The silence in the ruins pressed down on Caelan like a heavy shroud. His heart beat too fast, too hard in his chest. Each breath burned in his lungs as if the air itself were tainted. He staggered away from the throne, his fingers brushing the stone walls for support. His mind reeled, the weight of the figure's words crashing over him in waves.
You are not the only one marked.
He couldn't escape the thought. The tension in the air was suffocating, the Weave still calling to him, pulling at the threads inside him that were still wild, untamed. His vision flickered in and out, the remnants of the entity's presence lingering like a shadow in the edges of his perception.
The figure's words about the Weave, about the throne... it didn't make sense. If it was truly a prison, why did it feel so alive? So right?
He turned sharply, forcing himself to focus. The darkness in the temple was too thick. The weight of the Weave, of the Ashweave, was oppressive. He needed to leave, but the path to the door seemed impossibly long.
The stone beneath his feet cracked as he took another step. A tremor ran through the floor. Something was shifting, something beneath them, beneath the very foundation of the temple. He froze, listening. There was a low, pulsing hum. Like a heartbeat.
It wasn't the Weave. No, it was something else.
Suddenly, the ground beneath Caelan's feet split open with a thunderous crack, the very stone giving way. He barely had time to react, throwing his arms out in a desperate attempt to catch himself, but the ground gave way too quickly.
He fell.
The world blurred into darkness.
When Caelan woke, it was to the smell of burning wood and charred earth. His body was sore, every muscle screaming in protest. He pushed himself up, blinking against the sudden brightness that stung his eyes. Snow was still falling, but the storm had grown fiercer, biting at his skin.
His surroundings were unfamiliar. The ruins of the temple were gone, replaced by the charred remnants of a forest. Trees blackened by fire reached up to the sky like skeletal hands. The ground was scorched, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke.
He rose to his feet, the world spinning around him. There was something in the distance. A figure—no, shapes—moving through the smoke. His instincts screamed at him to stay hidden, to observe first before acting, but his curiosity outweighed his caution. Every instinct told him this was wrong, that this wasn't where he was supposed to be.
The figure—or rather, the shapes—moved closer. Two of them, cloaked in dark rags, their faces obscured. They didn't speak, but Caelan could feel their presence before he saw them. There was something about them, something... wrong.
His hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but the blade wasn't there. The weight of it had vanished, leaving a hollow, empty feeling in his gut.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice rough and jagged.
One of the figures turned, its cloak swirling like smoke in the wind. The air seemed to grow colder around it. A pair of glowing eyes flickered from beneath the hood. No voice, no words, just the overwhelming sense of something ancient and powerful.
It stepped forward.
The other figure followed, and Caelan's breath caught in his throat.
It wasn't a person. Not entirely.
What stood before him was a creature of fire and ash, its form shifting like liquid flame, its outline indistinct. It had no face, only a wide, jagged mouth that seemed to consume the air around it. The temperature around Caelan spiked, and he could feel the heat radiating from the creature's body.
"Are you the one?" the second figure spoke in a voice that rasped like dry leaves.
Caelan stood his ground, forcing his hand not to tremble. "The one for what?"
"The one who was marked," the first figure replied. Its voice sounded like a thousand whispers. "The one who carries the Ashweave."
His pulse quickened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The figure tilted its head, the glowing eyes narrowing. "You're lying."
Caelan's body tensed. The Ashweave surged within him, but not in the way it had before. The connection felt distorted, twisted, as though something had broken. The power was different now—darker, sharper. But it was still there. It was still part of him.
Suddenly, the creature lunged.
Instinct kicked in. Caelan barely dodged to the side, feeling the heat as the creature's fiery tendrils swiped through the space he'd just occupied. His heart pounded in his chest, but he didn't have time to think. He needed a weapon.
Before he could even react, the second figure—the one with glowing eyes—was upon him. Its hand shot out, fingers like iron claws, and Caelan felt the world tilt.
Pain.
A searing burn shot through his chest, and he cried out, falling backward. The figure's grip tightened around his heart, not physically, but mentally—psychically, as though it were pulling the very essence of him, his soul, from his body.
"No!" Caelan's voice was a scream of frustration, his body shuddering under the weight of the assault.
And then he felt it—the Ashweave. But not just the Ashweave. Something else. Something that answered his scream.
The power swelled inside him, a torrent of violent energy. He had no control over it, but it didn't matter. The Weave had come alive again, its threads swirling like a storm around him. The second figure's grip weakened, its form flickering like a fading ember.
With a violent shove, Caelan pushed the figure back, the raw power of the Ashweave crackling through the air like lightning. The creature screamed, its form twisting in agony.
The first figure stepped forward, raising its hand, and Caelan felt the pressure in the air shift. The second figure collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain, its fiery body dimming to embers.
"No." The figure's voice was cold. "You are not ready for this."
Caelan's eyes widened, and he realized—he was in over his head. The Weave was not something he could control, not like this. It was too wild, too hungry.
He stumbled back, the Ashweave receding, leaving him breathless, battered. The creature vanished, leaving nothing but the smell of smoke.
"Get up," the first figure said, its voice more commanding now. "You have much to learn. But you are not alone. Not anymore."