.
But he would be the last one standing.
End of Chapter 4