The wind howled outside, its shrill voice rattling the ancient windows of the old temple. Caelan stood at the edge of the open balcony, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the storm clouds churned, mirroring the turmoil within him. He had been back in the temple for days, pouring over the tome the old man had shown him, trying to make sense of the chaos swirling in his mind. But nothing made sense. Not the Weave. Not the Eclipse. Not the gods, or the shadows, or the others like him.
The night felt heavy, oppressive, like the world itself was holding its breath.
The old man had left him to his thoughts for the time being, but the weight of his words still clung to him, gnawing at him from within. You were chosen. Those words echoed in his mind like a drumbeat, each repetition pulling him deeper into the abyss.
But chosen for what? To burn? To rule? The world was full of lies, of twisted truths, and Caelan was starting to wonder if he was being groomed for something far darker than he could understand.
His fingers flexed at his sides, the Ashweave thrumming beneath his skin like a heartbeat of its own. He could feel the pull, the temptation. The power that had once terrified him now felt like a whisper, a quiet suggestion that he could no longer ignore. It was always there, waiting, watching, urging him to reach for it.
The wind cut through his cloak, pulling him from his thoughts, and Caelan turned, heading back inside. He needed answers. But more than that, he needed control. He couldn't let the Weave consume him, not the way it had consumed the others. He wouldn't fall into madness like they had. Not yet.
The old man found him in the study, his hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the tomes strewn across the table. His eyes glinted with the same inscrutable expression as always.
"You've been brooding," the old man said.
Caelan didn't bother responding immediately. His eyes flickered over the pages of the tome, absorbing the symbols, trying to make sense of them.
"What is the Weave?" Caelan asked suddenly, his voice sharp. "I know what it does, but not what it is."
The old man's gaze turned to him, then to the tome. "It is everything and nothing," he said slowly, as if weighing each word. "The Weave is the fabric of the world. It ties all things together—magic, fate, time. It is the unseen thread that binds reality, and it is the power that drives creation and destruction alike."
Caelan's brow furrowed. "So it's not just some spell or magic. It's—"
"It's the source of everything," the old man interrupted, his voice growing distant, "but it is not easily controlled. The more you wield it, the more it binds you. The more it changes you."
Caelan's fingers curled around the edge of the table, the words settling into his mind. The Weave is not just magic. It is life. It is death. It is everything.
"And the others? What happens to them?" Caelan asked. "What happens when you can't control it?"
The old man's eyes darkened. "The Weave demands sacrifice. It doesn't forgive weakness. You'll find that the others are more lost than they are powerful. The Weave burns them, twists them until there's nothing left. The first heirs fell to madness long ago. They were never meant to survive."
Caelan's grip tightened. "But I will."
The old man smiled, but it was bitter. "You think so? No one has ever truly mastered the Weave. Not even the gods. It consumes everything in the end. All that's left is the throne."
Caelan exhaled sharply. "And the throne is the only thing that matters?"
"Not the throne," the old man said. "The power that comes with it. To shape the world. To control fate itself."
Caelan's heart pounded. "But that's what you've been teaching me, isn't it? To control the Weave?"
The old man's smile faded, and he nodded. "Yes. But understand this—control is an illusion. The Weave will give you power, but it will never give you freedom."
Caelan met his gaze, a fire igniting in his chest. "Then I'll make it give me freedom."
The old man's face hardened. "That is a dangerous thought, boy."
"I'm not afraid of danger," Caelan muttered under his breath. The truth was, he was more afraid of not having control—of letting the Weave control him, of becoming just another victim of its hunger.
A low rumble of thunder shook the temple walls, and Caelan glanced out the window. The storm was closing in. The air felt thick, charged, and the Ashweave inside him reacted—rippling, alive, pulling at him.
"Are you ready to face the truth?" the old man asked, his voice low and serious.
Caelan turned back, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. "I'm ready."
The old man studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Then step forward."
Caelan moved to the center of the room, his senses tingling as the Weave whispered to him, coaxing him to embrace its power. His pulse quickened, the threads around him dancing, flickering with silver and crimson.
The old man raised his hands, and the air grew heavier. "Focus, Caelan. Let the Weave flow through you, but don't let it consume you. Find your place in it."
Caelan closed his eyes, letting the power surge through him, feeling the threads twine around his soul. It was a sensation he had come to recognize—a strange fusion of pain and ecstasy, a rush of power like a drug. But this time, he didn't fight it. He let the Ashweave consume him, feel it bend to his will.
The room darkened, the air thickening as the Weave coiled around Caelan like a living thing. He felt the heat of it, the pressure, the temptation to give in to its wild, chaotic pull.
But he resisted.
He was not going to be consumed.
The threads wrapped tighter, pushing at him, testing him, but Caelan fought back with everything he had. The Weave surged, pushing him to the brink, but Caelan held his ground. The power roared within him, a beast he could no longer ignore.
And then, with a final, explosive burst of will, he tamed it.
The threads snapped into place, bending to his will, the Ashweave finally coming under his control.
Caelan's chest heaved with the effort, his body shaking from the strain, but there was a rush of triumph in his veins. He had done it. He had controlled the Weave.
The old man watched him with quiet intensity, his gaze unreadable. "You've made progress," he said softly, his tone edged with caution. "But remember this, Caelan: the Weave does not forgive. It will never forgive."
Caelan nodded, his heart pounding with the weight of his accomplishment—and the knowledge that the hardest part was still ahead.
The throne was still waiting.
‹ Eclipsed Veil ›
Strength — 15Willpower — 18Perception — 14Intelligence — 12Charm — 5Thread Control — 20Resonance — 15Resilience — 14
Compatibility: Ashweave — MasteredSoul Fracture: Type I — [Loss of Anchor]New Entry: Weave Control — Initiated
Veil may be accessed at will.