The sea churned beneath the Wraith's Mercy, a weathered carrack that groaned with every swell, its salt-crusted timbers protesting the weight of its passengers and their purpose. The Sunken Isles loomed on the horizon, a jagged necklace of volcanic rock and coral reefs shrouded in mist that seemed to pulse with an unnatural rhythm. The sky was a bruised tapestry of indigo and gray, its clouds torn by streaks of violet light—rift scars that flickered like distant lightning, a constant reminder of the Tapestry's fraying seams. Kaelith Varn stood at the ship's prow, her tattered cloak snapping in the briny wind, the shard sewn into its hem glowing with a warmth that burned against her skin. Her gray eyes, shadowed with exhaustion, fixed on the Isles, searching for signs of the heart they'd risked everything to find. The air was thick with the scent of seaweed and storm, and each breath tasted of salt and something sharper, like the tang of blood.
Behind her, Torren Ashkarn leaned against the railing, his broad frame steady despite the ship's sway. His ash-gray cloak was stained with the Waste's dust and fresh blood from a gash on his arm, hastily bandaged but still seeping. His scarred hands gripped the wood, knuckles white, as if anchoring himself against the riftweaving that simmered beneath his skin—a crimson glow that flared faintly with his pulse. Sylvara Ren sat cross-legged on a coil of rope, her auburn braid unraveling in the wind, her satchel open beside her as she sorted herbs with trembling fingers. Her green eyes darted between her companions and the sea, her face a mix of resolve and unease. Rhydian Thalor prowled the deck, his lean form restless, his sharp blue eyes scanning the crew with the wariness of a man who'd learned trust was a luxury. The Weaver tablet, tucked inside his coat, pressed against his ribs, its runes a silent chant of secrets and warnings.
Their journey had been forged in fire and shadow. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, sparked by the Codex page's promise of a heart to mend the Tapestry, had led her through betrayal and rifts to the Waste's desolate heart. Torren's desertion from the Emberfall Dominion, driven by guilt over the lives his riftweaving had claimed, had pushed him to seek redemption in the standing stones' map. Sylvara's mission from the Verdant Hollow, fueled by rift-tainted herbs and her elders' cryptic faith, had drawn her to the ruin's mural, confirming the Isles as their goal. Rhydian, wrestling with his Riftborn heritage in the Sunken Isles' treacherous waters, had survived Vex's betrayal to join them, his tablet echoing Kaelith's shard. The Weaver's Voice, with its taunts of betrayal and doom, had haunted them since the Waste, its presence a blade held to their throats.
"This ship's a deathtrap," Rhydian muttered, pausing to kick a loose plank. The wood splintered under his boot, revealing a glimpse of dark water below. "One good wave, and we're swimming with the sharks."
Torren snorted, his voice rough as gravel. "You'd rather walk to the Isles, Thalor? Complain less, watch more. That crew's eyeing us like we're cargo to sell."
Kaelith turned, her gaze sharp. "They're mercenaries, not fools. They know we're paying in gold—and secrets. Keep your hands off your blades unless they move first."
Sylvara looked up from her herbs, a sprig of lavender twirling between her fingers. "They're scared," she said softly, her voice nearly lost in the wind. "I heard them whispering last night—about rifts swallowing ships, about the Isles being cursed. They think we're mad to go there."
"They're not wrong," Rhydian said, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Madness is about the only thing holding us together. That and your weeds, Ren."
"They're not weeds," Sylvara shot back, her cheeks flushing. "This lavender calms nerves, and the yarrow's saved your hide twice now. Show some respect."
Rhydian raised his hands in mock surrender. "Easy, forest girl. I'm grateful—just not sure your plants'll do much against whatever's waiting out there."
Torren's eyes narrowed, flicking to the horizon. "Something's waiting, alright. Feel that hum? Like a rift, but deeper. It's been growing since dawn."
Kaelith's hand brushed the shard, its pulse syncing with her heartbeat. "I feel it too," she said, her voice low. "It's not just a rift. It's… calling."
"Calling?" Sylvara's brow furrowed, her fingers pausing over a vial of glowing sap. "Like in the Waste? You mean the shard's talking to you?"
"Not talking," Kaelith said, struggling for words. "Guiding. Like it knows where we need to be. It's stronger here, closer to the Isles."
Torren's jaw tightened. "Last time we followed that thing, we nearly died. You sure it's not leading us into a trap?"
Kaelith met his gaze, her expression unyielding. "I'm sure it's leading us to the heart. Trap or not, we don't have a choice. The Tapestry's unraveling—rifts are spreading, and the Voice isn't sitting idle. We stop now, we lose everything."
Rhydian leaned against a mast, his voice dry. "She's got a point, Ashkarn. Besides, traps are my specialty. If it's a fight, I'll take my chances with you lot over that shadow-thing any day."
Sylvara managed a small smile, though her eyes were troubled. "Together, then. Like always."
The ship lurched, a sudden wave slamming its hull. The crew shouted, scrambling to secure ropes as the deck tilted. Kaelith gripped the railing, her lantern swinging wildly, its crystal casting jagged shadows. "Hold on!" she called, her voice cutting through the chaos.
Torren braced himself, his riftweaving flaring instinctively, a red glow wrapping his hands. "This isn't just a storm," he growled, his eyes scanning the sea. "Look—there."
Beyond the bow, the water churned, a whirlpool forming where none should be. Its center glowed with the same violet light as a rift, its hum rising to a scream that vibrated through the ship's timbers. The crew froze, their faces pale, some muttering prayers to forgotten gods.
"Rift," Rhydian confirmed, his dagger already drawn. "And it's big. Bigger than the Waste."
Kaelith's shard burned, its light piercing her cloak. "It's not random," she said, her voice steady despite the fear clawing her chest. "It's here for us."
Sylvara stood, her satchel clutched tight. "What do we do? We can't sail through that!"
"We don't," Torren said, his sword unsheathed, its blade glinting red. "We fight whatever comes out. Get ready."
The whirlpool widened, and from its depths emerged rift-spawn—grotesque creatures of coral and shadow, their bodies studded with crystalline spines that shimmered like shattered glass. Some slithered across the water, their tails whipping up sprays of foam; others clung to the ship's hull, their claws screeching against wood. The crew screamed, drawing weapons, but panic made their movements clumsy.
"Defend the deck!" Kaelith shouted, weaving a barrier with the shard's power. The threads of the Tapestry were chaotic here, a storm of broken melodies, but she forced them into a shimmering wall that held the spawn at bay—for now.
Torren charged, his riftweaving igniting in a blaze of crimson flames. He slashed a spawn's throat, its ichor sizzling as it dissolved. "Stay back, Ren!" he barked, shoving Sylvara behind a crate as another creature lunged.
Sylvara fumbled with her vials, hurling one at a spawn climbing the rigging. It exploded in a burst of green mist, and the creature shrieked, its spines melting. "I'm not helpless!" she snapped, drawing her dagger. "Focus on the big ones!"
Rhydian moved like a phantom, his Riftborn powers bending reality. He warped the air, crushing a spawn's skull against the mast, but the effort drew blood from his nose, his face paling. "This is too much," he gasped, dodging a claw. "Varn, close it!"
"I'm trying!" Kaelith grunted, her barrier flickering as spawn battered it. The shard's power surged, but it drained her, her legs trembling. "I need time!"
The rift pulsed, and a familiar figure emerged—the Weaver's Voice, its shadowed form rippling like oil on water. Its presence was a weight, pressing against their minds with whispers of despair. "You come to claim the heart," it said, its voice a chorus of anguish. "But you bring only ruin."
Kaelith faced it, her heart pounding. "You're the one spreading ruin," she shot back, her voice raw. "Why fight us? What are you protecting?"
The Voice laughed, a sound that cracked the air like thunder. "Protecting? I am freeing. The Tapestry binds you, mortals—its threads choke your will. The heart will not save you; it will bind you tighter."
Torren's eyes blazed, his sword raised. "Keep talking, shadow. I'll cut that tongue out."
The Voice turned to him, its void-like face unreadable. "Ashkarn, your fire burns bright, but it consumes you. Join us, and be free of pain."
"Go to hell," Torren snarled, charging. His riftweaving flared, but the Voice sidestepped, its touch sending him crashing to the deck, blood pooling beneath him.
Sylvara screamed, rushing to his side. "Torren, no!" She pressed herbs to his wound, her hands shaking. "Stay with me, you stubborn bastard!"
Rhydian's powers surged, warping the deck into a shield that blocked a spawn's strike. "Varn, now!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "I can't hold this!"
Kaelith poured everything into the shard, its light blinding. The rift's threads resisted, their chaos a torrent, but she wove them with desperate precision, her voice rising. "Close, damn you!" A beam of light erupted, sealing the rift with a deafening crack. The Voice vanished, its laughter echoing as the spawn dissolved.
The ship stilled, the sea calming. The crew, battered but alive, stared at the group with a mix of fear and awe. Kaelith collapsed, gasping, her vision swimming. Sylvara tended to Torren, his breathing shallow but steady. "He'll make it," she said, her voice thick with relief. "Thanks to you."
Rhydian wiped blood from his face, his eyes haunted. "That thing—it keeps coming for me. Riftborn, it called me. What if I'm the weak link?"
Kaelith gripped his shoulder, her gaze fierce. "You're not. You held the line, Thalor. We're stronger because of you."
The Isles drew closer, their reefs glinting with unnatural light. The shard pointed to a lagoon, its waters glowing gold. The heart was near, but so was danger—and the Voice's shadow loomed larger than ever.