next day, Thornhollow buzzed with scavengers, their boots kicking up ash along the root-paths. I stuck to the shadows, my pouch heavy with yesterday's secret. The Abyss's whisper hadn't returned, but it haunted me, a warning I couldn't shake. Lyra was out there, and my weave—impossible as it was—might be the key to finding her.
I headed to Old Man Hemlock's stall, hoping to trade cinders for more than bread. The air was thick with the Veil's metallic scent, glow-moss lanterns casting a sickly green over the market. Hemlock stood behind his crate, sorting cinders with gnarled hands. His eyes narrowed as I approached, voice rasping like dry roots.
"Back already? You're bold, coming here after yesterday."
I froze, my face blank. Did he know?
"Got cinders," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Need food."
He snorted, reaching for my pouch, but a figure slipped beside me, quick as a shadow. A woman, maybe twenty, with sharp eyes and a cloak too clean for a Driftkin. Her dark hair was tucked under a hood, but a faint glow clung to her fingers—cinder residue, the mark of a weaver. My stomach dropped. Only Skyweavers had that kind of glow, and they didn't come to Thornhollow.
"You're careless," she said, voice low, barely audible over the market's hum. "Weaving in the open yesterday? Lucky no Veilkeeper saw."
I glanced at Hemlock, but he was distracted, haggling with another scavenger. My pulse raced. She'd seen me.
"I don't know what you mean," I lied, stepping back, my hand tightening on my pouch.
She grabbed my arm, her grip firm but not cruel. "Don't play dumb, Kael." Her eyes locked on mine, unyielding. "I saw your light. No flicker, no haze in your eyes. You wove clean."
My breath caught. She knew my name—how? Worse, she knew my secret.
I yanked my arm free, voice a hiss. "Who are you?"
"Veyra," she said, scanning the crowd like a hawk. "Used to be a Skyweaver, till I saw their lies. We need to talk—somewhere safe." Her cloak shifted, revealing a woven cord at her waist, glowing faintly. A Skyweaver's tool, not Driftkin make.
My mind spun. Skyweavers didn't defect. They ruled from Skylofts, hoarding cinders, living like gods while we scraped ash. But Veyra's glow, her certainty—she wasn't lying.
"Why should I trust you?" I asked, my voice low.
She leaned closer, her breath warm against the chill. "Because I know where Lyra is. And if Veilkeepers find you first, you're dead."
Lyra's name hit like a spark, igniting hope and fear.
"Where?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I meant.
"Not here." She nodded toward a root-tunnel, away from the market's eyes. "Follow, or don't. Your choice."
The Abyss's whisper echoed in my head, warning of unseen eyes. Hemlock was watching now, his hands still. Lyra was my only tie to a past I couldn't recall, the only person who'd made Thornhollow bearable. I followed Veyra, my steps quick to match hers.
The tunnel was damp, glow-moss casting a faint light. Veyra moved like she knew every turn, her cloak blending with the shadows.
"You're not like other weavers, Kael," she said without looking back. "No memory loss. That's not just rare—it's impossible. Skyweavers would tear you apart to understand it."
"Then why help me?" I asked, my voice sharp. "What's in it for you?"
She stopped, turning to face me. Her eyes softened, just a flicker, but it caught me off guard.
"They're breaking the Veil," she said. "The cinderfall's too heavy—it's not natural. They're erasing memories to keep us docile, to keep the islands weak. I want to stop them. You might be the key."
Her words landed like ash, heavy and unsettling. The Veil, controlling us? It sounded like Ashbreaker talk, rebels who burned cinder caches and preached freedom. But Veyra's gaze held no madness, only a quiet resolve.
"And Lyra?" I pressed.
"She's in Skyloft Varn," Veyra said. "They're studying weavers, looking for something in their Sparks. I can get you in, but you need control. Your weaves are too loud, Kael."
I wanted to argue, but my light yesterday had been bright, alive.
"You're risking a lot," I said, softer now. "Why?"
She hesitated, her fingers brushing her cloak. A faint scar crossed her palm, barely visible.
"I wove too much as a Skyweaver," she said, voice low. "Lost my mentor's name, my home. Pieces of me are gone, and I don't even know what they were." Her voice cracked, and for a moment, I saw her fear—a mirror of my own.
Something stirred in me. She wasn't just a defector. She was like me, clinging to what little she had left. My gloves, fraying from Lyra, felt tighter.
"I'll be careful," I said, meeting her eyes. "Teach me."
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "Don't make me regret this, Kael."
A low hum shook the tunnel, cutting me off. Ash swirled, forming a shape—an Ashwraith, its eyes glowing like cinders. It whispered my name, the Abyss's voice, cold and clear.
Veyra cursed, her hands weaving a blade of light, sharp and steady. "Run, Kael! It's after you!"
My boots skidded on the damp floor, the Ashwraith's hum vibrating in my chest. Veyra's blade sliced through ash tendrils, each cut sparking cinders that burned the air.
"Left!" she shouted, her voice steady despite the chaos.
I veered into a narrower tunnel, the glow-moss dimming, my breath ragged. The Ashwraith's form was fluid, ash and shadow twisting into a humanoid shape, its glowing eyes locked on me.
"Starborn…" it whispered, the word chilling my blood. I didn't know what it meant, but it knew me, just like the Abyss.
Veyra caught up, her blade held high. "Keep moving, Kael!" she snapped, weaving a second light, a shield that flared between us and the creature. The Ashwraith recoiled, but its hum grew louder, shaking loose ash from the tunnel's roof.
"How do we stop it?" I yelled, dodging a falling root.
"We don't," Veyra said, her voice tight. "We run. It's drawn to your weave—your Spark's too bright."
Guilt stabbed me. My reckless light had done this, brought this monster. I glanced at Veyra, her face set, sweat beading on her brow. She was risking her life for me, a stranger with a secret she barely understood. I didn't deserve it, but I wouldn't let her die for it.
The tunnel opened into a cavern, glow-moss clustering on the walls. I spotted a crevice, barely wide enough for me.
"There!" I pointed, grabbing Veyra's arm.
She nodded, dousing her shield, and we squeezed through, the Ashwraith's hum fading behind us.
We collapsed in the dark, panting. Veyra's hand brushed mine, steadying me, and my pulse jumped—not just from the chase.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice softer now.
"Yeah," I said, catching my breath. "Thanks to you."
She snorted, but her eyes held a warmth I hadn't expected.
"Don't get used to it, Kael. You're trouble."
I grinned, despite the fear. Her sharpness, her courage—it reminded me of Lyra, but different, like a spark I wanted to keep close. The Ashwraith's whisper lingered, but so did Veyra's words. Skyloft Varn, Lyra, the Veil's lies—I was in deeper than I'd ever been, and I wasn't alone.