Toren moved fast through the tunnel, his cinder knife a faint glow guiding us. My boots scraped the roots, Veyra's uneven breaths behind me, her light dim to save strength. The Veilkeepers' hum faded, but their cinder bolts had been too close, their voices still echoing in my head—"The boy's Spark is bright." They knew about my immunity, and Toren's sudden appearance felt like no coincidence. Lyra's memory—chained, drained—pushed me forward, but Veyra's haze weighed heavier, her sacrifice for me a debt I couldn't repay.
"Keep up," Toren called, glancing back with that infuriating smirk. "Unless you want Veilkeepers roasting you."
His lean frame slipped through the narrowing passage, scar across his jaw catching the glow-moss light. He knew Lyra's scar, her journal—details that burned with truth—but trust in Thornhollow was a cinder waiting to flare.
Veyra caught up, her cloak brushing the roots. "He's trouble, Kael," she whispered, voice low, fatigue lacing her words. "He called me Skyweaver. He knows too much."
Her eyes, sharp despite the haze, searched mine, and I saw worry—not just for herself, but for me. It stirred that spark again, a warmth I couldn't shake, even without touch or words.
"I know," I said, keeping my voice steady. "But he knows Lyra. We need him, for now."
Her gaze held mine, and I wanted to say more—to tell her I'd keep her safe, that her haze scared me—but Toren's pace didn't allow it.
The tunnel opened into a wider chamber, roots curling like ribs, glow-moss pulsing faintly. Toren stopped, leaning against a root, knife twirling.
"Here's the deal, Kael," he said. "I'm an Ashbreaker. We want the Veil gone—core, cinders, all of it. Lyra's caught in their machine, her Spark feeding it. Help us, and we'll get her out."
My stomach dropped. Ashbreakers—rebels who burned cinder caches, preaching the Veil's end. I'd heard Driftkin curse them, blaming their raids for scarce cinders.
"You're an Ashbreaker?" I said, voice hard. "Why should I trust you?"
Toren's smirk didn't waver. "Because I know Skyloft Varn. Got a skiff, a crew, a way in. Your friend's path?" He nodded at Veyra. "Too slow. Veilkeepers'll catch you."
Veyra's light flared, her scar stark. "Watch your mouth," she snapped. "Kael, he's using you. Ashbreakers don't care about Lyra—they'll burn Varn, her included."
I hesitated, Lyra's memory clawing at me. Toren's words about her Spark matched the glimpse, but Veyra's warning rang true. I needed to know more. I pulled a cinder from my pouch, its warmth steadying me.
"Show me," I said, fingers tracing patterns, slow and deliberate.
The cinder glowed, and a flash hit—not mine.
A burning Skyloft, ash choking the air. Toren, younger, weaving a blade, cutting a Veilkeeper's rope. Screams, cinders exploding, Driftkin fleeing. His voice, sharp: "Burn the core, or we're all ash!"
The memory faded, my head pounding, the chamber spinning.
I gasped, the cinder dimming. Veyra grabbed my shoulder, her voice sharp. "Kael, what happened?"
"Saw… Toren," I said, voice shaky. "An Ashbreaker attack. He burned a Skyloft."
The glimpse was chaos, Toren's ruthlessness clear. He wasn't lying about Varn, but his plan risked Lyra.
Toren's eyes narrowed, knife stilling. "You glimpsed my memory?" he said, voice low. "That's new. Makes you useful, Kael."
He stepped closer, and Veyra's light flared, warning him back.
"Useful?" I snapped, anger rising. "You're burning Skylofts, not saving people. Lyra's not your pawn."
Toren shrugged, unphased. "She's alive, for now. Veilkeepers are draining her Spark to stabilize the core. Join us, or she's gone."
His words hit like ash, heavy with truth I couldn't ignore.
Veyra's gaze burned into me, her worry sharper than Toren's knife. "Kael, we can find another way," she said, voice soft but firm. "You don't need him."
Her belief in me, despite her haze, was a lifeline. I wanted to protect her, to keep her from weaving again, but Lyra's life hung on this.
"I need answers," I said, meeting her eyes. "Toren's our shot, for now."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded, trusting me despite her fear. That trust—it deepened the spark, a feeling I couldn't name but wouldn't lose.
Before Toren could speak, a low hum shook the chamber. Ash swirled, forming an Ashwraith—eyes glowing like cinders, its whisper cold: "Starborn…"
It lunged, claws aimed at me, drawn by my glimpse.
Veyra wove a blade, stepping forward. "Kael, run!" she shouted, her light flaring, haze threatening again.
I dove to the side, roots splintering as the Ashwraith's claws raked the air. Veyra's blade slashed, cutting ash tendrils, but the creature reformed, its hum vibrating in my chest.
Toren cursed, weaving a faint light, his knife glowing brighter. "Your glimpse did this, Kael!" he snapped, dodging a claw. "Move!"
Guilt stabbed me—my memory glimpse had lit a beacon. Veyra's blade flickered, her face pale, haze deepening. I wanted to stop her, to weave myself, but my gift would only draw more Ashwraiths.
"Veyra, don't!" I yelled, scrambling to my feet.
She ignored me, her blade slicing the Ashwraith's arm, ash scattering. "Get to the skiff!" she shouted, voice strained.
Her eyes met mine, fierce, protective, and that spark flared—her risking everything for me, like I wanted to for her. No touch, no words, but her sacrifice said enough.
Toren grabbed my arm, pulling me toward a tunnel. "She's buying time, Kael. Don't waste it!"
I resisted, hating him, but Veyra's nod—sharp, commanding—pushed me forward. I ran, her light fading behind, the Ashwraith's hum chasing us.
The tunnel sloped upward, glow-moss brighter. Toren stopped at a hidden hatch, prying it open.
"Skiff's outside," he said. "My crew's waiting. You in?"
I glanced back, Veyra's light still flashing, her haze a weight on my heart. Lyra was in Varn, and Toren was my path, but Veyra—she was my reason to fight smarter, to survive.
"I'm in," I said, voice hard. "But if you're lying, Toren, you're dead."
He grinned, pushing the hatch. "Fair enough."
The Veil's cinders fell outside, and I stepped into the twilight, Veyra's sacrifice burning brighter than any Spark.
The skiff was a rickety thing, tethered to Thornhollow's edge, its cinder-powered engine humming faintly. I climbed aboard, Toren behind me, scanning for Veyra. Her light flared in the tunnel, then dimmed, and my chest tightened—she'd made it, but at what cost?
The Ashwraith's hum faded, and Veyra emerged, panting, her eyes clouded but fierce.
"Toren's crew better be worth it," she muttered, joining me.
Her presence steadied me, her trust a spark I'd guard. Toren signaled his crew—shadowy figures on the skiff—and the engine roared, lifting us toward the Veil.
Lyra was close, but the Ashwraith's whisper—"Starborn"—lingered, and I knew our fight was just beginning.