The Crystal Veil was a ghost of its former glory, a sprawl of shattered spires and crumbled arches draped in vines that looked more like veins, pulsing faintly in the twilight. The ground was a mosaic of cracked marble and blackened earth, littered with fragments of crystal that caught the fading light, throwing prisms of blue and violet across the ruins. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp stone, rotting leaves, and a sharp, metallic tang, like blood spilled long ago and never cleaned. No birds sang, no wind stirred, but whispers hung in the stillness—soft, jagged murmurs of return, break, end, weaving through the shadows like threads of a forgotten song. The sky above was a bruise, all purples and grays, with stars struggling to pierce the haze, their light cold and distant.
Kaelith Varn stood at the edge of the ruins, her boots sinking into the soft earth, her cloak a tattered shroud barely clinging to her frame. The shard at her belt was dull, its glow a sickly gray, like ash left to smolder. Her dark hair hung in clumps, matted with dirt and blood, framing a face so pale it seemed translucent, her gray eyes hollow, bloodshot, staring at the spires as if they might speak. Her hands shook, clutching the scroll from the Voidheart, now blank but heavy with meaning, its map gone silent after the final anchor. The heart's power was a fire in her chest, burning her to nothing, leaving her breathless, her skin clammy, her bones aching like they might snap. Gold ichor crusted her lips, flaked under her nose, and she wiped it away, her sleeve a patchwork of stains, her fingers trembling so bad she could barely hold the scroll.
Torren Ashkarn leaned against a broken pillar, his broad frame hunched, his spear propped beside him like a crutch he couldn't let go. His hides were shredded, bandages unraveling from his chest where spawn had clawed him deep in the chasm, the wounds red and raw, oozing through the cloth. His scarred hands gripped the pillar, knuckles pale, no trace of riftweaving's fire, just a tremor that made his fingers twitch. His face was a wreck—bruises fading to gray, stubble thick as a beard, dark eyes cloudy with pain and something heavier, like he was seeing the end and didn't care anymore. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one wet, like blood was pooling in his lungs, but he stood there, stubborn as ever, his jaw set against the whispers.
Sylvara Ren knelt a few paces away, her auburn braid loose under a scarf so worn it was more holes than cloth. Her green eyes were red-rimmed, filled with a grief that sat like stones in her chest, darting to the ruins as if they might hide answers or threats. Her tunic was a mess, patched with scraps, torn at the shoulders to show cuts that wouldn't heal, crusted with dirt and blood. Her dagger rested in her lap, its blade chipped but sharp, her only weapon since the Hollow's fall, its handle warm from her grip. Her hands fidgeted, picking at a loose thread, aching for herbs she'd lost in the sea, the desert, the peaks. The Veil's silence pressed on her, heavier than the Voidheart's dark, but she kept her voice steady, her lips pressed tight to hold back tears.
Rhydian Thalor paced the perimeter, his lean frame weaving through the rubble like a cat stalking shadows. His coat was a ruin, patched with whatever he could scavenge, flapping open to show a shirt stiff with blood, sweat, and ash. His blue eyes glinted, sharp and restless, catching every flicker in the ruins—every glint of crystal, every shift of vine. His dagger spun in one hand, a nervous habit that kept him grounded, while the Weaver tablet pressed against his ribs, its runes a silent hum he felt in his jaw. His face was gaunt, cheekbones cutting through a scruff of beard, and his smirk was gone, replaced by a frown that said he was waiting for the ground to open up and swallow them.
They'd clawed their way back here through a trail of blood and loss. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, chasing the Codex's heart to save the Tapestry, had pulled her through rifts, seas, deserts, peaks, and chasms. Torren's flight from the Emberfall Dominion, haunted by the lives he'd burned, had carried him from the Waste to the Voidheart's edge. Sylvara's fight for the Verdant Hollow had turned her hands to blades, stained with more than earth. Rhydian, dodging his Riftborn blood, had bound himself to them, his tablet a shadow of Kaelith's shard. The Weaver's Voice was their hunter, its promises of freedom through ruin a scream in their ears, its laughter a wound after every fight—from the Sunken Isles to the Voidheart's crypt.
"This place looks like it died a long time ago," Torren said, his voice a low scrape, barely loud enough to reach them. He shifted against the pillar, wincing as his bandages stuck to his wounds, blood seeping fresh. "Feels like it's still dying."
Sylvara looked up, her scarf slipping to show worry lines etched deep, like cracks in clay. "It's not dead, Torren. It's… waiting. Like the Hollow was, before." Her voice was soft, but it cracked, like she was swallowing glass. "You're still here, though. That's what matters."
Kaelith stared at the spires, the scroll clutched so tight her nails bit her palms. "It's not waiting," she said, her voice rough, like she'd been screaming for days. "It's calling. The shard's warm, the Tapestry's humming. This is where it started—where the heart was born. We end it here."
Rhydian stopped pacing, his dagger pausing mid-spin, his eyes narrowing at the ruins. "End it? That's a big word, Varn. You said that in the chasm, and we're still bleeding. What makes this different?"
She turned, her face pale, gold ichor glistening on her chin, her eyes fierce despite the tremble in her hands. "What makes it different? The scroll's blank, Rhydian. No more anchors, no more maps. The heart's here—somewhere in these ruins. We find it, we fix the Tapestry, or we die trying."
He raised his hands, dagger catching the crystal's light, his voice sharp but tired. "Hey, I'm not saying we quit. Just pointing out we're a mess. Look at us—barely standing, bickering like we've got nothing left to lose. I'm not sure we can take another fight."
Torren coughed, spitting blood that sank into the earth, his voice low. "He's got a point, Kaelith. I'm done for. Riftweaving's gone, and I'm barely holding on. You're not much better—look at that gold crap on your face."
Sylvara stood, her dagger in hand, her voice sharp, like a sister fed up with fighting. "Stop it, all of you! We're not done, not yet. Torren, you're stronger than you think. Kaelith, you're not carrying this alone. And Rhydian, quit talking like we're already dead. We've come too far to fall apart now."
Kaelith's eyes glistened, her voice soft, almost broken. "You're right, Sylvara. I'm sorry. I'm just… so tired. The heart's killing me, and I'm scared we're too late."
Torren pushed off the pillar, his spear scraping the ground, his face softening despite the pain. "Tired or not, we're here. You've dragged us this far, Kaelith. Don't stop now."
Sylvara nodded, stepping closer, her hand brushing Kaelith's shoulder, her voice warm. "Together. Like always. Where do we start?"
Kaelith took a shaky breath, unfolding the scroll, its blank surface glowing faintly under her touch. "The shard's pulling me—toward the center, where the spires are thickest. There's a chamber, maybe. The heart's cradle."
Rhydian's dagger spun again, his eyes scanning the ruins. "Cradle, huh? Sounds like trouble. My tablet's humming—those runes on the spires match it. Something's awake, and it's not happy we're poking around."
They moved through the ruins, the ground uneven, marble slabs tilting under their weight, vines snagging their boots. The whispers grew louder, weaving into phrases—you failed, you broke, you die—slipping into their heads like cold water. Sylvara shivered, her dagger drawn, her voice a whisper. "It's like the Voidheart, but… personal. Like it knows what scares us."
Rhydian nodded, his dagger steady, his voice low. "It does. My tablet's buzzing harder—feels like it's trying to talk. These ruins aren't just stone—they're Weaver work, alive somehow."
Kaelith's shard flared, its light cutting through the dusk, guiding them to a sunken plaza, its center a massive spire, half-crumbled, runes glowing like embers along its base. A doorway gaped at its foot, dark as a throat, runes pulsing like a heartbeat. "There," she said, her voice trembling. "That's it."
Before they could move, the ground shook, a deep rumble that sent vines snapping. A rift tore open, its violet light blinding, its hum a scream that clawed their minds. Spawn surged out—creatures of crystal and shadow, their bodies spiked with glass, eyes like burning oil. One lunged, its claws ripping the air.
"Get down!" Kaelith yelled, diving behind a slab. The shard blazed, and she wove a barrier, its golden light flickering as a spawn smashed it. She gasped, gold ichor streaming from her nose, pooling on the marble.
Torren swung his spear, no fire left, just muscle and grit. He stabbed a spawn's chest, its body shattering, but another tackled him, claws tearing his bandages. "Get off!" he roared, slamming it with the spear's butt. He fell to his knees, blood soaking the ground, his spear shaking.
Sylvara slashed with her dagger, aiming for a spawn's eyes. It screeched, swiping at her, but she rolled, vines tangling her legs. "Torren, stay back!" she shouted, stabbing another that lunged. Her arm bled, her tunic shredded, but she kept swinging, her voice breaking. "We're not losing you!"
Rhydian moved like a ghost, his dagger sinking into a spawn's neck. He warped the air, crushing another, but blood poured from his ears, his face white. "Varn, close it!" he yelled, dodging a claw that cracked a slab.
Kaelith's barrier shattered, her body crumpling. "It's too strong!" she sobbed, the shard burning her hand. The Tapestry's threads were a storm, slipping away, and her vision blurred, ichor pooling under her.
The Weaver's Voice rose, its shadow swallowing the rift's light. "You return to the cradle," it whispered, a chorus of despair, "but you bring only ruin. Break, and be whole."
"Shut your damn mouth!" Torren bellowed, staggering up. He swung at the Voice, spear cracking, but it laughed, slamming him into a spire. Blood sprayed, and he slumped, still.
Sylvara screamed, diving for him, her dagger slashing a spawn to keep it off. "Torren, please!" she cried, dragging him back, her hands slick with blood. "Don't leave me!"
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith, pulling her up. "You're not done!" he shouted, his powers surging, a weak shield holding the spawn back. "Do it!"
Kaelith nodded, tears mixing with ichor, and wove again, the shard blinding. Sylvara stabbed a spawn, clearing space, her arm trembling, blood dripping.
The rift shrank, threads snapping into place, but the Voice struck, its shadow breaking Kaelith's weave. She screamed, falling, the scroll slipping.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!" she sobbed, slashing another, her voice raw.
Rhydian steadied Kaelith, his eyes fierce. "One more, Varn! Together!"
Kaelith wove, the shard's fire consuming her, threads aligning. The rift closed with a deafening crack, the Voice's laughter fading: "You weave your end."
The spawn dissolved, the plaza quiet except for their gasps. Kaelith slumped, the shard dark, her body shaking. Sylvara checked Torren's pulse, sobbing as he groaned, alive. "You're okay," she whispered, tearing her tunic to bandage him, her hands trembling.
Rhydian kicked a vine, his voice hoarse. "We're not surviving another. We're done."
Kaelith crawled to the scroll, its blank surface glowing. "The chamber," she rasped, pointing to the doorway. "We're not done."
They staggered to the spire, vines stinging their wounds, the whispers screaming. The doorway was a tunnel of crystal and stone, runes glowing like fire. Kaelith led them in, her shard flaring, lighting a chamber of polished marble, its walls carved with Weaver runes—swirls and knots that pulsed like veins. At its center stood a pedestal, a crystal heart atop it, glowing gold, its threads weaving into the air—the heart, alive with the Tapestry's pulse.
"It's… everything," Sylvara said, helping Torren sit, her voice awed. "Like the Voidheart, but… home."
Torren coughed, blood on his lips. "Home's a trap. That thing's gonna kill us."
Rhydian circled it, his dagger still. "The heart. My tablet's screaming—it's the source. It's holding the Tapestry."
Kaelith touched the heart, visions flooding her—Weavers forging it in blood, their lives binding the Tapestry, their screams echoing. "It's the heart," she said, her voice breaking. "It's us. It's killing us to keep the weave."
Sylvara's hand tightened on her dagger. "Can we fix it?"
Kaelith shook her head, ichor dripping. "Fix or cut. We're the heart's anchors. We can heal it—or break free."
Torren's voice was grim. "Break it. I'm done bleeding."
Rhydian's eyes darkened. "Break it, and what? Nothing left? We're out of guesses."
Sylvara stepped forward, her voice fierce. "We fight. For the Hollow, the Dominion, everything. We mend it, Kaelith."
A rumble shook the chamber, crystal cracking. The Voice returned, its shadow filling the space. "You cannot mend," it hissed. "The heart is mine."
Kaelith faced it, her shard blazing. "Not today!" She wove, the heart's light merging, threads surging.
Torren stood, no fire, just grit. "Back her!" he shouted, stabbing a spawn with his spear.
Sylvara slashed another, her arm bleeding. "Faster!"
Rhydian crushed a spawn, blood streaming. "Finish it!"
Kaelith channeled the heart, the fire roaring. The threads aligned, the heart stabilizing, but the Voice struck, shattering her weave. She fell, screaming, ichor pooling.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!"
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith. "One more!"
Kaelith wove, the heart blinding, the light flooding. The rift closed, the Voice gone, its whisper fading: "You are the end."
They collapsed, bloody, spent. Kaelith clutched the heart, its glow steady. "It's done," she whispered. "The Tapestry's whole."
Sylvara bandaged Torren, tears falling. "We did it."
Rhydian wiped his dagger, his voice low. "Did we?"
Kaelith stood, swaying, her eyes soft. "We go home. Whatever's left."
They left the chamber, the ruins silent, the heart's light fading. The Tapestry held, and they were alive, but the Voice's shadow lingered, patient as death.