Caelan's head throbbed with the aftershocks of the battle, but the adrenaline coursing through him pushed him forward. The figures had vanished as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving the desolate landscape eerily quiet once more. The cold air bit into his skin, but it was the burn in his chest that wouldn't fade, the hollow ache of something—someone—torn from him.
The Ashweave was still with him, coiling under his skin like a living thing. It was hungry, wild, and unrelenting, much like his own thoughts. The surge of power that had coursed through him moments before had left him dizzy, but there was no time to process it, no time to sit and wonder what the hell had just happened. It was as though something had awakened within him, something that wasn't just power—but hunger. It called to him in whispers, urging him to embrace the chaos.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
The figures had left him with a sense of urgency, something far darker than he'd ever felt before. Whoever they were, whatever they were, they knew more about the Ashweave than he did. And that was dangerous. They didn't come here for nothing. They had a purpose—and Caelan was somehow tangled in it.
But now, standing in the scorched ruins of the forest, Caelan could feel his resolve slipping. His body was still trembling from the encounter, and the pressure in his chest was almost unbearable. The Weave, the Ashweave—he didn't understand it, not fully. It had chosen him. But why? And why did it feel as though it was slowly consuming him?
He took a deep breath, his chest aching. It was hard to focus, harder still to think. His instincts screamed at him to move, to get out of the open, to find shelter and rest. But there was a part of him, deep inside, that urged him to seek the truth. To find answers.
He looked toward the horizon, the pale, ashen sky stretching out in front of him like a dark promise.
The first figure had told him there were others, seven of them. Caelan wasn't alone in this.
That thought did little to comfort him.
The journey back to Lowtown felt like it took forever, though Caelan wasn't sure whether that was because of his shattered thoughts or the strange presence that lingered in the back of his mind. Every step felt like it led him further into something he couldn't escape, a weight pressing down on his soul. The streets of Lowtown, once familiar, now felt foreign, tainted with an invisible presence.
He moved through the streets with quiet caution, each shadow seeming to stretch out longer than the last. The people here were used to hardship, to violence, but even they seemed unnerved tonight. The wind howled through the alleyways, and the faint smell of smoke still clung to the air.
As Caelan neared the hidden passage that led to the undercity, he paused, feeling something tug at him. It was faint at first, like a whisper, but it grew louder, more insistent. A sensation—no, a presence.
He spun around, his heart racing. But the street was empty. The air was still. The hum of the world felt wrong.
He turned back to the passage and stepped forward, his hand on the cold stone. Something was coming, something far worse than what he had already encountered. And he needed to be ready.
Deep beneath the city, in the twisting labyrinth of the undercity, Caelan met with the old man again. The stone chamber where they trained felt like a grave now, the weight of the air pressing down on him. The flame in the brazier flickered, casting strange shadows against the walls. The old man sat cross-legged in front of him, his eyes narrowed, studying Caelan with a keen, almost predatory gaze.
"You've changed," the old man said, his voice low, measured. "Something's different."
Caelan stiffened, his hand clenching at his side. "I don't know what happened out there. The Weave... it's—it's not the same."
The old man's expression didn't change. "The Ashweave is never the same. It's like fire. You can't control it. You can only shape it, until it burns you."
"I don't know how to control it," Caelan admitted, frustration bleeding through his words. "I'm not like those others. I can't just—bend it the way they can."
The old man's eyes flickered with something Caelan couldn't quite place. "No. You're not like them." He leaned forward, his voice soft. "And that may be your greatest strength."
Caelan didn't speak, but the uncertainty gnawed at him. The encounter in the ruins, the way the Ashweave had flared inside him—he'd felt it, the power answering him. But it hadn't been like before. It was wild, untamed. And it scared him. He was scared of what he was becoming.
"You've felt it, haven't you?" the old man continued. "The hunger. The need to feed the Weave, to let it grow and grow until it consumes you."
Caelan's throat tightened. "Yes," he said, barely above a whisper.
"That is why you are different," the old man said. "The others, the other heirs, they were born to wield the Weave. They are the vessels, the tools to guide the Weave. But you—" He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "You are the Weave itself."
The words hit Caelan like a punch to the gut. The Weave itself. What did that even mean? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"But it's not enough," the old man continued. "You will need more than just power to survive. You will need control."
"I don't know how."
The old man's gaze softened for the briefest moment. "Then it's time you learned."
The days that followed were a blur. The old man had pushed him harder than ever before. Caelan had long ago learned the discipline required to channel the Weave, but now, it was different. Now, the old man taught him not only how to harness the power, but how to bend it. How to shape it like clay.
But the Weave had its own mind, its own hunger. The Ashweave wanted to devour, to consume, to burn.
Every time Caelan tried to control it, to force it to obey, it resisted. It was wild. It was alive. And as he trained, as he forced it back, the hunger grew.
But so did his power.
It was a dangerous game, one that Caelan was quickly realizing was more than he could handle.
One night, after a particularly grueling session, Caelan found himself alone in the quiet darkness of the undercity. The weight of the power thrumming beneath his skin was suffocating. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
"Control," he whispered to himself. "Control."