The road back to the Verdant Hollow was a winding scar through plains that once bloomed with wildflowers but now lay patchy, dotted with clumps of brittle grass and gnarled shrubs. The sky hung low, a heavy quilt of gray clouds spitting a fine mist that clung to everything, leaving the ground slick and the air damp, smelling of wet earth and faint decay, like leaves left too long in a puddle. Twisted trees lined the path, their bark peeling in strips, branches sagging under the weight of moss that dripped water with every step. The silence was unnatural, broken only by the crunch of gravel under boots and whispers that weren't there—soft, fleeting murmurs of home, rest, end, fading before you could catch them. The horizon shimmered, promising shelter, but the distance felt like a lie.
Kaelith Varn led the way, her boots sinking into the mud, her cloak a shredded veil trailing behind her, soaked and heavy. The shard at her belt was quiet, its glow gone, a dull lump of crystal that weighed more than it should. Her dark hair was a tangle, plastered to her neck with rain and sweat, framing a face pale as milk, her gray eyes sunken, shadowed with exhaustion that went deeper than bone. Her hands fidgeted, empty without the scroll, which she'd left in the Crystal Veil, its purpose done. The heart's power was a fading ember in her chest, no longer burning, but it had left her hollow, her breath shallow, her skin cold to the touch. Gold ichor no longer flowed, but its stains marked her lips, crusted in the corners, and she licked them absently, tasting metal, her fingers brushing a cheek that felt too thin.
Torren Ashkarn trudged behind, his broad frame bent like a tree weathered by storms, leaning on a stick he'd carved from a fallen branch, its end muddy and worn. His hides were gone, replaced by a rough tunic scavenged from a trader's cart, patched with cloth that didn't match, bloodstains fading to brown. His chest was a map of scars, new bandages tight over wounds that wept less now, but still stung with every step. His scarred hands gripped the stick, knuckles pale, no riftweaving left—just a tremor that made him curse under his breath. His face was gaunt, bruises blending into pallor, his dark eyes dull, like he was looking at a world he didn't trust. His breath was steadier, but it hitched sometimes, a reminder of blood he'd coughed up too long, and he walked slow, stubbornness keeping him upright.
Sylvara Ren stayed close, her auburn braid loose, strands sticking to her face, wet and curling in the mist. Her green eyes were brighter now, but grief lingered, a shadow that softened when she looked at the plains, remembering what they'd been. Her tunic was patched, sleeves rolled up to show arms scratched and bruised, cuts healing slow under the damp. Her dagger hung at her hip, its blade cleaned but notched, a weight she carried like a friend. Her hands were still, no longer twitching for herbs, but they brushed the grass as she passed, hoping for life that wasn't there. The Hollow's loss was a knot in her throat, looser now, but never gone, and she hummed softly, a tune from childhood, to keep the whispers at bay.
Rhydian Thalor brought up the rear, his lean frame slinking through the mist like a fox dodging hunters. His coat was a patchwork of scraps, held together by thread and spite, flapping open to show a shirt gray with dirt and blood, its hem frayed. His blue eyes glinted, sharp but tired, catching every bent blade of grass, every odd shadow. His dagger rested in its sheath, no longer spinning, a quiet choice that felt heavier than it should. The Weaver tablet was tucked inside his shirt, its runes silent, a weight he wasn't sure he'd keep. His face was lean, stubble thick, and his smirk was back, faint and crooked, like he was daring the world to try again.
They'd survived the impossible to get here. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, chasing the Codex's heart, had dragged her through rifts, seas, deserts, peaks, chasms, and ruins. Torren's escape from the Emberfall Dominion, running from burned lives, had carried him from the Waste to the Veil's heart. Sylvara's fight for the Verdant Hollow had turned her hands to steel, stained with blood and hope. Rhydian, dodging his Riftborn blood, had tied his life to theirs, his tablet a mirror to Kaelith's shard. The Weaver's Voice was silent now, its promises of ruin buried in the Veil, but its shadow lingered, a chill they couldn't shake, from the Sunken Isles to the Voidheart's crypt.
"This rain's gonna drown us," Torren grumbled, his voice rough but stronger, like he was testing it. He shifted his stick, mud squelching under his boots, his breath fogging in the chill. "Feels like the sky's got a grudge."
Sylvara smiled, small and real, brushing wet hair from her eyes, her scarf long gone. "It's just water, Torren. Better than ash or ice. Means something's growing, somewhere." Her voice was soft, hopeful, but it wavered, like she was afraid to believe it.
Kaelith glanced back, her face pale, lips cracking as she spoke. "It's not the rain I'm worried about. The Hollow's close—I can feel it, like a pull in my chest. But it's different. Empty." Her voice was low, raw, like she'd been crying and didn't want them to know.
Rhydian kicked a stone, sending it skittering into the grass, his smirk fading. "Empty's better than spawn, Varn. Or rifts. Or that damn Voice laughing in our heads. You sure this is home?" His voice was light, but his eyes were heavy, searching hers for something solid.
She nodded, her hands twisting together, nails digging into palms. "It's home. Or what's left. The heart's fixed, the Tapestry's holding, but… I don't know what we'll find. I'm scared it's gone for good."
Torren leaned harder on his stick, his face softening, his voice low. "Scared's okay, Kaelith. We're all scared. But you got us through hell. If anyone can find home, it's you."
Sylvara stepped closer, her boots squishing, her voice warm, like a fire on a cold night. "He's right. You're not alone, Kaelith. None of us are. We'll figure it out—together."
Rhydian's smirk returned, faint but there, his eyes glinting. "Yeah, together. Long as there's no more glowing rocks or shadow monsters. I'm done with those."
Kaelith's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. "No promises, Thalor. But thanks. All of you. I… I don't say it enough."
They pressed on, the path curving toward a valley where the Hollow once thrived. The trees thickened, their trunks black and warped, but here and there, green shoots poked through the mud, tiny and stubborn, catching the mist like jewels. The whispers faded, replaced by a hum—soft, alive, like the earth was breathing again. Sylvara stopped, kneeling, her fingers brushing a shoot, her voice a whisper. "It's coming back. Look—new growth. It's not dead."
Torren crouched beside her, wincing as his wounds pulled, his voice gruff. "Damn. You're right, Ren. Little thing's fighting, just like us."
Kaelith stared, her eyes glistening, her voice soft. "Maybe we didn't lose everything. Maybe there's still something to save."
Rhydian leaned against a tree, his dagger still, his voice low. "Save or not, we're here. What's the plan, Varn? Wander 'til we find a roof, or what?"
She took a breath, steadying herself, her voice stronger. "We find the heart-tree—or what's left. It's the Hollow's center. If anything's alive, it's there. Then… we rebuild."
They moved deeper, the valley opening to a clearing where the heart-tree once stood, its massive trunk now a splintered stump, charred and hollowed, but green vines curled around it, budding with tiny leaves that glowed faintly in the dusk. The ground was soft, carpeted with moss, and a stream trickled nearby, its water clear, catching the starlight that finally broke through the clouds.
Sylvara gasped, her hands covering her mouth, tears spilling. "It's still here. Not all of it, but… enough." Her voice broke, but she smiled, real and bright, like the girl she'd been before the rifts.
Torren set his stick down, sinking to the moss, his voice thick. "Gods, Ren. You were right. It's home." He looked at her, his eyes soft, like he was seeing her for the first time.
Kaelith knelt by the stump, her fingers tracing the vines, her voice trembling. "The Tapestry's here. I can feel it—stronger, whole. We did this. We brought it back."
Rhydian stayed back, his eyes on the stars, his voice quiet. "Brought it back, sure. But what's it cost us, Kaelith? We're not the same—not sure we ever will be."
She looked at him, her face open, raw, her voice steady. "It cost us everything, Rhydian. But look around. It's growing again. That's worth it, isn't it?"
He nodded, his smirk gone, his voice low. "Yeah. Maybe it is."
Before they could settle, the ground trembled, a soft shake that stirred the moss. A rift flickered, small and violet, its hum faint, like a sigh. No spawn came, but the Weaver's Voice whispered, barely audible, a shadow of itself. "You mend," it said, "but you cannot erase."
Kaelith stood, her shard dull but warm, her voice firm. "We don't need to erase you. We're stronger now. You don't own us."
The rift faded, the Voice silent, its presence a memory. Sylvara drew her dagger, her voice sharp. "Was that it? After everything?"
Torren grabbed his stick, standing slow, his voice gruff. "Don't care. If it comes back, we'll fight. I'm not running."
Rhydian's hand rested on his dagger, his eyes glinting. "Fight, hide, whatever. Long as we're together, I'm good."
Kaelith looked at them, her family, her voice soft but sure. "No more running. We stay. We rebuild. This is home."
They sat by the heart-tree, the mist clearing, stars bright above. The Hollow hummed, alive, and they were too, scarred but whole, the Tapestry woven anew.