The Hollowed Waste had released them reluctantly, its ashen grip lingering in their lungs and on their clothes as they trekked toward the southern coast, where the Sunken Isles beckoned with promises of the Tapestry's heart. The sky above was a churning gray, streaked with veins of violet that pulsed like a fevered heartbeat, a reminder of the rifts that tore at Eryndral's seams. Kaelith Varn walked at the head of the group, her tattered cloak fluttering in the bitter wind, the shard sewn into its hem glowing with a warmth that both guided and unnerved her. Her dark hair, streaked with dust, clung to her sweat-damp brow, and her gray eyes scanned the horizon for threats—human or otherwise. The Weaver ruin from the previous chapter, with its traps and the Weaver's Voice, had left her shaken, its cryptic warning of betrayal echoing in her mind like a tolling bell.
Behind her, Torren Ashkarn trudged with a soldier's gait, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold, his ash-gray cloak stained with blood from the ruin's battle. The gash on his brow, hastily bandaged by Sylvara, throbbed with each step, but he refused to complain, his jaw set in a stubborn line. His hands, scarred from years of riftweaving, twitched at his sides, the crimson glow of his power flickering faintly beneath his skin—a constant temptation, a constant curse. Sylvara Ren followed close, her auburn braid swinging as she adjusted her satchel, packed with herbs that had saved them more than once. Her green eyes, bright with curiosity despite the Waste's gloom, darted to every cracked stone and withered shrub, as if seeking life in a land long dead. Rhydian Thalor brought up the rear, his lean frame coiled with restless energy, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing. The Weaver tablet, tucked inside his weathered coat, weighed heavier than its stone should, its runes whispering secrets he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.
Their paths had converged through trials that seemed both fated and cruel. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, driven by the Codex page's promise of a heart to mend the Tapestry, had led her through fire and frost to this desolate place. Torren's desertion from the Emberfall Dominion, haunted by the screams of those he'd burned to contain rifts, had pushed him to seek redemption in the Waste's shadows. Sylvara's mission from the Verdant Hollow, sparked by rift-tainted herbs and her elders' cryptic charge, had drawn her beyond her forest home. Rhydian, wrestling with his Riftborn heritage in the Sunken Isles, had survived betrayal and bloodshed to join them, his tablet pointing to the same heart Kaelith sought. The ruin's mural had confirmed their destination—the Sunken Isles—but the Voice's taunts lingered, sowing doubt like poison.
"This wind's got teeth," Sylvara said, pulling her cloak tighter. Her voice was soft, but it carried over the crunch of their boots on the cracked earth. "Feels like the Waste is trying to chew us up and spit us out."
Torren grunted, his breath misting in the chill air. "It's not the wind you should worry about. Those rifts we saw yesterday—they're closer now. I can feel them, like a blade against my spine."
Kaelith glanced back, her eyes narrowing. "You're sure? The shard hasn't warned me."
"It's not your shard I'm talking about," Torren said, his tone edged with frustration. "Riftweaving—it leaves a mark. You learn to sense the tears before they open. And I'm telling you, something's coming."
Rhydian's lips curled into a half-smile, though his eyes remained cold. "Always the optimist, Ashkarn. Maybe it's just your nerves talking. Or that wound making you jumpy."
Torren's hand twitched toward his sword, but he stopped himself, exhaling sharply. "Say that again when you're staring down a rift-spawn, Thalor. We'll see who's jumpy."
"Enough," Kaelith snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. "We're not tearing each other apart before we even reach the coast. Save your strength for what's ahead."
Sylvara stepped between them, her hands raised placatingly. "She's right. We're all on edge after that ruin. The Voice—it got into our heads. But we're stronger together, aren't we?"
Rhydian's smile softened, a rare flicker of warmth. "You've got a way of making even this hellhole sound hopeful, Ren. Fine, I'll play nice—for now."
Torren muttered something under his breath but nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Kaelith turned back to the path, her mind racing. The Voice's words—betrayal waits where you least expect—gnawed at her, a splinter she couldn't dislodge. She trusted her companions, didn't she? Torren's blunt honesty, Sylvara's compassion, even Rhydian's guarded wit—they'd fought side by side, bled together. Yet doubt lingered, a shadow cast by the Waste's relentless despair.
The terrain grew rougher as they descended a shallow valley, its sides littered with petrified trees, their branches twisted into shapes that seemed to claw at the sky. The ground was uneven, pitted with craters that oozed a faint, acrid vapor. Sylvara paused beside one, her brow furrowing as she studied the blackened rim. "This isn't natural," she said, her voice low. "It's like the earth was burned from within. Rift scars?"
Torren nodded, his expression grim. "Seen them in the Dominion. They're what's left when a rift closes—or doesn't. Careful where you step; some are still active."
Kaelith's shard pulsed hotter, urging her toward a cluster of rocks at the valley's center. "Over there," she said, pointing. "Something's buried. I can feel it."
Rhydian arched an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Another ruin? Because the last one was such a pleasant stroll."
"Stow it, Thalor," Kaelith said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Unless you've got a better idea."
He shrugged, falling into step beside her. "Lead on, priestess. Just don't blame me when we're dodging traps again."
As they approached the rocks, the ground trembled, a low rumble that sent pebbles skittering. Kaelith froze, her hand flying to the shard. "Torren, is that—"
"Rift," he confirmed, drawing his sword. Its blade glinted with a faint red glow, the riftweaving within him stirring. "Close. Too close."
Before anyone could react, the earth split, a jagged tear opening beneath the rocks. Blue-violet light poured from the rift, its hum a scream that clawed at their minds. From its depths emerged a swarm of rift-spawn—creatures of shadow and bone, their forms shifting between jagged claws and writhing tendrils, their eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Some scuttled on too many legs, others floated, trailing wisps of smoke that burned the air.
"Form up!" Torren roared, his riftweaving igniting in a blaze of crimson flames. He slashed at the nearest spawn, its body dissolving into ash, but more surged forward, their screeches a cacophony of rage.
Sylvara fumbled with her satchel, pulling out a vial of glowing liquid. "Hold them off!" she shouted, hurling it at the swarm. The vial shattered, releasing a cloud of green mist that seared the spawn's flesh, sending them reeling. "Yarrow and sage—it won't kill them, but it slows them!"
Kaelith reached for the Tapestry's threads, their chaotic hum nearly overwhelming. The shard amplified her power, letting her weave a shimmering barrier that deflected a spawn's fiery breath. "Keep them back!" she called, her voice strained. "I need time to close it!"
Rhydian moved like a shadow, his Riftborn powers bending reality itself. He raised a hand, and the air rippled, forming a wall that crushed a spawn against the rocks. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath ragged. "This isn't working," he grunted. "There's too many!"
"Then make it work!" Torren snapped, his sword carving through another spawn. A claw grazed his arm, drawing blood, but he didn't falter, his riftweaving burning brighter.
Kaelith's barrier flickered, her strength waning. The shard's power was immense, but it drained her, her vision blurring with dark spots. "Sylvara, anything else in that bag?"
Sylvara tossed another vial, this one exploding in a burst of golden light that stunned the spawn. "Last one!" she warned, drawing her dagger. "We're running out of tricks!"
The rift pulsed, and a new figure emerged—the Weaver's Voice, its shadowed form rippling like ink in water. "You persist," it said, its voice a layered chorus of despair. "But your defiance is futile. The Tapestry frays, and you are its final threads."
Kaelith faced it, her heart pounding. "Why us?" she demanded, her voice raw. "Why fight so hard to stop us?"
The Voice tilted its head, its void-like face unreadable. "Because you threaten the weave. You seek the heart, but it is not yours to claim. Join us, Kaelith Varn, and wield power beyond your dreams."
"Like hell," Torren growled, lunging at the Voice. His riftweaving flared, but the figure sidestepped, its touch sending him sprawling. Blood trickled from his nose, his breath ragged.
Sylvara rushed to him, pressing a cloth to his face. "Stay down, Ashkarn! You're hurt!"
"I'm fine," he rasped, struggling to rise. "Finish it, Varn."
Rhydian's eyes locked on the Voice, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "It's afraid," he said, his voice low. "It's pushing too hard. That means we're close."
Kaelith nodded, channeling the shard's power into the rift. The threads resisted, their chaos fighting her will, but she held firm, her voice rising. "Close, damn you! Close!"
The Voice struck, its shadow lashing out. Rhydian threw himself in its path, his Riftborn shield absorbing the blow, but the effort dropped him to his knees, blood dripping from his ears. "Do it!" he shouted, his voice breaking.
Sylvara hurled her dagger, a desperate act that grazed the Voice's form, distracting it. Kaelith seized the moment, pouring everything into the shard. A beam of light erupted from her hands, sealing the rift with a thunderous crack. The Voice vanished, its laughter echoing as the spawn dissolved.
The group collapsed, gasping for breath. Sylvara tended to Torren, her hands shaking as she applied herbs to his wounds. "You're an idiot," she muttered, her voice thick with relief. "Charging it like that."
"Worked, didn't it?" he said, managing a weak grin.
Rhydian wiped blood from his face, his expression haunted. "That thing—it knew me. Called me Riftborn, like it's personal. What if I'm the betrayal it warned about?"
Kaelith gripped his arm, her eyes fierce. "You're not. You saved us, Thalor. Don't let it twist your head."
They reached the coast by dusk, the sea a restless expanse of foam and shadow. A battered ship waited, its crew wary but willing to take them to the Isles—for a price. As they boarded, the shard pulsed, pointing south. The heart was close, but so was danger.