The cliffs of Vaeloria rose like the jagged spine of some ancient leviathan, their black stone veined with crystal that caught the dawn's pale light and fractured it into a thousand shivering prisms. The ruins of the Crystal Veil crowned the heights, a labyrinth of spires and arches half-crumbled into the embrace of time, their once-pristine surfaces now pitted by centuries of wind and rift-born decay. The air was sharp with the scent of ozone and old stone, undercut by a faint metallic tang that lingered like a memory of blood. Below, the sea lapped at the shore with a restless cadence, its foam flecked with glints of unnatural violet, echoes of the rift they'd sealed only hours ago. The Wraith's Mercy lay anchored in the bay, its hull a battered testament to their survival, its remaining crew huddled in nervous knots, their eyes darting between the cliffs and the strangers who had brought them to this forsaken place.
Kaelith Varn stood at the edge of the shore, her boots sinking into the coarse, pebbled sand, her tattered cloak billowing in the salty breeze. The shard sewn into its hem pulsed with a subdued warmth, its light dimmer now, as if wary of the land's secrets. Her dark hair, matted with sweat and sea spray, clung to her pale cheeks, and her gray eyes, shadowed by exhaustion, traced the path upward to the ruins. Her hands trembled faintly—not from fear, she told herself, but from the heart's power still coursing through her, a golden thread that bound her to the Tapestry and its unraveling mysteries.
Torren Ashkarn trudged a few paces behind, his broad frame stooped under the weight of fresh wounds and old guilt. His ash-gray cloak, torn and bloodstained, hung loosely over his bandaged chest, the fabric catching on the scabs of his arm. His scarred hands, once alight with riftweaving's crimson fire, were still, though a faint tremor betrayed the power's restless hunger, a beast pacing within him. His brow, creased with pain, glistened with sweat, and his dark eyes scanned the cliffs with a soldier's wariness, expecting ambush in every shadow.
Sylvara Ren knelt on the sand, her auburn braid unraveling into a tangle of wind-whipped strands, her green eyes bright with a mix of awe and trepidation. Her satchel, now pitifully light, spilled its last contents—a single sprig of lavender, a crumbling yarrow leaf, and a cracked vial that no longer glowed—onto a flat stone, as if she could coax life from them still. Her tunic, patched and stained, clung to her slight frame, and her fingers, calloused from years of tending the Hollow's groves, moved with a nervous precision, sorting what little she had left.
Rhydian Thalor stood apart, his lean silhouette sharp against the dawn, his weathered coat flapping like a raven's wings. His sharp blue eyes, ever-watchful, flicked between the ruins and the crew, his hand resting lightly on the dagger at his belt. The Weaver tablet, nestled against his ribs, felt like a stone anchor, its runes silent yet heavy with the weight of truths he'd rather forget. His face, etched with lines of fatigue and suspicion, betrayed a man who'd danced too long with betrayal and lived to regret it.
Their path had been a gauntlet of sacrifice and defiance, each step a thread in the Tapestry's fraying weave. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, born of the Codex page's whispered hope for a heart to mend the world, had led her through fire, rifts, and the golden abyss of the Sunken Isles. Torren's desertion from the Emberfall Dominion, stained with the screams of those he'd burned to seal rifts, had driven him to the Waste's standing stones, where redemption glimmered faintly. Sylvara's quest from the Verdant Hollow, sparked by herbs that withered under rift's touch, had carried her to the mural that named the Isles as destiny. Rhydian, wrestling with his Riftborn blood amid the Isles' treacherous tides, had joined them with a tablet that sang of the heart, binding their fates. The Weaver's Voice, with its chilling promises of betrayal and doom, had hounded them from the Waste to the lagoon, and though they'd claimed the heart's power, its laughter lingered, a splinter in their resolve.
"This place looks like it's been dead longer than my grandmother's stories," Sylvara said, her voice a soft thread woven into the wind's low moan. She brushed sand from her hands, her eyes lingering on the ruins' spires. "But it's not dead, is it? It's… waiting. Like the Hollow felt before I left."
Kaelith's gaze didn't leave the cliffs, her voice steady but laced with strain. "It's not dead. The Veil was the Tapestry's cradle—where the Weavers taught us to weave, or so the Codex claimed. If there's answers anywhere, it's up there."
Torren shifted, his boots crunching pebbles, his tone rough as broken shale. "Answers or traps. You saw that rift last night—biggest yet. We barely closed it, and I'm still spitting blood from the effort. Whatever's in those ruins, it won't welcome us."
Rhydian's lips twitched into a sardonic grin, his hand gesturing toward the spires. "Welcome's overrated, Ashkarn. I'd settle for a door that doesn't try to kill us. That tablet of mine—it mentioned Vaeloria, said the 'first truths' are buried here. Sounds like a library to me."
Sylvara's head tilted, her fingers pausing over her yarrow. "A library? In a place like this? I thought the Veil was all temples and altars."
"It was," Kaelith said, her eyes narrowing as she traced a spire's curve. "But the priests kept records—tomes, scrolls, maybe even Weaver relics. If we're to understand the heart—what it's done to us, what it means—we need those texts."
Torren's hand flexed, a faint red glow sparking at his fingertips before he clenched it shut. "Fine, but we're walking into a snake pit. My riftweaving's shaky, and your shard's been flickering like a bad lantern, Varn. We're not exactly at our best."
Kaelith rounded on him, her voice sharp enough to cut stone. "None of us are, Torren. You think I don't feel it? The heart's in my bones, pulling at me, and I'm half-blind from weaving that rift shut. But we don't get to stop. Not now."
Sylvara stood, brushing sand from her knees, her tone gentle but firm. "She's right, Torren. The Hollow's dying—my elders sent me to save it, and I won't turn back. We've got the heart's power, even if it's heavy. We use it, together."
Rhydian's grin faded, his eyes darkening as he glanced at the crew. "Together's a nice thought, Ren, but those sailors are itching to bolt. I heard 'em last night—talking mutiny, saying we're cursed. One wrong move, and we're stranded."
Torren's gaze snapped to the ship, his voice a low growl. "Let 'em try. I'll burn that tub to cinders before they leave us."
Kaelith's hand shot up, silencing him. "No burning. We need them to get out of here. Sylvara, can you talk to them? Your herbs—maybe something to calm their nerves?"
Sylvara hesitated, her fingers brushing her empty satchel. "I've got nothing left to mix, but I can try words. They're scared, not evil. I'll tell 'em we're their best shot at surviving this."
Rhydian arched an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Good luck with that. Scared men don't listen—they stab. Keep your dagger close, forest girl."
Sylvara's cheeks flushed, but she nodded, squaring her shoulders. "I'm not helpless, Thalor. I'll manage."
Kaelith's gaze softened, a rare flicker of warmth. "You always do. Go, but be quick. We're heading up now."
Sylvara hurried toward the crew, her voice already weaving a calm cadence as she approached. Kaelith led the others up a winding path carved into the cliff, its steps slick with moss and sea-spray. The ruins grew closer, their arches looming like the bones of some forgotten god, their crystal veins pulsing faintly, as if alive. The air thickened, heavy with an electric hum that set Kaelith's teeth on edge, the shard's warmth flaring in response.
"This place doesn't want us here," Torren muttered, his sword half-drawn, his eyes scanning the shadows between spires. "Feels like the Waste, but colder. Like it's judging us."
Rhydian's hand hovered over his dagger, his voice low. "Judging or hunting. That hum—it's not just the wind. It's Tapestry threads, all knotted up. Your riftweaving sense it, Ashkarn?"
Torren nodded, his jaw tight. "Yeah. It's like a wound, festering. Whatever's up there, it's tied to the heart—and the Voice."
Kaelith's steps faltered, the shard's pulse quickening. "The Voice," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's been one step ahead since the Waste. Why let us reach the heart if it could stop us?"
Rhydian's eyes met hers, sharp with suspicion. "Maybe it didn't let us. Maybe it needed us to. That heart—it's not just power. It's a key, and we're the fools turning it."
Torren's grip tightened on his sword, his voice a growl. "You saying we're pawns, Thalor? I don't take kindly to that."
"I'm saying we're not the ones writing the rules," Rhydian shot back, his tone even but edged. "Think about it—every time we beat the Voice, it laughs. Like it's playing a longer game."
Kaelith's hand clenched, her voice cutting through their spat. "Then we change the game. The library's our chance—texts, relics, anything to understand the heart. We're not pawns if we know the board."
They reached the ruins' threshold, a massive arch carved with runes that shimmered like liquid starlight. The air beyond was colder, heavier, as if the stones themselves exhaled secrets. Kaelith stepped through, the shard flaring, and the others followed, their breaths misting in the dim light.
The library was a cavern of knowledge, its walls lined with shelves that stretched into shadow, their tomes bound in leather, scale, and stranger things—skins that seemed to writhe under scrutiny. Crystal orbs hung from the ceiling, casting a pale glow that danced across tables piled with scrolls and artifacts: a dagger with a hilt of bone, a chalice etched with Weaver faces, a mirror that reflected no one. The floor was a mosaic of interlocking spirals, each tile pulsing faintly, a heartbeat that matched the shard's rhythm.
"Gods above," Sylvara breathed, catching up, her eyes wide as she took it in. "It's like the Hollow's heart, but… bigger. Older. I didn't think places like this still existed."
Torren's sword stayed ready, his voice gruff. "Exist, sure. But they don't invite guests. Stay sharp, Ren."
Rhydian ran a finger along a shelf, dust rising in clouds. "These books—some are older than the First Shatter. If there's truth about the heart, it's here. Problem is, where do we start?"
Kaelith moved to a table, her hands trembling as she unrolled a scroll. Its script glowed, shifting under her gaze. "Here," she said, her voice tight. "It's Weaver text—talks about the heart, says it's 'the anchor of threads, born of sacrifice.'"
Sylvara peered over her shoulder, her brow furrowing. "Sacrifice? Like what the keepers said? Binding ourselves to the Tapestry?"
Torren's eyes darkened, his voice low. "Sounds like a trap to me. Bind ourselves, and what? We're slaves to the Weavers forever?"
Rhydian snorted, flipping through a tome. "Slaves or gods—depends how you read it. This one says the heart chooses its bearers, marks them. You feeling marked, Varn?"
Kaelith's hand froze, the shard's warmth spiking. "I feel… something," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Since the lagoon, it's like the Tapestry's inside me, whispering. You don't feel it?"
Torren shifted, uneasy. "I feel my riftweaving burning hotter, eating me faster. If that's the heart, I don't want it."
Sylvara's voice was small, her eyes on the floor. "I feel it too. Like roots growing in my chest, connecting me to… everything. It's not bad, but it's heavy."
Rhydian's gaze sharpened, his tone cutting. "And me? Riftborn, remember? I feel it crawling under my skin, like it's waiting for me to break. Maybe the Voice was right—maybe I'm the one who'll ruin us."
Kaelith slammed the scroll down, her voice a whip. "Stop it, Thalor. You're not the Voice's puppet, and neither are we. We're here to find truth, not tear ourselves apart."
The air shivered, a low hum rising from the mosaic. The orbs flickered, and shadows coalesced at the library's heart—a rift, smaller than the last but pulsing with malice. The Weaver's Voice stepped through, its shadowed form rippling, its chorus a blade against their minds.
"You seek truth," it intoned, "but truth is a chain. The heart binds you, and you will choke on its threads."
Kaelith faced it, her shard blazing. "We're done with your lies," she spat. "What do you want? Why keep coming?"
The Voice laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "I want freedom—yours, mine, the world's. The Tapestry enslaves, but you cling to it, blind and broken."
Torren's riftweaving ignited, his sword raised. "Talk all you want, shadow. I'll burn you out."
Sylvara drew her dagger, her voice trembling but fierce. "We closed your rifts before. We'll do it again."
Rhydian's powers stirred, warping the air. "Careful, Ren. This one's different—stronger."
The rift widened, spawn spilling forth—creatures of ash and crystal, their forms shifting into claws and gaping maws. Kaelith wove a barrier, the shard's light flaring, but the spawn were relentless, their screeches a storm.
"Hold them!" Torren roared, his flames carving through a spawn, blood streaming from his eyes.
Sylvara hurled her last yarrow, its dust slowing the creatures. "We're out of herbs!" she cried, slashing with her dagger.
Rhydian's shield crushed a spawn, but his strength buckled, his face ashen. "Varn, close it!"
Kaelith reached for the threads, their chaos overwhelming. The shard burned, guiding her, but the Voice struck, its shadow shattering her weave. She fell, gasping, the library spinning.
Torren tackled the Voice, his flames searing its form. "Not today!" he bellowed, collapsing as it vanished.
Sylvara dragged him back, her hands bloody. "Kaelith, try again!"
Rhydian bolstered her, his powers fading. "Now, Varn!"
Kaelith wove, the shard blinding, the rift sealing with a crack. The Voice's laughter faded, leaving silence. The group slumped, battered, the tomes around them glowing with new runes—truths unlocked, but at a cost.
"We're alive," Sylvara whispered, bandaging Torren. "That's enough for now."
Kaelith clutched a scroll, its words burning in her mind: The heart demands all. "Vaeloria's not done with us," she said, her voice hollow. "Neither's the Tapestry."