The battlefield lay before Torren Ashkarn like a festering scar, its blackened earth strewn with the remnants of war. Smoke drifted upward, thick with the stench of charred flesh and the metallic tang of rift-spawn ichor. His boots crunched over shattered stone as he stood atop a low rise, his ash-gray cloak snapping in the wind. The air buzzed faintly, charged with the fading energy of a rift he had just sealed—a jagged wound in reality now stitched shut, but only at a steep price.
His hands trembled, a lingering echo of the riftweaving he had wielded to close the tear. He clenched his fists, trying to still the shaking, but it persisted, a quiet testament to the power's cost. Forty-seven dead, sixty-three wounded: the numbers pressed against his skull, a burden that grew heavier with each skirmish. Torren exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the chill air, and turned his gaze to the horizon where the Dominion's banners still fluttered amid the chaos.
"General Ashkarn," a voice rasped behind him. Captain Rennick approached, his face lined with exhaustion, his armor dented and streaked with grime. "We've tallied the casualties, sir. It's not good."
Torren braced himself, his voice steady despite the weariness in his bones. "How many?"
"Forty-seven dead, sixty-three wounded," Rennick replied, his tone clipped. "And that's not counting the rift-spawn we lost control of. They're still loose in the western sector, tearing through anything in their path."
Torren's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his stubbled cheek. "Send a squad to contain them. We can't let them reach the villages."
Rennick nodded, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. "And the rift, sir? It's closed, but for how long?"
Torren glanced back at the scorched patch where the rift had gaped, its edges now a faint shimmer in the air. "It took everything we had," he admitted, his voice low. "I don't know how long it will hold. We need to reinforce the weave, but we're running thin on riftweavers."
Rennick shifted his weight, hesitating. "The men are tired, sir. Some are muttering about desertion. They say the rifts are getting worse, that we're fighting a war we can't win."
Torren's gaze sharpened, cutting through the haze of fatigue. "They can mutter all they want, but if we don't fight, the rifts will swallow everything—villages, cities, the Dominion itself. Remind them of that."
"Yes, sir," Rennick said, saluting crisply before turning to carry out the order.
Torren watched him go, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. The Emberfall Dominion had risen by taming the rifts, bending their chaotic power to fuel its armies and forges. Yet the cost was mounting, eroding the resolve of even its strongest generals. He wondered, not for the first time, if the Tapestry—the fragile web of reality they fought to preserve—could ever be truly mended.
A sudden shout snapped him from his reverie. Soldiers approached, dragging a figure between them: a man in tattered robes, his face gaunt, his eyes darting with a wild intensity. Sergeant Kell shoved the prisoner to his knees before Torren. "Found this one skulking near the rift site, General."
"Please," the man stammered, his voice hoarse with desperation. "I mean no harm. I'm a scholar, studying the rifts."
Torren arched an eyebrow, his tone dry. "A scholar? In the middle of a battlefield?"
The man nodded vigorously, clutching at the air as if to grasp his words. "Yes, I've discovered something vital. There's a pattern to the rifts, a rhythm to when and where they appear. If you'd just let me explain—"
"Take him to the holding area," Torren interrupted, waving a hand. "I'll speak with him later."
The soldiers hauled the prisoner away, his pleas fading into the clamor of the camp. Torren lingered on the man's words, a spark of curiosity igniting in his chest. A pattern. If there was truth to it, if they could predict the rifts' openings, it might shift the tide of this endless struggle. But such thoughts would have to wait—his immediate duty lay with the living, not in chasing theories.
He trudged toward the command tent, its canvas walls sagging under the weight of recent rains. Inside, maps sprawled across a rough-hewn table, marked with red ink where rifts had torn through the Dominion's borders. His officers stood in a loose semicircle, their faces a gallery of weariness and resolve. Lieutenant Mara spoke first, her voice cutting through the stale air. "General, we can't keep this up. Every rift we close spawns another. We're losing ground, and the men are losing hope."
Torren met her stare, unflinching. "I know, Mara. But what's the alternative? We abandon our posts, and the rifts consume everything. We fight because we must."
Captain Rennick cleared his throat, his tone more measured. "Maybe we're approaching this wrong. Instead of chasing every rift as it opens, we could try to predict them. There might be a pattern we've overlooked."
Torren's mind latched onto the idea, mirroring the scholar's claim. "It's possible," he said, leaning over the map. "Assign a team to analyze the rift locations. Look for anything—timing, geography, energy surges. If there's a pattern, we need to find it."
Mara crossed her arms, her lips a thin line. "And the rift-spawn? They're getting bolder, more coordinated. It's like something's guiding them."
Torren's gut twisted. He'd seen it too—the way the creatures moved with purpose, their attacks less random than before. "Increase patrols and fortify the camps," he ordered. "But the rifts remain our focus. Stop them, and the spawn become a lesser threat."
The officers murmured their assent, though skepticism lingered in their eyes. Torren dismissed them, needing solitude to wrestle with his thoughts. He stepped outside, the night air cool against his sweat-damp skin. The camp sprawled around him, a patchwork of flickering torches and huddled figures. He moved among the soldiers, pausing to offer a nod or a quiet word. Their faces—some young, some scarred—looked to him for strength, and he gave it, though his own reserves felt perilously thin.
In his tent, he sank onto a stool before a small brazier, its flames casting shadows across the canvas. Memories flickered unbidden: a village ablaze under his command, its thatched roofs collapsing as the rift's hunger spread. He had ordered the fires to contain it, to save the Dominion from a greater collapse, but the screams of those trapped within still haunted him. He reached for a flask at his belt, the burn of liquor sharp against his tongue, yet it only sharpened the guilt.
"Why do I keep doing this?" he murmured, the words barely audible over the fire's crackle. "For duty, or for the power I can't let go?"
Riftweaving was a blade with no hilt—it cut as deeply into the wielder as the enemy. The first time he'd touched it, years ago under Master Eldric's tutelage, the rush had been intoxicating: reality bending to his will, the Tapestry's threads humming beneath his fingers. But each use since had dulled the thrill, leaving a hollow ache, a hunger for more that gnawed at his soul. His body bore the marks too—tremors, fatigue, a creeping frailty he hid from his troops.
A knock at the tent flap jolted him upright. "Enter," he called, his voice rough.
Rennick stepped inside, his expression grim. "General, there's something you need to see."
Torren followed him to the camp's edge, where a knot of soldiers guarded an oddity: a crystalline structure, its facets pulsing with a faint, eerie light. It stood as tall as a man, its surface smooth yet fractured, reflecting the torchlight in unnatural hues.
"What is it?" Torren asked, his hand drifting to his sword's hilt.
"We don't know," Rennick said, his brow furrowed. "It appeared after the rift closed. Some think it's a shard of the rift itself, but it's… different."
Torren stepped closer, the air around the crystal thrumming with energy. It felt akin to riftweaving's power, yet steadier, less volatile. "A Weaver artifact, maybe," he said, half to himself. "Something left from the Tapestry's making."
Rennick shrugged, uneasy. "Could be. But why here? Why now?"
Torren had no answers, only a growing sense of possibility—and peril. "Secure it," he ordered. "Keep it under guard. I'll study it come morning."
Back in his tent, he paced, the crystal's image burned into his mind. If it held secrets of the Tapestry, it could be a weapon against the rifts—or a lure to deeper ruin. He thought of Eldric's lessons, the old master's voice steady in his memory: "Riftweaving is control, Torren, not conquest. Respect the Tapestry, or it will unravel you." He'd strayed from that wisdom, pushing boundaries in desperation, and now he teetered on a precipice.
Morning brought no respite. Torren summoned his officers to the command tent, the crystal's discovery weighing on his words. "This artifact could be key to understanding the rifts," he said, gesturing to a sketch Rennick had made. "I want a team on it—scholars, riftweavers—but proceed with caution."
Mara's eyes narrowed. "General, we're stretched thin as it is. We can't spare the manpower."
"I know the risk," Torren replied, his tone firm. "But if it gives us an edge, it's worth it. I'll oversee it myself."
Rennick nodded. "I'll assign our best, sir."
The discussion was cut short by a messenger bursting in, his breath ragged. "General Ashkarn, urgent orders from the capital."
Torren took the letter, its wax seal cracking under his thumb. The message was stark: "Rift activity surging near the Hollowed Waste. All forces mobilize immediately."
His heart thudded. The Hollowed Waste—a desolate expanse where the First Shatter had torn the Tapestry centuries ago, leaving a land of ash and whispers. If rifts were awakening there, the Dominion faced a threat beyond its battered legions.
He faced his officers, his voice iron. "Ready the troops. We march for the Waste at dawn."
As they dispersed, Torren lingered, the weight of the journey settling over him. Fear gnawed at his resolve, but beneath it burned a flicker of hope. In the Waste, amid the ashes of the past, he might find answers—or a chance to redeem the blood on his hands.