The air tasted like iron.
Caelan's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, the cold steel biting into his palm. He didn't dare take his eyes off the figure standing before him. Every instinct screamed to move—attack, defend, run. But there was no action to take yet. The shadow before him was still, its presence stretching out like a dark fog.
"You," Caelan said, his voice taut. "I've been waiting for you."
The figure tilted its head slightly, the hood casting its face into darkness, but there was no mistaking the faint glint of recognition in the way its body seemed to relax ever so slightly.
"I knew you would," it said, voice soft but carrying a weight far heavier than its sound. The figure's words slipped through the air like a long-forgotten memory. "You're more like them than you realize."
Caelan swallowed the rising tide of anger that threatened to choke him. "Like who?"
The figure didn't answer immediately. It took a slow step forward, and with that movement, the shadows around it seemed to deepen, stretching like tendrils, as though the figure were tethered to something far older and darker than the city itself.
"You were born from the Eclipse," the figure said, its voice cool and indifferent, yet laced with something far more dangerous. "But not all of the heirs are destined for the throne. Some of them are meant to burn."
The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and oppressive.
Caelan's heart pounded in his chest, his fingers twitching at the sword's hilt. "I don't care about your games. I'm not like the others."
"Oh, but you are," the figure said with a dark chuckle, stepping closer. "You are one of them, Caelan. Just like the others born in the Eclipse. And soon... you'll understand. You'll learn what they are, what they were."
The shadows behind the figure seemed to shift and writhe, as if answering the pull of its words. Caelan's eyes flickered to the ground, where the faintest flicker of something dark and unnatural twisted in the cracks of the stone. The Ashweave hummed beneath his skin, but it didn't feel right—there was no calm control, no careful thread he could pull to guide it.
Instead, it felt like a storm, swirling around him, wild and untamable.
"I'm not like you," Caelan growled, but there was doubt creeping into his voice, sharp like ice.
The figure gave a soft, mocking laugh. "You already are. All you need is the right push."
Before Caelan could react, the figure raised a hand. The shadows in the chamber swirled violently, whipping around them like a storm. For a moment, Caelan felt the weight of their power pressing against him, suffocating him, suffusing his every thought with chaos.
His vision blurred as the Ashweave surged inside him, and for a brief, terrifying instant, he felt the full weight of what it was to be the keeper of the Veil. The knowledge was brutal, overwhelming—a sense of something ancient and unspeakable pressing against his soul.
The figure's voice cut through the madness. "Do you feel it now? The Weave is calling you. You will never escape it, Caelan. None of us will."
"No…" Caelan's breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to push back against the surge of the Weave, forcing it to obey him. His body was trembling with the effort, his hands shaking as he clenched his sword tighter.
The figure's laughter faded into the void. "You think you can control it? You think you're different? You aren't. All the others before you failed. All of them—burned by their own power. And so will you."
Caelan's eyes locked onto the figure, his pulse racing. The sword at his side felt heavy now, as though it too were being pulled toward something—something dark, something ancient.
The Ashweave roiled beneath his skin, fierce and untamable, and for a split second, Caelan felt it: the dangerous pull of the Veil. It wanted him. It wanted to consume him. It wanted to—
Feel.
Let it in.
Caelan clenched his teeth, fighting against the crushing weight of the Weave as it tried to sink into him. He couldn't lose control, not now. Not when everything was on the line.
With a guttural roar, Caelan slammed the sword into the stone beneath him. The impact sent a shockwave of energy rippling through the ground, shattering the shadows that threatened to consume him. For a moment, the room went still.
The figure didn't move. It simply watched, as though amused.
"Is this your answer?" it asked, its voice thick with disappointment.
Caelan's chest heaved with exertion. The Ashweave was still inside him, still hungry, but the storm had subsided for now. His fingers burned with the aftermath of their struggle.
"I'm not afraid of you," Caelan said, voice hoarse, but his conviction was stronger than before. "And I'm not afraid of the Weave."
The figure seemed to consider his words for a long moment, then nodded once, sharply.
"As you wish," it said, the shadows retreating slightly as if satisfied by his defiance. "But remember this: the Weave will always find you. And when it does, you won't be able to fight it anymore. It will have you. All of you."
The figure turned then, its cloak swirling around it like smoke in the air. "We will meet again, Caelan. And when we do, you will have no choice but to face the truth of what you are."
Before Caelan could respond, the figure vanished, slipping into the shadows as if it had never been there at all.
Caelan stood alone in the chamber, his sword still buried in the stone. The weight of the encounter hung heavily on him. His breath steadied, though his heart still raced in his chest.
The Weave had tested him tonight.
And for the first time, Caelan realized just how far he might fall.