As the wind had stilled.
Kael stood on the porch of his rebuilt home, the air cool against his skin. Night fell fast here—like a curtain drawn between worlds. Stars shimmered above, unfamiliar and sharp, as if even the cosmos had changed while he was gone.
He listened.
Not for lions or beasts.
But for the silence behind the silence.
Because something had shifted.
It wasn't just the Rift within him that had changed.
It was the world.
Kael stepped off the porch, walking barefoot through the grass. It tickled his feet, oddly grounding. The house behind him hummed faintly, the Shardweave energy embedded in its wood like a ward. It would hold.
For now.
He wandered toward the old well at the forest's edge, passing the crooked tree he'd etched as a boy. The sigils were still there—but faded, twisted. As if they had tried to protect him while he was gone… and failed.
The well was deeper now.
He leaned over, peering in.
Nothing but shadow.
Then—whispers.
Not voices. Not words.
Just… movement.
Shifting things beneath the ground, brushing the edges of perception.
Kael backed away slowly.
He needed answers.
And the only place left to find them… was beneath the forest.
Back in the house, he gathered supplies: a worn satchel, a simple blade he had forged before the Rift ever found him, and a small, ancient charm—a gift from someone he couldn't quite remember. Its glow was faint… but it pulsed in sync with the Shardweave in his chest.
The forest opened for him now. Not with reverence, but with curiosity. As if it too sensed he was no longer just Kael… but not yet who he was meant to be.
He moved deeper. Past the lion corpses—already half-dissolved into mist. The Rift had never truly left this place. It had only hidden.
Hours passed.
The moon rose.
And then—he found it.
A hollow tree, wide as a throne room, roots curling like petrified serpents. Beneath it, a stairwell of stone spiraled down.
Kael hesitated.
Then descended.
The Hollow Below
The stairwell was ancient—predating even his oldest memories. Carvings lined the walls: depictions of gates, of creatures with too many eyes, of humans reaching toward stars that bled.
Kael reached the bottom.
A cavern opened before him—vast, domed, lit by faint violet fungi growing along the walls. In the center: a circle of stone with six empty sockets.
A seal.
But incomplete.
And standing beside it, cloaked in tattered robes stitched with constellations, was a figure.
Not a threat. Not quite a friend.
They turned.
Their face was hidden by a shifting mask.
But their voice—soft, and strangely human—spoke:
"You survived."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
"I go by many names," they said. "But here, I am the Weaver's Echo."
Kael's heartbeat slowed.
The name echoed through his mind.
Not a person.
A fragment.
Like him.
"A shard?" Kael asked.
The Echo nodded. "Left behind when Nihlari severed the Great Weave. I was a whisper once. Now, a guide."
Kael stepped closer. "What is this place?"
"The first Woven Gate," the Echo said, gesturing to the circle. "Long before the Rift broke. This was meant to link all worlds in harmony. But now…"
They knelt beside one of the sockets.
"Now it waits."
"For what?"
"For the Weavewalker to restore it."
Kael felt the weight of the words. Heavy. Real.
The Echo placed a shard in the socket. A low hum stirred the air. The fungi dimmed. The stone pulsed.
"One down," they said. "Five remain."
Kael stared at the gate.
The path was clear.
But the road would be long.
And the predators that walked it?
Worse than lions.