The wind howled through the cracked stone of the undercity, sending a chill deeper into Caelan's bones than the cold ever could. His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest tight from both the exertion of his training and the constant weight of the Ashweave thrumming beneath his skin. He stood at the center of the ancient chamber, the air thick with the smell of burning incense and the lingering taste of something darker.
The old man had gone silent, watching from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with quiet expectation. They hadn't spoken in hours, just the steady rhythm of Caelan's movements as he attempted, once again, to control the Ashweave.
It wasn't working. It never seemed to work.
His hands trembled as he reached for it, feeling the pull of the threads, a thousand different strands of light and shadow. The Ashweave answered him, but it answered with hunger, with fire. The wild, uncontrollable force of it twisted around him, pulling at his mind, his spirit. His grip tightened.
Breathe, Caelan.
The thought came to him from somewhere far away, but he recognized it instantly—it was the same voice that had whispered to him in the darkness after his mother's death. The voice that had awakened him to this power.
His fingers clenched tighter, the Ashweave growing more erratic, more violent, until—
"Stop."
The old man's voice was like a whip, cutting through the chaos. The threads faltered, falling still as Caelan broke contact.
He staggered back, his knees threatening to buckle. "I can't—It's too much." He gasped, his body aching, the energy within him swirling like a storm waiting to be unleashed.
The old man stepped forward, his face hard, but with a flicker of something like pity in his eyes. "You're trying to control it like it's a weapon. But that's not what it is. It's you."
Caelan didn't understand. "It's power. I need it. To survive."
The old man shook his head slowly. "No, boy. You don't need power. You need understanding. And understanding means embracing what you are. The Ashweave is not a tool. It is not a weapon. It is the Veil—the boundary between the living and the dead, the mortal and the divine. And you... You are its keeper."
Caelan's breath caught in his throat. "Keeper?" The word felt wrong. Too much.
The old man's gaze hardened. "You are the one who was chosen, Caelan. The Ashweave responds to you because it is a part of you. It has been since the night of the Eclipse. You are the Veil itself. And the world will burn if you don't learn to wield it properly."
Caelan felt the weight of those words settle in his chest like a stone. "I can't... I don't understand. I don't want this."
The old man's eyes softened for a moment, and for the first time, Caelan saw the weariness in them—the toll of a man who had lived too long with the knowledge of what Caelan was becoming.
"You will understand," the old man said quietly. "But not until the Ashweave has claimed you. Not until you can stand in the center of it and wield it without losing yourself. You're not the first to bear this burden, Caelan. But you may be the last."
The night that followed was long and silent. Caelan could feel the weight of the old man's words pressing into him like a thousand unseen hands. He lay in the darkened chamber, staring up at the cracked ceiling, trying to grasp what the old man had told him. He wasn't just a vessel for the Ashweave—he was its keeper. The Veil itself.
It sounded like madness. But there was truth to it. In every tremor that ran through his body when the Ashweave flared, in every piece of the world that seemed to bend around him, he knew there was something more. Something that had been inside him from the beginning.
And yet... Caelan didn't feel like he understood it any better than he had when it first awakened.
In the distance, he heard the faint echo of a bell ringing. The city was restless tonight, as it always was. Lowtown had a way of never quite sleeping. The low murmur of voices reached his ears, the shuffle of feet on the wet cobblestone. But something else lingered beneath the usual sounds—something darker. A presence.
Caelan stood and moved toward the shadows, the weight of his sword resting heavily at his side. The Ashweave stirred under his skin, as if it could sense the tension in the air.
He reached the entrance to the undercity, where the winding passageways led up to the world above. A faint light flickered from the far end of the tunnel.
He froze.
There, standing at the mouth of the passage, was a figure. Tall, shrouded in a cloak that fluttered in the wind like a specter. A figure Caelan knew all too well.
His pulse quickened.
"Not this again," Caelan muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.
The figure stepped forward, its cloak swirling around it like smoke. The faint glow of the city's torches barely illuminated the face beneath the hood. But Caelan didn't need to see it. He knew who it was.
"You've returned," Caelan said, his voice flat, his eyes narrowing. "What do you want this time?"
The figure didn't answer right away. Instead, it tilted its head, almost as if it were studying him.
Finally, it spoke, and its voice sent a shiver down Caelan's spine.
"The Weave calls to you, Caelan. But you are not yet ready."