The room was cold, too cold for comfort. A large stone chamber, its walls thick with age and the weight of forgotten things. There was no light here, save for the faintest glow emanating from the woman's hands, casting ghostly shadows that danced across the uneven stone floor.
She moved toward the center of the room, her veil fluttering slightly as she glided. The old man stood behind Caelan, his presence like a looming shadow, a silent reminder that there were things in this world far darker than the streets of Lowtown.
"Sit," the woman said, her voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "You're not ready. But you will be. Sit, and listen."
Caelan's feet seemed to carry him, as if his body were already obeying a command his mind had yet to understand. He sat on a stone slab, his hands resting on his knees. The woman moved to stand before him, her dark eyes fixed on his face.
"You feel it, don't you?" she asked, her voice a whisper that seemed to fill the room. "The Weave, pulling at your soul. It wants to consume you. But you won't let it. Not yet."
Caelan's breath hitched. He could feel it—beneath his skin, between his ribs, like something was alive inside him. The Ashweave, still so wild and untamed. It clawed at his insides, hungry, demanding.
The old man's voice broke the silence. "You'll learn to control it. But not here. Not in the darkness. Not yet."
The woman's lips curled into a smile, the black lace of her veil shifting with the motion. "There's no escaping it, boy. Not anymore."
She raised a hand, and the room seemed to shift. The walls blurred, the stones vibrating under her touch. Caelan's heart pounded as his senses exploded into chaos—sight, sound, and touch all crashing together, overlapping.
And then—silence.
The room had changed. The stone walls were gone, replaced by endless blackness. There was no floor, no ceiling, no light. Only the swirling threads of the Weave, tangled and knotted, drifting through the emptiness like the ghosts of forgotten stars.
"This," the woman's voice echoed, "is where the Weave begins. Here, you can see it, feel it, and yet... you can't control it."
Caelan's heart raced as the threads coiled around him, like hands reaching out to pull him deeper. They were cold, impossibly cold. His skin tingled as they brushed against him, burning with a pain that wasn't quite physical. He wanted to pull away, to escape, but the threads were everywhere.
The woman's voice broke through the chaos again. "Do you see it, boy? The Weave is a force beyond you. It is not yours to command. You are but a thread in its tapestry."
Caelan gasped, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The threads wrapped tighter around him, squeezing the air from his lungs. But there was something else there—something dark, hidden within the strands.
"Let go," she whispered. "Let go, and the Weave will guide you."
A surge of panic hit Caelan. His hands clenched into fists, his body trembling. He couldn't let go. Not again. Not like last time. But as the threads closed in on him, the temptation to submit became overwhelming. He could feel it—a power unlike anything he had ever known, pulling at his soul, urging him to surrender.
And then—
The old man's voice. A sharp command.
"Caelan, fight it!"
The words pierced through the fog of fear and doubt. Caelan snapped his eyes open, gasping for breath. The threads vanished, the darkness receding as he found himself back in the stone room, kneeling on the cold floor.
Sweat dripped down his forehead. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest.
"You're not ready for that yet," the woman said, her voice soft, almost pitying. "But you will be. The Weave will come for you, Caelan. Whether you are ready or not."
The old man stepped forward, his eyes grave. "The Ashweave... it's a mirror of your soul. Every wound, every crack, every fracture in your heart—it will twist the Weave. And if you're not careful, it will twist you with it."
Caelan's breath was slow, measured. He forced his hands to unclench, his body aching from the tension. His gaze fell to the floor, to the cracks in the stone beneath him.
"What do I do now?" he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp.
"Now," the woman said, "you learn."