Caelan's footsteps echoed in the quiet hallways as he made his way through the ruins of the old temple. The chill of the stone beneath his boots was a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering in his chest. His mind churned, reeling from the cryptic words of the shadowed figure. We will meet again. The weight of those words, and the ominous promise behind them, gnawed at him.
He was no stranger to danger. He had lived with it since the moment his mother died, since the day the Eclipse marked him as one of the seven heirs. He had fought with fists, with blade, and with the strange, terrifying magic that had begun to awaken inside him. But this—the figure, the Weave, the force that had nearly consumed him—was something else entirely.
Caelan's hand brushed against the cold wall, the ancient carvings worn smooth by centuries of neglect. He paused for a moment, the dark corners of the temple whispering secrets he couldn't yet understand. The shadow had spoken of the Weave's hunger, of what it wanted from him, but he wasn't sure whether it was warning him… or tempting him.
He stopped in front of a stone door, its surface etched with unfamiliar symbols. His fingers hesitated above the carvings, the ancient magic thrumming against his skin. The old man's words returned to him: The Weave remembers what they don't. It was clear now that the path Caelan walked was far darker and more dangerous than he had ever imagined. But he had made his choice, and there was no turning back.
He pushed open the door.
The room beyond was bathed in dim, flickering light. The walls were lined with shelves filled with dusty tomes and strange artifacts—artifacts that hummed with a power Caelan could feel even from the doorway. His eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he entered. This place felt like a forgotten corner of the world, as though it had been left behind by those who had once wielded the power he was only beginning to understand.
At the far end of the room stood the old man, his back turned, his hands resting on a large, ancient tome spread out on a stone pedestal. The air in the room was heavy, filled with an unsettling silence.
The old man didn't turn when Caelan entered. "You've come to learn," he said, his voice low and contemplative. "But are you ready to face the truth?"
Caelan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, his boots soft on the stone floor. His thoughts were a swirl of uncertainty. The shadow had told him that the Weave would consume him—that it would take everything from him, just as it had taken from the others before him. Yet, here he was, standing on the precipice of something far greater than anything he had ever imagined.
"I'm ready," Caelan said, his voice steady despite the churn of fear deep inside him.
The old man finally turned, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable expression. "Very well," he said, "then you must understand what the Weave truly is. What it was… and what it will become."
He gestured to the tome before him. Caelan's gaze flickered over the pages, the symbols written there a confusing mess of archaic script and unfamiliar sigils.
"The Weave is not a gift," the old man continued, his voice firm. "It is a curse. A remnant of something older, something that transcends the gods themselves. The ones who wield it are bound by it, and in time, it consumes them."
Caelan's throat tightened. "So, what am I supposed to do? Just abandon it?"
The old man shook his head. "You cannot abandon it, Caelan. Not anymore. The Weave is part of you. And you are part of it."
He paused, letting the words sink in. Caelan's heart pounded in his chest, and for a brief moment, he felt that familiar pull—the tug of the Ashweave beneath his skin. It was like a voice in the back of his mind, whispering to him, calling him to embrace the darkness, to let it consume him.
The old man stepped closer, his face hardening. "There are forces beyond your control, Caelan. Forces that have been watching you since the moment you were born. You are not the first heir to awaken, and you will not be the last. The others—those who stand against you—are just as dangerous, just as powerful."
Caelan clenched his fists, the Weave thrumming in response, eager to be used, eager to be wielded. "Then what do you want from me?"
The old man's eyes darkened. "To survive, you must master the Weave. But to truly understand it, you must face the truth of your origins. The Eclipse was no accident. It was no prophecy. It was a choice."
Caelan felt a chill settle over him, deeper than the cold of the temple. "A choice?"
The old man nodded grimly. "The Eclipse was a plan set in motion long before your birth. There are those who have shaped the course of history, hidden behind the veil of time. The Eclipse was their doing, Caelan. And they chose you."
Caelan's breath caught in his throat. His mind reeled with the implications. He had thought the Eclipse was a random event, a cosmic anomaly that had marked him as one of the heirs. But this—this was something else entirely.
"They chose me?" Caelan repeated, his voice hoarse.
The old man's gaze softened, but his words were still heavy with the weight of truth. "Yes. You are one of the seven, but not all of you are meant to survive this. Some of you were meant to burn, and some of you were meant to rule. But there is one who will rise above the rest. And that one will claim the throne."
Caelan's hands trembled, his mind spinning. "The Eclipse Throne…"
"Yes," the old man said, his voice cold. "And the one who claims it will have the power to reshape the world. But first, you must survive the trials of the Weave. Only then will you be ready."
Caelan nodded, though his heart was heavy with the knowledge that his path was far from over—and that the weight of what lay ahead would test him in ways he could not yet comprehend.
As he turned to leave the room, the old man's voice stopped him.
"Remember, Caelan," he said softly, "the Weave will not be kind to you. It will demand your soul. But if you can master it… then you might just be the last one standing."
Caelan's eyes hardened, his resolve solidifying.
He wasn't afraid of the Weave. Not anymore.
The throne would be his.