The Hollowed Waste clung to them like a second skin, its ash-laden air coating their lungs with every breath. The standing stones loomed at their backs, their golden runes now dim, as if reluctant to reveal more secrets. Kaelith Varn led the way, her cloak tattered but her stride resolute, the shard in her hem pulsing with a warmth that felt both comforting and ominous. Behind her, Torren Ashkarn's heavy steps stirred clouds of dust, his sword sheathed but his hands restless, twitching with the ghost of riftweaving. Sylvara Ren walked with a lighter tread, her satchel of herbs slapping against her hip, her green eyes darting to every shadow as if expecting the Weaver's Voice to return. Rhydian Thalor brought up the rear, his sharp features taut with suspicion, his fingers brushing the Weaver tablet tucked inside his coat; a relic from the Sunken Isles that had cost him dearly.
Their encounter with the Voice had left them shaken but united, the map on the stones pointing them toward the Sunken Isles, where the heart of the Tapestry lay. Yet the Waste held one final challenge: a buried ruin, hinted at by the shard's insistent pull and the tablet's cryptic runes. Kaelith paused atop a low rise, her breath misting in the chill air. The ground before her dipped into a shallow basin, where jagged stones jutted like the ribs of some ancient beast. At its center, half-swallowed by ash, was a slab of black stone, its surface etched with faint, flickering glyphs.
"There," she said, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest. "That's where we're going."
Torren squinted, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the bruised sky. "Looks like a tomb. You sure about this, Varn? Last thing we need is another fight."
Kaelith's gaze didn't waver. "The shard's practically burning a hole in my cloak. It wants us here. You felt the Voice—whatever's down there, it's tied to the heart."
Sylvara knelt, sifting the ash with her fingers. "It's old," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe. "Older than the Hollow's groves. The earth remembers pain here, like a wound that never healed."
Rhydian's lips twitched into a wry smile. "Poetic, Ren, but pain doesn't tell us what's waiting. Could be answers—or a trap."
"Then we spring it together," Kaelith said, her tone final. "No one stays behind."
They descended into the basin, the air growing colder with each step. The glyphs on the slab pulsed brighter as they approached, their light casting eerie shadows across the group's faces. Kaelith traced a rune with her fingertip, and the shard in her cloak flared, its warmth spreading up her arm. "It's a door," she said, glancing at Rhydian. "Your tablet—any clues on how to open it?"
Rhydian pulled the tablet from his coat, its surface alive with shifting symbols. "Maybe," he said, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the text. "It mentions a key, something about 'blood and will.' Could mean a ritual."
Torren's hand rested on his sword's hilt. "Blood? That's never good. You're not cutting yourself open for this, Varn."
Kaelith shot him a sharp look. "If it gets us answers, I'll do what I have to. Stand back."
She pressed her palm to the slab, the shard's power surging through her. The runes blazed, and the stone shuddered, grinding aside to reveal a spiral staircase descending into darkness. A stale, metallic scent wafted up, mingled with something sweeter, like rotting fruit. Sylvara wrinkled her nose. "That's not promising. Anyone else smell death?"
"Smells like opportunity to me," Rhydian said, though his grip on his dagger tightened. "After you, priestess."
Kaelith ignored the jab, lighting a crystal lantern from her pack. Its pale glow illuminated the stairs, their edges worn smooth by time or touch. "Stay close," she said, starting down. The others followed, their footsteps echoing in the narrow shaft.
The staircase ended in a vast chamber, its walls of polished obsidian reflecting the lantern's light in fractured patterns. Pillars carved with Weaver faces—some serene, others contorted in agony—loomed at regular intervals, their eyes seeming to follow the group. The floor was a mosaic of interlocking spirals, each tile pulsing faintly, as if the room itself breathed. At the chamber's heart stood a dais, and atop it, a crystal sphere the size of a man's head, its surface swirling with colors that defied naming.
"Gods," Sylvara whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's beautiful. Like the Hollow's heart, but… twisted."
Torren's gaze was wary, his sword half-drawn. "Beautiful things kill just as quick. Keep your eyes open."
Rhydian circled the dais, his fingers hovering over the sphere. "This is Weaver work," he said, his voice low with reverence. "A nexus, maybe. Could be tied to the Tapestry itself."
Kaelith approached, the shard's pulse syncing with the sphere's rhythm. "It's more than that," she said, her breath catching. "It's a map. Look."
She touched the sphere, and its colors coalesced into a projection—a shimmering web of threads stretching across Eryndral. Points of light marked the Crystal Veil, the Emberfall Dominion, the Verdant Hollow, the Sunken Isles, and the Waste, each pulsing with a different hue. But the brightest point was in the Isles, a golden star that seemed to call to her.
"The heart," she said, her voice trembling with certainty. "It's in the Sunken Isles, just like the stones showed."
Sylvara's eyes widened. "Then we were right. There's hope."
Torren's voice was grim. "Hope's a long way off. We're not alone down here."
A low hum filled the chamber, growing into a discordant wail. The mosaic tiles shifted, revealing traps: spikes that shot from the floor, blades that swung from the pillars. Kaelith yanked Sylvara back as a spike grazed her arm, drawing a thin line of blood. "Move!" she shouted, shoving the group toward the dais.
Rhydian's Riftborn powers flared, bending the air into a shield that deflected a blade. "This place doesn't like visitors," he grunted, his face pale with strain. "Any ideas, Varn?"
Kaelith's mind raced, the shard's warmth guiding her. "The sphere—it's the key. We need to stabilize it."
Torren hacked at a spawn-like creature that emerged from the shadows, its body a mass of writhing tendrils. "Stabilize it how? I'm a bit busy!"
Sylvara fumbled with her satchel, pulling out a vial of glowing liquid. "This might help," she said, tossing it at the sphere. The liquid splashed across its surface, and the traps slowed, their movements sluggish. "Moonwort and yarrow—it calms chaotic energy."
"Nice work, Ren," Rhydian said, his shield flickering. "But we've got company."
The hum became a roar, and the Weaver's Voice appeared atop the dais, its shadowed form rippling like ink in water. "You are persistent," it said, its voice a chorus of despair. "But you tread on sacred ground. The Tapestry's end is written."
Kaelith faced it, her hands trembling but her voice firm. "You keep saying that, but we're still here. Tell us about the heart—why hide it?"
The Voice laughed, a sound that shook the chamber. "Hide? The heart is no secret—it is a lure, a trap for fools like you. The Weavers wove it to bind the Tapestry, but its power is theirs, not yours."
Torren's eyes blazed with anger. "Then why fight us? If it's hopeless, let us try!"
"Because you threaten the balance," the Voice hissed. "Your defiance delays the inevitable. Join us, or die."
Rhydian stepped forward, his dagger drawn. "I've heard that offer before. Didn't take it then, won't now."
The Voice raised a hand, and the traps surged back to life. Spawn poured from the walls, their forms shifting—claws one moment, flames the next. The group fought desperately, their backs to the dais. Kaelith wove a barrier with the shard's power, her vision blurring as it drained her. Torren's riftweaving burned through the spawn, but each strike left him weaker, his hands shaking violently. Sylvara's herbs kept the traps at bay, but her supply was dwindling. Rhydian's powers warped reality, but his strength faltered, blood trickling from his nose.
"We can't hold them!" Sylvara cried, dodging a spawn's claw. "Kaelith, the sphere—hurry!"
Kaelith poured everything into the sphere, the shard's light merging with its colors. The projection stabilized, revealing a mural on the chamber's ceiling: the First Shatter, with Weavers sacrificing themselves to seal a void. The heart was there, a golden orb pulsing in the Isles.
"It's real," Kaelith gasped. "We can do this."
But Rhydian hesitated, his eyes darting to the Voice. "Wait," he said, his voice low. "It's not telling us everything. I know that look—it's hiding something."
The Voice's form wavered, its laughter colder now. "Perceptive, Riftborn. But too late."
It struck, its shadow lashing out. Torren took the brunt, collapsing with a cry, his sword clattering. Sylvara rushed to him, her hands pressing herbs to his wound. "Stay with me, Ashkarn!" she pleaded.
Kaelith faced the Voice, her barrier flaring. "You won't stop us," she said, her voice a raw edge of defiance. "We know where to go."
The Voice retreated, its form dissolving into the rift. "Go, then," it whispered. "But betrayal waits where you least expect."
The chamber stilled, the traps falling silent. The group gathered around Torren, his breathing shallow but steady. Sylvara's herbs had saved him, but he was weak, his face pale. "I'll live," he rasped. "Get us out of here."
Rhydian's gaze lingered on the sphere, his expression unreadable. "That thing—it knew me. Called me Riftborn. What if it's right?"
Kaelith gripped his shoulder, her eyes fierce. "It's not. You're with us, Thalor. That's what matters."
They climbed back to the surface, the Waste's silence heavier now. The mural's image burned in their minds: the heart, waiting in the Sunken Isles. But the Voice's warning echoed too, a shadow of doubt that followed them into the dawn.