The Sunken Isles sprawled before Rhydian Thalor like a fractured dream, a labyrinth of jagged rocks and half-submerged ruins cloaked in mist. The air was thick with the scent of salt and decay, the kind that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones. His boots sank into the damp earth as he navigated the narrow, winding streets of Krakensport, a port town as infamous for its black-market dealings as it was for its treacherous tides. The town's heartbeat was the clatter of coins, the murmur of hushed deals, and the occasional scream that echoed from shadowed alleys.
Rhydian's destination was a stall tucked between a tattoo parlor and a tavern that reeked of stale rum. The stall's owner, Silas, was a wiry man with darting eyes and fingers stained black from years of handling illicit goods. His table was a clutter of oddities—coral-encrusted skulls, maps drawn in squid ink, and trinkets that whispered of forgotten seas. But Rhydian's gaze was fixed on one item: a shard of obsidian, no larger than a dagger, etched with runes that glowed faintly in the torchlight.
"You're asking a king's ransom for a rock," Rhydian said, his voice low and edged with skepticism. He leaned closer, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he studied the shard. "Prove it's worth my time, Silas, or I walk."
Silas's lips curled into a greasy smile. "Ah, but this ain't just any rock, Thalor. It's a Weaver's tear—or so the legends say. Pulled from the heart of a rift, humming with power. You, of all people, should know its value."
Rhydian's pulse quickened, but he kept his expression neutral. The Weavers were a myth to most, godlike beings who had woven the Tapestry that bound reality itself. To hold a piece of their legacy was to hold a key to secrets long buried. "Legends are cheap," he replied. "Show me it works."
Silas hesitated, then tapped the shard with a trembling finger. The runes flared brighter, and for a heartbeat, the air around them seemed to ripple, as if reality itself had shivered. Rhydian's breath caught. It's real. He reached for his coin purse, but a rough hand clamped onto his shoulder, spinning him around.
"Thalor, you slimy eel," growled a voice like gravel. Captain Vex stood before him, a mountain of a man with a scarred face and a grin that promised violence. His crew loomed behind him, their hands resting on the hilts of curved blades. "Heard you've been hoarding treasures. Time to share, don't you think?"
Rhydian's mind raced. Vex was a rival pirate, a brute who ruled through fear and a network of spies. "I don't owe you a thing, Vex," he said, his tone calm despite the tension coiling in his gut. "This is my find. Walk away."
Vex's grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "Or what? You'll talk me to death? I've got a better idea—hand it over, or I'll gut you from navel to nose."
The air grew thick with unspoken threats. Rhydian's fingers twitched toward his dagger, but he knew he was outnumbered. Then, as if in response to his rising panic, a shadow behind Vex twisted unnaturally, bending against the light. Rhydian's Riftborn powers stirred, unbidden and dangerous. He clamped down on them, his jaw tightening. Not here. Not now.
"Fine," he said, forcing a shrug. "Take it. But you'll regret it."
Vex snatched the shard from Silas's stall, his eyes gleaming with greed. As he turned to leave, Rhydian caught a snippet of conversation from a nearby sailor: "—rift's opening beneath the sea, they say. Holds secrets of the Tapestry itself."
His interest piqued, Rhydian slipped away from the stall, his mind already charting a course. If there was a rift beneath the waves, it could hold answers—or power—beyond the shard. He needed a crew, a ship, and a plan. And he needed them fast, before Vex caught wind of it.
Aboard The Serpent's Wake, Rhydian's ship, the sea churned like a living thing, its surface a canvas of foam and shadow. The crew he'd assembled was a motley bunch: Jorr, a grizzled navigator with a limp and a penchant for tall tales; Mira, a sharp-tongued cook who wielded her ladle like a weapon; and Tav, a mute cabin boy with haunted eyes that seemed to see more than they should.
"Seen calmer seas in a teacup, Captain," Jorr grumbled as he wrestled with the wheel, his knuckles white against the storm's fury. Lightning split the sky, illuminating waves that towered like mountains, their crests curling with menace.
"Hold her steady," Rhydian ordered, his voice cutting through the gale. "We're close."
Close to what, he didn't say. The rift's location was a guess, pieced together from sailor's tales and half-remembered maps. But as the ship crested a massive wave, he saw it: a derelict vessel, its mast snapped like a twig, drifting aimlessly. Claw marks marred its hull, and the deck was slick with a strange, shimmering residue—rift energy.
"Bring us alongside," Rhydian commanded. "I'm going aboard."
Mira shot him a skeptical look. "You sure about this, Captain? That ship's cursed, mark my words."
"I don't believe in curses," Rhydian replied, though his gut twisted with unease. "Only in what I can see."
What he saw, as he crossed the gangplank, was a ghost ship. The crew was gone, vanished without a trace, but the signs of their struggle remained: overturned crates, splintered wood, and dark stains that might have been blood—or something worse. In the captain's quarters, he found a logbook, its pages warped with seawater but still legible.
"The rift opened beneath us," the final entry read. "It calls. It hungers. We cannot escape."
A chill crawled down Rhydian's spine. He tucked the logbook into his coat and returned to The Serpent's Wake, his resolve hardening. The rift was real, and it was close.
The underwater cavern was a cathedral of shadow and light, its walls draped in bioluminescent algae that pulsed like a heartbeat. Rhydian and his crew, clad in enchanted diving gear—helmets of crystal and coral—moved through the water with slow, deliberate strokes. The rift loomed ahead, a jagged tear in the ocean floor, its edges crackling with violet energy.
"Gods below," Mira whispered through the comm-tube, her voice muffled by the helmet. "What is that?"
"Trouble," Rhydian replied, his eyes scanning the darkness. "Stay sharp."
As if in answer, a shape uncoiled from the shadows: a rift-spawn, its body a sinuous ribbon of glass-sharp scales, its maw lined with needle-teeth. It struck with blinding speed, its tail grazing Mira's arm and drawing a ribbon of blood that clouded the water.
"Brace yourselves!" Rhydian barked, hefting his harpoon. The creature lunged again, and Jorr fired his crossbow, the bolt glancing off its hide. Tav darted aside, his small dagger flashing in the dim light.
Rhydian drove his harpoon into the beast's flank, clinging to the shaft as it thrashed. The rift-spawn's scream vibrated through the water, a sound that clawed at his mind. He twisted the harpoon, aiming for the creature's heart—if it had one. With a final, shuddering convulsion, the beast went still, its body dissolving into motes of light.
But the battle had drawn attention. More rift-spawn emerged, their eyes glowing like coals in the dark. Rhydian's crew fought with grim determination, their weapons flashing in the eerie glow. It was a brutal, chaotic dance, the water churning with blood and ichor.
When the last creature fell, Rhydian's chest heaved with exertion. "There," he said, pointing to a stone pedestal half-buried in the sand. Atop it rested a tablet, its surface alive with shifting glyphs.
He swam closer, his fingers tracing the ancient script. "The Weavers wove, and the threads sang," he murmured, translating the runes. "Until the silence came."
A shadow fell over him. He turned to see Jorr, his crossbow aimed not at the rift but at Rhydian's heart. "Sorry, Captain," Jorr said, his voice cold. "Vex pays better."
Before Rhydian could react, the water exploded with movement. Vex's crew, clad in sharkskin armor, surged from the darkness, their harpoons glinting. Betrayal burned in Rhydian's throat, but there was no time for anger. He unleashed his Riftborn powers, warping the water into a shield that deflected the first volley of bolts.
The effort drained him, his vision blurring as he fought to maintain control. "Tav, Mira—get to the ship!" he shouted, his voice ragged.
Mira hesitated, her eyes wide with fear. "But—"
"Go!" he roared, slamming his fist into the pedestal. The rift shuddered, its energy destabilizing. The cavern began to collapse, rocks tumbling from the ceiling in slow, deadly arcs.
Rhydian turned to Jorr, his dagger drawn. "You sold us out," he snarled. "Give me one reason your corpse shouldn't feed the fish."
Jorr's bravado faltered. "Vex—he's got my family. I had no choice."
For a heartbeat, Rhydian wavered. Then the rift's roar intensified, and he made his decision. "Run," he said, shoving Jorr toward the exit. "But if I see you again, you're dead."
The escape was a blur of panic and adrenaline. Rhydian's lungs burned as he swam, the water growing murkier with debris. When he finally broke the surface, gasping for air, The Serpent's Wake was waiting, its crew hauling him aboard with frantic hands.
As the ship sailed from the collapsing rift, Rhydian slumped against the mast, the tablet clutched to his chest. He had survived—but at what cost?
The cliffside library was a sanctuary of stone and silence, its shelves carved into the rock and lined with tomes bound in scales and leather. Scholar Elara, a stern woman with ink-stained hands and piercing eyes, greeted Rhydian with a nod. "You look like death warmed over," she said, her voice dry as parchment.
"Feel like it too," Rhydian admitted, placing the tablet on her desk. "But I need your help. This tablet—it's Weaver-made. It speaks of the Tapestry's collapse."
Elara's gaze sharpened. "Let me see." She bent over the tablet, her fingers tracing the glyphs with practiced ease. "The heart of the Tapestry lies in the Hollowed Waste," she murmured. "Where the First Shatter began."
Rhydian's breath caught. "The Waste? That's a death sentence."
"Perhaps," Elara said, her tone grim. "But if the Weavers return, as this suggests, the Waste may hold the key to stopping—or hastening—the end."
Before Rhydian could respond, a horn blared from outside. Vex's forces had tracked them, their ships blockading the harbor. "We're trapped," Rhydian muttered, his hand drifting to his sword.
Elara's eyes flashed. "Not yet. This library has defenses—traps laid by the scholars who came before. Help me activate them."
Together, they navigated the library's hidden passages, triggering spinning blades and collapsing floors that turned the haven into a deathtrap for Vex's men. The battle was fierce, the air thick with the clang of steel and the cries of the wounded. Rhydian found himself atop a crumbling balcony, locked in a duel with Vex himself.
"Think your tricks scare me, Thalor?" Vex sneered, his blade notched from countless fights. "I'll carve that tablet from your corpse!"
Rhydian parried a savage blow, his Riftborn powers flickering at the edge of his control. "You'll try," he said, his voice steady. "And you'll fail."
With a final, desperate lunge, he disarmed Vex, sending the pirate's sword clattering into the abyss. Vex stumbled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Mercy," he rasped, but Rhydian's blade was already at his throat.
"This is for my crew," Rhydian whispered, and drove the sword home.
As The Serpent's Wake sailed into the horizon, its sails patched but proud, Rhydian stood at the helm, the tablet's prophecy echoing in his mind. The Hollowed Waste awaited, a land of ash and whispers where the Tapestry's heart pulsed with ancient power. He glanced at Tav, the cabin boy who had saved them with his rift knowledge, and wondered what other secrets the boy held.
"We're bound by this, aren't we?" Tav said softly, his voice a rare gift. "The rifts, the Weavers…"
Rhydian nodded, his gaze fixed on the sea. "If it's my fate, I'll face it head-on."
But in the distance, unseen by mortal eyes, a shadowy figure watched from the waves—the Weaver's Voice, its intentions as murky as the depths themselves.