The Ashwraith's screech echoed through the smuggler's tunnel like shattered glass, its razor claws raking the stone walls, sending vibrations through my boots. Cinders swirled like a storm around us, their heat kissing my skin with tiny burns. My heart pounded against my ribs, sweat trickling down my spine as my pouch burned against my thigh, the heat pulsing in rhythm with my racing pulse as my Spark answered the Abyss's whisper that slithered into my mind—*Starborn… now.*
I scrambled deeper into the tunnel, my fingers scraping raw against rough stone, Veyra ahead, her pace steady despite the milky haze clouding her once-sharp eyes. She'd woven too much of her power away, and the guilt of her losses—faces, memories, pieces of herself sacrificed for me—gnawed at my insides like a hungry beast.
Toren trailed behind us, breath coming in ragged gasps, his cinder knife flashing in the dim light, slashing desperately at the Ashwraith's misty form that seemed to drink in the darkness around us. The Veilkeepers' shouts echoed outside, their cinder-lamps casting advancing shadows through cracks in the tunnel wall. Lyra was somewhere in Varn's towers, her journal my only guide to finding her, and I wouldn't let this nightmare creature—or Toren's manipulative games—stop me.
"Keep moving!" Veyra snapped, her voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the suffocating panic that threatened to paralyze me. She navigated the tunnel's twists with practiced familiarity, keeping her light dim to avoid notice, but I couldn't miss how her hands shook uncontrollably, the haze slowly taking its toll on her mind. Her focus was pure survival, not loyalty to me, and I relied on that single-minded determination, but her mysterious Skyweaver past—what wasn't she telling?—kept me wary, watching her through the corner of my eye.
Why risk so much for a scavenger like me?
I nodded, muscles burning as I dodged a collapsing vine that nearly took my head off. "We're close to the gates?" I asked, voice low and thick with dust, my shoulder throbbing with white-hot pain from the crash. The Abyss's whisper pulsed through me again—*Claim me*—and a memory flickered unbidden: a weaver, face contorted in agony, being consumed from within, their Spark feeding the very Ashwraith that now hunted us.
Veyra's tale about the Star's heart rang true in my bones now, and my Spark was a beacon calling to the darkness. I kept that knowledge buried behind clenched teeth—trust was thin as paper, even with her.
"Close," she said, glancing back, the jagged scar across her cheek stark and angry in the dim light. "Lower gates are ahead, but Veilkeepers'll guard them." Her eyes flicked to mine, brief and assessing, no warmth in their depths, only calculation. That spark between us—her desperate resolve meeting my urgent need—flickered, cautious and uncertain, like a cinder not yet properly lit.
I wanted to ask about her haze, about how many more memories she could afford to lose, but her sharp focus and the hard line of her mouth stopped the words in my throat. We were allies of necessity, not friends by choice.
Toren slashed again, his sleeve torn and dirty, the Ashwraith scattering into wisps of darkness before reforming closer, its hunger palpable in the cold air. "Your Spark's drawing it, Kael!" he hissed through gritted teeth, eyes gleaming with something that made my skin crawl—anger barely masking cold calculation. "Do something, or we're ash!"
His knife glowed with unnatural brightness, cinders pulsing along its edge, and I caught a hint of recognition in his stare that froze the blood in my veins, like he knew intimately the Abyss's whisper that haunted my dreams. Joren's betrayal had Toren's fingerprints all over it, and now this chase—how deep did his treacherous game go?
"Shut it, Toren," I snapped, my throat raw from the dust, my pouch warm against my leg, tempting me to reach inside, to weave just enough to save us. But weaving would call more Ashwraiths like moths to flame, and Veyra's clouded eyes were testament enough to the cost. "You led us here. Fix it."
Lyra's journal, bound with its distinctive red cord, was my only focus—find it, find her. Toren's path to Varn was all we had to follow, but I didn't trust him, not for one heartbeat.
The tunnel shook violently, loose stones falling around us like rain, the Ashwraith's claws scraping closer, the sound raising goosebumps on my arms. Veyra spun without warning, her light flaring briefly blue-white, hands weaving a faint shield from nothing—enough to block a slashing claw, but her strangled gasp told me the terrible cost.
"Don't!" I shouted, instinct kicking in as I lurched toward her, but stopped myself from touching her trembling form. "Your haze—"
She nodded, eyes hard as flint but bloodshot with exhaustion, but a flicker of gratitude passed between us, tying us together in that breathless moment, even if true trust wasn't there.
"Save your breath," she wheezed, pushing forward on unsteady legs. "We're almost out."
Her strain was written in every line of her face, and I felt the crushing weight of it—her losses were my fault, every blank space in her memory my burden, and her secrets kept us apart like a wall of ice, but her skill kept us alive when nothing else would.
A new voice cut through the chaos, cold and sharp as winter steel, from the tunnel's shadowed end.
"The Spark stops here."
A figure loomed before us—tall and imposing, cloaked in Veilkeeper gray, cinder-lamp blazing with unnatural brightness. His face was sharp with hatred, eyes glowing with woven light, the unmistakable mark of a Skyweaver's power.
"I'm Sylas, Veilkeeper. Give me the Starborn, and the rest walk free."
His cinder blade hummed with deadly purpose, pointed directly at my chest, Joren's betrayal and signal fulfilled at last.
My blood ran cold, turning to ice in my veins. Starborn—the Abyss's whispered word, now on his lips. My Spark burned hot against my skin, but I stood firm, fingers tightening in my worn gloves.
"You're wrong," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the fear clawing at my throat. "I'm just a scavenger."
Lyra was close, I could feel it, and I wouldn't let this Sylas take her from me, not when I'd come this far.
Veyra stepped beside me, shoulders squared despite her fatigue, her light dim but ready for whatever came next. "He's with me," she said, voice sharp with a defector's edge that could cut glass. "You want him, you go through us."
Her stance was fierce as a cornered wolf, but her haze worried me to my core—she'd weave again, lose more of herself, for me. Why would she make such a sacrifice?
That spark between us flared brighter in the darkness, her unwavering resolve a light I found myself leaning on, but her mysterious Skyweaver past nagged at my thoughts—had she known Sylas before her defection?
Sylas's thin lips curled into a contemptuous smirk, his blade glowing brighter with each heartbeat. "Defector," he spat, the word dripping with venom. "You'll burn with him."
He lunged forward with frightening speed, cinder blade slashing through the air with a sound like tearing silk, and I dove to the side, feeling its heat pass inches from my face as the tunnel shook around us.
Toren moved with surprising quickness, his knife meeting Sylas's blade, sparks flying like tiny stars. "Run!" he shouted, face contorted with effort, but his eyes flicked to the advancing Ashwraith, a look that made my stomach drop—like he wanted it to follow us.
Veyra grabbed my arm with fingers that dug into my flesh, pulling me urgently toward the gates, then let go as if burned—no lingering touch, just survival.
"Go!" she commanded, her voice strained but firm as iron.
We sprinted through the choking darkness, the Ashwraith's bone-chilling screech mixing with Sylas's furious shouts behind us. The tunnel opened suddenly to Varn's lower gates—iron-bound and massive, cinder-lamps casting long, distorted shadows across their surface, looming before us like a trap waiting to spring.
The gates towered over us like sentinels from another world, their cinder-lamps casting long shadows that danced across our faces. My heart raced so hard I could taste metal on my tongue, Lyra's journal my only lead in this maze of danger, and Sylas's deadly blade was too close for comfort.
Veyra scanned the gates with practiced eyes, her breathing heavy and labored, the haze visibly slowing her reactions.
"There's a lock," she said, pointing with a trembling finger to a cinder-rune panel embedded in the stone. "I can weave it open, but—"
She stopped mid-sentence, eyes clouding over completely for a moment, another precious memory slipping away into the void.
"Don't," I said, my words coming out sharper than I intended, regret bitter on my tongue. "You've lost enough."
Her strain hit me like a physical blow—her sacrifices were all for me, and I still didn't know why she would pay such a terrible price. That spark between us—her fierce defiance, my crushing guilt—grew stronger in the silence, but I pushed the feeling down ruthlessly. Trust was a risk I couldn't afford, and her secrets stood between us like an unbreachable wall.
She glared at me with what strength she had left, but nodded, stepping back on unsteady feet.
"Then you try," she said, voice clipped and raw.
Her focus remained fixed on the gates, not on me, but her quick glance held a flicker of genuine concern that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
I approached the panel with caution, my Spark pulsing beneath my skin, cinders warm and alive against my fingers. I could weave it open without losing anything, but Sylas would sense the power instantly. I hesitated, glancing back at Veyra—her skill was the only guide I had in this darkness, but what crucial information was she hiding from me?
Toren stumbled into view around the bend, fresh blood staining his sleeve, Sylas close behind him, blade blazing with deadly intent.
"No time, Kael!" Toren shouted, ducking to avoid a vicious slash that would have taken his head.
The Ashwraith surged forward with newfound hunger, claws raking the air, drawn inexorably to my Spark like a compass finding north. Toren's eyes locked on it for a heartbeat, a flash of recognition crossing his face—he knew something about the Abyss that he wasn't telling, and I swore silently I'd pry it out of him, after I found Lyra.
I pressed my palm against the panel, feeling my Spark flare hot within me, weaving a faint pulse of power to unlock it—no loss to me, but the Ashwraith screeched louder, sensing my power like blood in water.
The gates groaned in protest, ancient hinges cracking open, Varn's dangerous underbelly becoming visible through the widening gap—dark alleys, scattered cinder-lamps, and the promise of new dangers waiting for us.
Veyra pushed forward with grim determination, her resolve unwavering despite her weakened state, and I followed close behind, relying on her experience even if I couldn't trust her completely.
Sylas roared with fury, closing the distance between us with frightening speed, his blade aimed directly at my heart.
"Starborn!" he shouted, cinders flaring around him like a corona. "You can't hide from us!"
His lamp cast long shadows through the tunnel, the sound of Veilkeepers' boots echoing like drumbeats behind him.
Veyra's exhausted eyes met mine, sharp with sudden alarm that mirrored my own rising dread, and I knew with cold certainty—we were trapped between dangers, the gates ahead a potential cage, and Sylas wanted my Spark more than anything in this world or the next.