The morning after the Choir escape broke quietly.
The wind had stilled. Snow hung unmoving on the pines around their high camp, as if the world itself waited for what came next.
Caelan sat at the edge of the fire, staring at the Weaveheart relic in his hands. It had cooled now, its once-pulsing light reduced to faint flickers like the embers in the pit beside him.Its whispers had faded. But the name it left behind still haunted him.
Aurion.
Elira paced behind him, her arms crossed, hair pulled back into a warrior's braid. Her eyes—sharp, unreadable—never stopped watching him.
"You haven't slept," she said.
"No."
"You keep staring at that thing like it owes you something."
Caelan looked up slowly. "Maybe it does."
She crouched beside him, her tone gentler. "You know what I think? I think you're scared it's true. That you're not just Caelan from the Hollow. That maybe this name—'Aurion'—wasn't erased. Just buried."
He didn't answer.
"Hey," she added, softer. "You're still you. Whatever this is… you're not him unless you choose to be."
A moment of quiet passed between them. Snow fell again, finally. The silence broke.
"I need answers," he said.
"I know someone who might help," she replied. "But he's not... stable."
Caelan raised a brow.
"He's called the Scribe of Threads. Real name's Malvric. Used to serve the Ninth Spire as a Chronoweaver—but he went rogue after the Eclipse. Lives in the Shatterbarrow, east of the valley. Alone. Talks to ghosts."
Caelan stood, tightening his cloak.
"Then we pay him a visit."
The Shatterbarrow
It took them three days to reach the Shatterbarrow—an ancient ruin nestled between warped cliffs where the Weave bled in odd colors. Time drifted oddly here. Footsteps echoed twice. Shadows leaned in the wrong direction.
Elira muttered, "It's always like this near forgotten Weave sites. You feel that itch in your skull?"
Caelan nodded grimly. "Yeah. Feels like someone's reading your thoughts."
"Someone might be."
They found Malvric's hovel half-buried beneath collapsed spires of black crystal. A dozen windchimes made of bone and mirrored glass hung from the eaves. One of them spun wildly despite the still air.
And then the door opened on its own.
A voice crackled like torn parchment.
"You shouldn't be here."
Caelan stepped forward. "I need answers. About the name Aurion."
A figure limped into view. Malvric. His hair was wild and silver, his robe stitched from veils of spider-silk and burnt parchment. His left eye was replaced with a glowing rune that shifted shape when he blinked.
"Aurion," the man said slowly, tasting the word. "That's an old name. Too old for your mouth, boy."
"Yet the relic spoke it when I touched it."
Malvric turned his head slowly. Then laughed—once, sharply.
"Well then. Come in, come in! If your death is fated by curiosity, I may as well serve tea first!"
Within the Threads
The inside of the hovel was a maze of floating scrolls, suspended in Weave fields. Candles burned in reverse, casting light that devoured shadows. A chessboard sat mid-game—though no one played.
Malvric poured steaming liquid from a kettle shaped like a crow.
"You are not the first to seek the name," he said. "But you might be the last. Sit. Both of you. Don't touch the hourglass. Or the skull."
Elira sat reluctantly. Caelan remained standing.
"I was told you once mapped identities across timelines."
"Oh, once," Malvric said cheerfully. "Before the Spire branded me a heretic and the Choir tried to turn my bones into a flute."
He sipped. "Aurion was a name of power. A name that did not die when its bearer did. It's bound to the Ashweave. To something deeper."
Caelan's voice was quiet. "Was he a god?"
Malvric laughed so hard he spilled tea onto a scroll. "No. No, not a god. Worse. A remembered man. The kind whose soul is too stubborn to unravel properly."
He turned a sharper eye on Caelan.
"Sometimes, when a soul dies angry enough, proud enough… it stains the pattern. Leaves threads behind."
Caelan met his gaze. "And I carry his stain?"
"You carry him. Or some shade of him." He tilted his head. "Tell me, boy. Do you dream of fire?"
Caelan hesitated. "Every night."
Malvric's smile faded.
"Then you're more than just Caelan Hollowborn. You're Ashborne. Aurion's rebirth. Not by blood—but by resonance. You wear his soul like armor. But if you're not careful…"He tapped the side of his head."You'll start thinking with his mind."
A Fracture Between Them
Outside the hovel, beneath a storm-colored sky, Elira grabbed Caelan's arm.
"We shouldn't trust him."
"He told me what I needed to know."
"He told you what you wanted to hear. There's a difference."
He pulled away. "You think I'm becoming him."
"I think you don't know who you are anymore."
He turned on her, eyes sharp. "What if I don't have the luxury of being just 'Caelan' anymore?"
She stared at him for a long time. Then turned away.
"You don't have to walk his path," she said. "Even if you wear his soul."
And then she was gone—walking ahead toward the rising wind.
The Hollow Prince Dreams
Far away, in a chamber of black roots and whispering bones, the Hollow Prince knelt before a mirror of blood-glass.
He watched a flicker of fire and steel: Caelan, blade drawn, eyes burning.
He whispered: "Aurion…"
A smile twisted across his face.
"My brother returns."
And behind him, the Choir sang a new hymn. One of war.