The Voidheart was no place for the living. It was a chasm beyond the Skyveil Peaks, a gash in the earth so deep the bottom vanished into shadow, its walls of black stone veined with crystal that pulsed like a dying star. The air hung still, heavy with a chill that sank into your bones, smelling of dust and something sour, like old blood left to dry. No wind stirred, but whispers slithered from the depths—soft, sharp words like fall, break, end, curling into your ears and staying there. The ground was littered with shards of glass-like rock, glinting under a sky gone wrong, all bruised purple and streaked with green, like poison seeping through.
Kaelith Varn stood at the chasm's edge, her boots scuffing the brittle stone, her cloak a tattered rag hanging off shoulders too thin to hold it up. The shard at her belt flickered, its glow a faint gray, barely enough to light her hands. Her dark hair was knotted, crusted with frost and ash, framing a face pale as bone, her gray eyes sunken, rimmed with red that never faded. She clutched the scroll from the Skyveil, its map a dim pulse pointing into the dark below. The heart's power was a blade in her chest, slicing deeper with every breath, leaving her dizzy, her fingers numb. Gold ichor crusted her lips, flaked under her nose, and she swiped at it, her sleeve stiff with stains, her heart pounding too fast for the quiet.
Torren Ashkarn slumped a few steps back, his big frame propped on a spear he'd sharpened in the peaks, its point chipped but deadly. His robe was gone, replaced by a patchwork of hides and cloth, blood-soaked bandages peeling from his chest where spawn had clawed him raw. His scarred hands gripped the spear, knuckles white, no hint of riftweaving's fire, just a shake he couldn't stop. His face was a ruin—bruises blending into pallor, stubble thick as a beard, dark eyes cloudy with pain. His breath rattled, wet and uneven, like he was drowning slow, but he stood tall, stubborn as stone, refusing to fall.
Sylvara Ren hovered near him, her auburn braid tucked under a scarf so dirty it was more gray than blue. Her green eyes were wide, shadowed with a grief that clung like damp cloth, darting to the chasm's edge like it might swallow them whole. Her tunic was a mess, patched with scraps, torn at the knees to show cuts that oozed red. Her dagger hung at her hip, its handle worn smooth, her only weapon since the Hollow burned. Her hands twisted together, nails chewed to the quick, aching for herbs she'd lost long ago. The Voidheart's silence pressed on her, heavier than the Hollow's death, but she kept her voice steady, her chin up for the others.
Rhydian Thalor paced the rim, his lean frame cutting through the stillness like a blade. His coat was barely holding together, shredded and patched, flapping open to show a shirt crusted with blood and dirt. His blue eyes glinted, sharp as glass, catching every flicker in the dark. His dagger spun in one hand, a restless tic that kept him grounded, while the Weaver tablet pressed against his ribs, its runes a buzz he felt in his teeth. His face was hollow, cheekbones sharp under a scruff of beard, and his smirk was long gone, replaced by a frown that said he was waiting for the world to break.
They'd paid in blood to get here. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, chasing the Codex's heart, had dragged her through ruins, seas, deserts, and peaks. Torren's run from the Emberfall Dominion, haunted by the lives he'd burned, had carried him from the Waste to this chasm's edge. Sylvara's fight for the Verdant Hollow had turned her hands to weapons, stained with more than earth. Rhydian, dodging his Riftborn blood, had bound himself to them, his tablet a twin to Kaelith's shard. The Weaver's Voice was their hunter, its promises of freedom through ruin a scream now, its laughter a bruise after every fight—from the Sunken Isles to the Skyveil's shrine.
"This place feels like death," Torren said, his voice a low rasp, barely cutting the silence. He leaned on his spear, his breath fogging, frosting his lips. "Like it's waiting to bury us."
Sylvara turned to him, her scarf slipping, showing lines carved deep by worry. "It's not burying you yet, Torren. You're still here, still fighting. We all are." Her voice was soft, but it trembled, like she was holding back a sob.
Kaelith stared into the chasm, the scroll clutched so tight her knuckles bled. "It's not death," she said, her voice rough, like she'd swallowed sand. "It's the Voidheart. The map says the anchor's down there—a Weaver crypt, maybe. Last one."
Rhydian stopped pacing, his dagger pausing mid-spin, his eyes narrowing at the dark. "Last one? That's what you said in the crater, Varn. And the desert. And the sea. I'm starting to think this scroll's got a sick sense of humor."
She spun, her face pale, gold ichor glinting on her chin. "You wanna stop, Rhydian? Go back to your pirate games? The shard's pulling me, the map's glowing, and the Tapestry's ripping apart. This is it—or we're nothing."
He raised his hands, dagger catching the crystal's light. "Hey, I'm not running. Just saying, every time we chase that thing, we get torn up. Look at us—barely breathing, snapping at each other like dogs."
Torren coughed, spitting blood that sank into the stone. "He's not wrong. I can't swing this spear much longer. Riftweaving's done with me, Kaelith. You're not looking so great either."
Sylvara's voice cut through, sharp but warm, like a friend pulling you back from a ledge. "Stop it, both of you! We're hurting, yeah, but we're not done. Torren, you're tougher than anyone I know. Kaelith, you're not carrying this alone. And Rhydian, quit poking unless you've got something to add."
Kaelith's shoulders slumped, her eyes glistening, just for a moment. "You're right, Sylvara. I'm sorry. I'm just… terrified. The heart's eating me, and I don't know if I've got enough left to finish this."
Torren looked at her, his face softening, his voice low. "We're all terrified, Kaelith. Doesn't mean we quit. Show us the way."
Sylvara nodded, her hand brushing Kaelith's arm, her voice steady. "Together. Always."
They started down a path carved into the chasm's wall, narrow and slick with frost, the stone crumbling under their weight. The whispers grew louder, weaving into phrases—you failed, you broke, you die—slipping into their heads like needles. Sylvara shivered, her dagger drawn, her voice a whisper. "It's worse than the peaks. Like the Voidheart knows us."
Rhydian's dagger spun faster, his eyes scanning the dark. "It does. My tablet's buzzing like a hornet's nest. Those runes on the walls—they're Weaver script, same as the shrine. Something's waiting."
Kaelith's shard flared, its light barely piercing the shadow. "There," she said, pointing to a ledge below, where a crypt's entrance gaped, runes glowing like embers. "That's it."
Before they could move, the chasm shook, a deep roar that sent stones tumbling. A rift tore open, its violet light blinding, its hum a scream that rattled their skulls. Spawn surged out—creatures of shadow and crystal, their bodies spiked with glass, eyes like void pits. One lunged, its claws slashing the air.
"Get back!" Kaelith yelled, diving onto a ledge. The shard blazed, and she wove a barrier, its golden light flickering as a spawn smashed it. She gasped, gold ichor streaming from her nose, pooling on the stone.
Torren swung his spear, riftweaving sparking faintly. He stabbed a spawn's chest, its body shattering, but another tackled him, claws tearing his hides. "Damn it!" he roared, flames bursting, searing it. He fell to his knees, blood soaking the frost, his spear slipping.
Sylvara slashed with her dagger, aiming for a spawn's eyes. It screeched, swiping at her, but she rolled, frost in her hair. "Torren, stay down!" she shouted, stabbing another that lunged. Her arm bled, her tunic shredded, but she kept swinging, her voice cracking. "We're not losing you!"
Rhydian moved like a shadow, his dagger sinking into a spawn's neck. He warped the air, crushing another, but blood poured from his ears, his face gray. "Varn, close it!" he yelled, dodging a claw that cracked the wall.
Kaelith's barrier shattered, her body crumpling. "It's too much!" she sobbed, the shard burning her hand. The Tapestry's threads were a storm, twisting away, and her vision blurred, ichor pooling under her.
The Weaver's Voice rose, its shadow swallowing the rift's light. "You seek the anchor," it whispered, a chorus of despair, "but you are the ruin. Break, and be whole."
"Shut your mouth!" Torren bellowed, staggering up. He swung at the Voice, flames flaring, but it laughed, slamming him into the wall. Blood sprayed, and he slumped, spear clattering.
Sylvara screamed, diving for him, her dagger slashing a spawn to keep it off. "Torren, please!" she cried, dragging him back, her hands slick with blood. "Don't leave me!"
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith, pulling her up. "You're not done!" he shouted, his powers surging, a weak shield holding the spawn back. "Do it!"
Kaelith nodded, tears mixing with ichor, and wove again, the shard blinding. Sylvara stabbed a spawn, clearing space, her arm trembling, blood dripping.
The rift shrank, threads snapping into place, but the Voice struck, its shadow breaking Kaelith's weave. She screamed, falling, the scroll slipping.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!" she sobbed, slashing another, her voice raw.
Rhydian steadied Kaelith, his eyes fierce. "One more, Varn! Together!"
Kaelith wove, the shard's fire consuming her, threads aligning. The rift closed with a deafening crack, the Voice's laughter fading: "You weave your end."
The spawn dissolved, the chasm quiet except for their gasps. Kaelith slumped, the shard dark, her body shaking. Sylvara checked Torren's pulse, sobbing as he groaned, alive. "You're okay," she whispered, tearing her tunic to bandage him, her hands trembling.
Rhydian kicked a shard, his voice hoarse. "We're not making it through another one. We're done."
Kaelith crawled to the scroll, its map glowing. "The crypt," she rasped, pointing to the entrance. "We're not done."
They staggered to the crypt, frost stinging their wounds, the whispers screaming. The entrance was a maw of stone and crystal, runes glowing like fire. Kaelith led them in, her shard flaring, lighting a chamber of black glass, its walls etched with Weaver runes—swirls and knots that pulsed like veins. At its center stood a pedestal, a crystal heart atop it, glowing gold, its threads weaving into the air—an anchor, alive with the Tapestry's pulse.
"It's… everything," Sylvara said, helping Torren sit, her voice awed. "Like the Hollow, but bigger."
Torren coughed, blood on his lips. "Bigger's worse. That thing's gonna end us."
Rhydian circled it, his dagger still. "Last anchor. My tablet's screaming—says it's tied to the void. It's holding it all."
Kaelith touched the heart, visions flooding her—Weavers binding anchors in darkness, their blood pooling, anchoring the Tapestry. "It's the heart," she said, her voice breaking. "The first one. It's killing us to keep the weave."
Sylvara's hand tightened on her dagger. "Can we fix it?"
Kaelith shook her head, ichor dripping. "Fix or cut. We're anchors too. We can heal it—or break free."
Torren's voice was grim. "Break it. I'm done bleeding."
Rhydian's eyes darkened. "Break it, and what? Nothing left? We're out of moves."
Sylvara stepped forward, her voice fierce. "We fight. For everything. We mend it, Kaelith."
A rumble shook the crypt, crystal cracking. The Voice returned, its shadow filling the chamber. "You cannot mend," it hissed. "The anchors are mine."
Kaelith faced it, her shard blazing. "Not today!" She wove, the heart's light merging, threads surging.
Torren stood, flames sparking. "Back her!" he shouted, stabbing a spawn.
Sylvara slashed another, her arm bleeding. "Faster!"
Rhydian crushed a spawn, blood streaming. "Finish it!"
Kaelith channeled the heart, the fire roaring. The threads aligned, the anchor stabilizing, but the Voice struck, shattering her weave. She fell, screaming, ichor pooling.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!"
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith. "One more!"
Kaelith wove, the heart blinding, the anchor's light flooding. The rift closed, the Voice gone, its whisper fading: "You are the end."
They collapsed, bloody, spent. Kaelith clutched the scroll, its map blank. "No more anchors," she whispered.
Sylvara bandaged Torren, tears falling. "We did it."
Rhydian wiped his dagger, his voice low. "Did we?"
Kaelith stood, swaying, her eyes hard. "The Tapestry's holding. We go back—to the Veil. We finish this."
They left the crypt, the whispers silent, the anchor's light fading. The Tapestry held, but they were broken, and the Voice waited.