The Hollowed Waste yawned before them like a wound that refused to heal, its vast expanse of ash and cracked earth swallowing sound and hope alike. The sky hung low, a bruised canopy of purple and gray that seemed to press down on the world, heavy with the threat of a storm that never broke. Kaelith Varn's boots sank into the gray dust with each step, stirring faint clouds that clung to her tattered cloak. The shard sewn into her hem pulsed—a steady, insistent thrum that felt like a heartbeat, urging her forward. She glanced back at her unlikely companions, their silhouettes stark against the desolate horizon: Torren Ashkarn, his face shadowed beneath his hood, his hands twitching as if ready to summon riftfire; Sylvara Ren, clutching her satchel of herbs, her auburn hair catching the faint light like a flicker of defiance; and Rhydian Thalor, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain, a coiled spring ready to snap.
They had come together by chance—or perhaps by the Tapestry's fraying design. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil in Chapter 1 had set her on this path, driven by the Codex page's promise of a heart that could mend the rifts tearing Eryndral apart. Torren had deserted the Emberfall Dominion's war-torn fields, haunted by the blood on his hands and the map he'd stolen, pointing to the Waste. Sylvara had left the Verdant Hollow with her elders' blessing, her discovery of rift-tainted herbs guiding her to this desolate place. And Rhydian had survived betrayal in the Sunken Isles, clutching a Weaver tablet that whispered of the Waste as the key to salvation—or ruin. Now, here they stood, bound by a shared need to confront the chaos threatening their world.
"This place feels wrong," Sylvara said, her voice soft but carrying in the eerie silence. She knelt briefly, sifting the ash through her fingers. "Nothing grows here. Not even weeds. It's like the land's forgotten how to live."
Torren's gaze was distant, his voice rough from disuse. "It hasn't forgotten. It's mourning. The First Shatter happened here—when the Tapestry tore and the Weavers vanished. Thousands died in a single breath. This ash… it's their echo."
Rhydian snorted, kicking a pebble that skittered across the cracked ground. "Poetic, but it doesn't help us. We're here for answers, not ghosts. That shard of yours, Kaelith—where's it pointing?"
Kaelith's hand brushed the shard through her cloak, its warmth spreading up her arm. "Forward," she said, nodding toward a rise in the distance where jagged shapes loomed against the sky. "There's something up there. Stones, maybe. They're calling."
"Calling?" Sylvara's eyes widened, a mix of curiosity and unease. "You mean you hear it? Like a voice?"
"Not a voice," Kaelith corrected, her brow furrowing as she searched for words. "More like… a pull. The shard's been doing it since I left Vaeloria. It's stronger here, like it belongs."
Torren's expression darkened. "Be careful with that thing. Power like that—it's got a price. I've seen what happens when you lean too hard on the rifts."
"You mean like you do?" Rhydian shot back, his tone sharp but not unkind. "Don't think we haven't noticed your hands shaking, Ashkarn. Riftweaving's eating you alive."
Torren's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. "At least I'm honest about what it costs. You're hiding something too, Thalor. Those tricks you pulled in the Isles—water bending, shadows twisting—that's not normal magic."
"Enough," Kaelith snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "We're not enemies. The Waste is. Save your suspicions for what's ahead."
Sylvara nodded, stepping between them. "She's right. We're here together, whether we like it or not. Let's find those stones and figure out what the shard wants."
The group fell silent, their footsteps the only sound as they pressed on. The air grew colder, heavier, as if the Waste itself resented their presence. The ground beneath them began to hum, a low vibration that set Kaelith's teeth on edge. She could feel the Tapestry's threads here—frayed, knotted, their once-vibrant harmony reduced to a jagged wail. It was like touching a wound, raw and pulsing with pain.
As they crested the rise, the stones came into view: a circle of monolithic slabs, each taller than two men, their surfaces etched with runes that glowed with a sickly green light. The air around them shimmered, charged with an energy that made Kaelith's skin prickle. Sylvara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "They're… alive," she whispered. "Like the trees back home, but wrong."
Torren's hand rested on his sword's hilt, his eyes scanning the circle. "Not alive. Cursed. I've seen places like this in the Dominion—rift scars. They don't heal."
Rhydian stepped closer, his fingers hovering over a rune. "These are Weaver marks," he said, his voice low with awe. "Old as the First Shatter. Whatever's here, it's tied to the Tapestry's core."
Kaelith's shard pulsed hotter, almost burning through her cloak. She moved to the circle's center, where the ground was scorched black, as if a fire had raged centuries ago and never truly died. "This is it," she said, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest. "The heart of the Waste."
Before anyone could respond, the ground shuddered, a deep groan rising from the earth. A crack split the air, sharp and deafening, and a rift tore open at the circle's heart, its edges crackling with blue-violet light. The hum became a scream, vibrating through their bones. From the rift's depths emerged a figure, cloaked in shadows that seemed to drink the light. Its presence was a weight, a chorus of whispers that clawed at their minds, promising despair and oblivion. This was the Weaver's Voice.
"Well, well," it said, its voice a layered cacophony, both male and female, young and ancient. "The seekers have come at last. Kaelith Varn, bearer of the shard. Torren Ashkarn, weaver of ruin. Sylvara Ren, child of the green. And Rhydian Thalor, Riftborn traitor. You think to defy the inevitable?"
Kaelith's heart pounded, but she stepped forward, her chin raised. "Who are you? What do you want with us?"
The Voice tilted its head, its hooded face a void where eyes should have been. "I am the herald of the Weavers, the song of the Tapestry's end. Your world frays, and you scramble to mend it, but you are moths dancing in a storm. The rifts will consume all."
Sylvara's voice trembled, but she held her ground. "That's not true! The Codex—the herbs I found—they point to a heart, a way to fix this. You're just trying to scare us."
The Voice laughed, a sound like glass shattering on stone. "Scare you? Child, I offer clarity. The heart is a myth, a lie spun by those who feared the Weavers' truth. Embrace the unraveling, or be crushed by it."
Rhydian's hand tightened around his dagger, his voice sharp. "You're full of it. I read the tablet in the Isles. The Weavers left a way to mend the Tapestry, and it's here, in the Waste."
The Voice's gaze snapped to him, its intensity a physical force. "Oh, Riftborn, you carry their blood, yet you cling to mortal folly. Join us—join me—and you will wield power beyond your dreams. The Tapestry's collapse is your birthright."
Rhydian's face paled, but his eyes blazed with defiance. "I'd rather die than serve you."
Torren drew his sword, its blade glinting with a faint red glow. "Enough talk. If you're here to stop us, try it."
The Voice's laughter swelled, shaking the stones. "Bold words, Ashkarn. Let us see your courage."
With a gesture, it widened the rift, and a horde of rift-spawn poured forth—creatures of shadow and flame, their bodies a grotesque blend of bone and molten metal, their eyes burning with hunger. Some skittered on too many legs, others floated, trailing tendrils of smoke. Their screeches filled the air, a cacophony that threatened to unravel sanity itself.
"Form up!" Torren roared, his riftweaving igniting in a blaze of crimson light. He slashed at the nearest spawn, his blade cutting through its form as it dissolved into ash. "Protect the circle—don't let them break through!"
Sylvara fumbled with her satchel, pulling out vials of enchanted herbs. "These should help!" she shouted, hurling one at a cluster of spawn. It shattered, releasing a cloud of green mist that burned their flesh, sending them shrieking. "Yarrow and sage—keeps them at bay!"
Rhydian moved like a shadow, his Riftborn powers bending reality itself. He raised a hand, and the air rippled, forming a shimmering wall that deflected a spawn's fiery breath. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath ragged. "Can't keep this up forever," he grunted. "Kaelith, do something!"
Kaelith stood at the circle's edge, her hands trembling as she reached for the Tapestry's threads. They were chaotic here, a storm of broken melodies, but she forced herself to focus. "Hold them off," she called, her voice strained. "I need time!"
The shard burned against her chest, its power flooding her veins. She wove the threads with desperate precision, forming a barrier of light that pulsed with the shard's energy. The spawn recoiled, their attacks faltering, but the effort drained her, her vision swimming with dark spots.
Torren fought like a man possessed, his sword a blur as he carved through the spawn. But a massive creature—a hulking mass of molten stone—lumbered toward him, its fists glowing with heat. He dodged its first swing, but the second caught him in the chest, sending him sprawling. His sword skittered across the ground, and the creature raised its arm for the killing blow.
"No!" Sylvara cried, throwing another vial. It exploded against the creature's back, staggering it long enough for Torren to roll away. He grabbed his sword, his breath ragged. "Thanks, Ren."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, her eyes darting to the rift. "There's more coming!"
Rhydian's barrier flickered, his strength waning. "Kaelith, now would be good!" he shouted, his voice cracking with strain.
Kaelith gritted her teeth, channeling the shard's power into a final surge. The barrier flared brighter, driving the spawn back into the rift. But the Voice was waiting. It glided toward her, its touch turning the ground to dust. "You cannot win," it hissed, raising a hand.
Torren lunged, his riftweaving blazing as he tackled the Voice, knocking it away from Kaelith. The figure snarled, its form wavering, and struck him with a blast of shadow that sent him crashing against a stone. Blood trickled from his brow, but he staggered to his feet, defiant.
"Stay away from her," he growled, his sword raised.
The Voice's laughter was colder now, edged with frustration. "You are insects, nothing more. The Tapestry will shatter, and the Weavers will rise."
Kaelith seized the moment, pouring everything into the shard. A beam of light erupted from her hands, striking the Voice and forcing it back into the rift. The tear snapped shut with a thunderous crack, leaving only silence and the faint hum of the stones.
The group collapsed, gasping for breath. Sylvara rushed to Torren, pressing a cloth to his wound. "Hold still," she said, her hands steady despite her trembling voice. "You're a mess."
He managed a weak grin. "I've had worse."
Rhydian slumped against a stone, his face pale. "That was too close. What the hell was that thing?"
"The Weaver's Voice," Kaelith said, her voice hoarse. "It's their herald, their enforcer. And it's not done with us."
Sylvara's eyes widened, scanning the circle. "Look—the stones."
The runes had shifted, their green glow softening into gold. They formed a map, its lines tracing a path across Eryndral to a cluster of islands in the south. At its center was a symbol Kaelith knew from the Codex: the heart of the Tapestry.
"It's real," she whispered, her heart lifting. "The heart—it's in the Sunken Isles."
Rhydian's gaze sharpened, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "My home. I know those waters. If the heart's there, I can get us to it."
Torren wiped blood from his face, his expression grim. "Then we move. Now. Before that thing comes back."
Sylvara hesitated, her fingers brushing the map's runes. "But what about the Waste? The Voice said this place is the key."
"It lied," Kaelith said firmly. "Or it didn't tell us everything. The heart's what matters. We find it, we end this."
The group gathered their strength, their wounds bound and their resolve hardened. As they left the circle, the Waste's silence returned, but now it felt charged with purpose. The Sunken Isles awaited, a place of danger and promise where the Tapestry's fate would be decided.