The snow crunched beneath Caelan's boots as they walked through the silent streets of Lowtown, the air thick with the scent of death. Every corner they turned, another body lay in the snow, eyes burnt out, limbs twisted in grotesque shapes. It was a scene of horror, of something far worse than mere violence.
The old man moved ahead, his shadow long and unnerving under the dim light of the distant lanterns. Caelan's thoughts swirled, unable to focus on anything but the bodies around him. They were too many, too close to his path, to feel like a coincidence. The last time he had seen such destruction, he had been a child—a time before the rage, before the hunger of the Weave had consumed him.
"Who did this?" Caelan asked, voice tight, trying to make sense of the madness.
The old man didn't answer immediately. He simply crouched down beside the nearest body, a child no older than Caelan's youngest memory of his own lost innocence. His hand hovered just above the charred skin, the ash still rising from the body as if the flames hadn't fully gone out. His voice was quiet when he spoke.
"Someone who understands the Weave... but not how to wield it."
Caelan's heart thudded harder. "What does that mean?"
"Power, boy," the old man said, standing and turning to face Caelan. "It corrupts. That much you know. But the wrong kind of mind can take something pure and twist it until it rots. The Ashweave is not a tool to be used lightly. It is destruction, born of death. Those who attempt to master it without understanding... they burn everything they touch."
Caelan felt a shiver crawl up his spine, the weight of those words sinking in. He had felt it—the Ashweave stirring in him, ready to consume. It had whispered to him, promised him power, told him that he could reshape the world in the image of his rage. But the old man's words made him hesitate. Power was dangerous. He knew that now.
He wiped his gloved hand across his brow, the sweat cold against his skin. "And how do I stop them?"
The old man's gaze hardened, his one eye gleaming with a strange light. "You don't. You can't. Not yet."
Caelan clenched his fists at his sides, frustration building. "Then what? What am I supposed to do? Watch as they destroy everything?"
"No." The old man turned away, his cloak billowing out behind him. "You'll stop them. But only when you're ready. Power like that... it takes time to master."
"But I can't just stand here while they—"
"Enough!" The old man's voice was sharp, cutting through the cold like a blade. "You will learn control, or you will die. The Weave is not something to be conquered. It is something to be understood. It is not a weapon. It is the thread of the world. You don't bend it to your will—you learn to live with it."
The old man's words stung, but Caelan swallowed them down, his jaw tightening. "Then teach me."
The old man studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well. We begin now."
They moved quickly, heading back into the maze of alleyways and tunnels beneath Lowtown, where the light was always dim, and the air was thick with dust. The sounds of the city were muted, lost beneath the weight of the night. But something in the old man's movements had changed. His pace had quickened, as though there was something urgent on the horizon.
"Where are we going?" Caelan asked, keeping pace with the older man.
"The deeper places," the old man said, voice low. "Where the Weave runs thickest. Where we can feel it pulse—beneath the stone, beneath the skin."
"Why?" Caelan's voice was tight, his instincts screaming at him to turn back. But he couldn't stop now—not when he had come this far.
"Because you're not the only one who's awakened," the old man said, his voice colder now. "And the one who's done this... they are hunting the rest of us."
Caelan's blood ran cold. "They're hunting me?"
"Not yet. But they will."
The words hung in the air as they navigated the twisting streets, the dark corners where the people of Lowtown never ventured. The deeper they went, the more the shadows seemed to cling to the stone, as though the very walls were alive, watching them. Caelan's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing the cool steel. He felt it, deep inside—a storm of power, rising from within him like the call of thunder.
They reached a door, old and scarred, wedged between two abandoned buildings. The old man knocked twice, the sound sharp and deliberate. After a long moment, the door creaked open, revealing a woman standing in the doorway, her eyes hidden behind a veil of black lace. Her presence was unsettling, as if she had been waiting for them, knowing their arrival before they even stepped through the threshold.
"Is he ready?" she asked, her voice quiet but commanding.
The old man didn't hesitate. "He will be."
Caelan's heart thudded. "Who are you?"
"Someone who understands the Weave," the woman said, her smile thin and sharp. "And someone who's been waiting for you."
The door slammed shut behind them.