The night sky above Lowtown was a blanket of black, streaked with pale light from distant stars. Snow still fell, soft and silent, but it was colder now. Caelan's breath formed clouds in the air, each exhale sharp against his throat. He walked without direction, the crunch of boots on snow the only sound accompanying him.
His mind was a battlefield, torn between the weight of the figure's words and the raw, chaotic power still thrumming in his chest. He could still feel the Ashweave, still hear it in the back of his mind, its whispers clawing at the edges of his thoughts. The weight of it, the hunger, the need to control it—it was all too much.
He needed to focus. The figure had warned him, but he couldn't understand what it had meant. There was no time to figure it out. The trail of bodies in Lowtown still burned in his memory. The unregistered surge. Someone else had awakened, and they weren't like him.
Caelan paused in the middle of the street, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The world seemed to spin. He could feel the weight of his own presence, the darkness surrounding him, and yet… he was empty. His hands clenched at his sides, aching from the effort to hold himself together. Every part of him wanted to collapse, to give in to the darkness that felt so natural.
Instead, he forced himself to move. He wasn't done yet. Not while there was still a chance to stop this.
He made his way toward the ruins of the old temple, the place where the echoes of the past still whispered. There, he hoped to find some answers.
The old man's words resurfaced—The Weave remembers what they don't. But the Weave was no longer a simple tool. It was a curse. A sickness. A call.
The ruins loomed in front of him, dark and jagged against the snowy backdrop. The temple had once been a place of reverence, but now it was nothing more than a hollow shell, abandoned by time and by those who had forgotten its purpose. But for Caelan, it felt like a beacon, drawing him in.
As he stepped inside, the air shifted. The scent of decay mixed with something older, something colder. The walls were covered in faded murals, just like the chamber he had trained in, but these were different. These images didn't show gods or warriors—they showed something far older. Something darker.
A throne. But not the same throne. This one was different, its design twisted, crowned with a dark sun, its shadow stretching across the room. The Weave swirled in the air around it, a palpable force, alive in the space between moments.
"Caelan," a voice called out from the darkness.
He turned, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword at his side, but again, it wasn't there. The figure stepped from the shadows, a familiar presence that chilled him to the bone.
"You," Caelan growled, stepping back. His pulse hammered in his chest, his breath shallow. The figure's glowing eyes seemed to pierce through him, deeper than any flesh, deeper than any soul.
"I thought I had left you behind," Caelan muttered, voice tight with anger. "What do you want now?"
The figure didn't respond at first. It simply stood there, its presence oppressive, yet calm.
"You're still a child," the figure said, its voice softer now, less mocking. "You don't understand yet. Not fully."
"Understand what?" Caelan snapped, the words bitter on his tongue. "That I'm not supposed to control this power? That I'm just a pawn in your game?" His voice trembled with something darker—rage, or fear, or both.
The figure tilted its head. "No. I told you already, you are an echo. An echo of something much older, much more dangerous than you realize."
The words sank into Caelan's skin like ice. His eyes flicked to the throne, to the shadow cast across the room by the dark sun. Something about it felt... familiar. It was as if the throne was calling to him.
"What is this place?" he asked, his voice low, strained.
"The heart of it all," the figure said. "The birthplace of the Weave. The throne you see before you is not a symbol of power. It is a trap. A prison. The Weave was never meant to be wielded by mortals. But you—" it paused, its gaze turning cold. "You are already in its grip."
The room seemed to pulse, the darkness itself alive, breathing in and out, drawing Caelan closer. He fought against the pull, his mind screaming at him to run, to get out before it was too late. But the throne... it was so close. He could feel the threads of the Weave surrounding him, curling in the air like serpents. They wanted him. Needed him.
"I won't be your puppet," Caelan spat, though his voice lacked conviction. He could feel the Weave trying to drag him in, inch by inch. He could feel the Ashweave inside him stirring again, wild and untamed.
"You already are," the figure whispered. "You just don't know it yet."
Caelan staggered back, his chest tight. The shadows pressed against him, the weight of the figure's words settling into his bones like stone. His vision blurred. The room spun. His knees buckled beneath him.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't—
Suddenly, the figure was gone.
The pressure vanished.
Caelan gasped for air, clutching at the cold stone beneath him. He dragged himself to his feet, his head spinning. The room was still. Empty. The throne was silent.
He wasn't sure how long he had been on the ground, but it felt like hours.
"You are not the only one marked," the figure's words echoed in his mind. "But you will be the last one standing."
The memory of those words chilled him deeper than any cold night.
And for the first time, Caelan realized the weight of what he was carrying. The weight of the throne. The weight of the Weave. The weight of a world that was crumbling around him.
And the shadow of something far worse.