The Verdant Hollow was no longer the sanctuary Sylvara remembered.
Where once the forest had hummed with life, now the trees stood skeletal, their branches clawing at a sky choked with gray smoke. The air hung heavy with the stench of rot, sweet and cloying, like fruit left to ferment in the sun. Streams that had once run clear now oozed black sludge, bubbling where they pooled around gnarled roots. Even the wind seemed sickly, carrying whispers that made the back of Sylvara's neck prickle.
She knelt, her fingers brushing a cluster of moonblossoms. Their petals, once silver as starlight, were curled and brown. They crumbled at her touch, dissolving into ash. "It's worse than I feared," she murmured. "The blight is everywhere."
Behind her, Torren kicked a rock, sending it skittering into the underbrush. A swarm of iridescent beetles erupted from the soil, their carapaces glinting like poisoned jewels. "Smells like a grave," he said, his voice rougher than usual. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and the bandages beneath his tunic were stained with fresh blood. The riftweaving was eating him alive, Sylvara knew. Every spell left him weaker, his hands trembling like an old man's.
Kaelith crouched beside her, the shard at her belt pulsing faintly. "The scroll led us here for a reason," she said, though her usual steel had frayed to something brittle. Dark circles bruised her eyes, and her skin had taken on a sallow hue. The heart's power was a double-edged blade, and it was carving her hollow. "There must be something left. A cure. A weapon. Something."
Rhydian lingered at the edge of the clearing, his dagger slicing idly through a curtain of vines. The thorns dripped amber fluid, hissing where it struck the ground. "Or this is a trap," he said. His voice was light, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the shadows. "Your elders knew the rifts were coming, Ren. Why didn't they warn you?"
Sylvara stood, wiping her hands on her trousers. "They tried. They sent me to find allies. To find you."
"And look how that turned out," Rhydian said, grinning without humor. "We're a chorus of disasters, stumbling from one catastrophe to the next."
"Enough," Kaelith snapped, rising. The shard flared, casting jagged shadows across her face. "We're wasting time. Sylvara, where would the elders have hidden their knowledge? A shrine? A vault?"
Sylvara hesitated. Her gaze drifted to the heart-tree, a massive oak that had once towered over the Hollow. Now its trunk was split, oozing sap the color of tar. "The Grove of Echoes," she said finally. "It's where we kept our oldest texts. But if the blight has reached there…"
"Then we'll burn it out," Torren said, his hand flexing. A flicker of crimson sparked at his fingertips, then died. He grimaced.
"No fires," Sylvara said sharply. "The forest is too dry. You'll kill what little remains."
"Would that be so bad?" Rhydian muttered.
Before Sylvara could retort, a low growl rippled through the air. The ground trembled, and the trees shuddered, shedding brittle leaves like tears.
"Move!" Kaelith shouted.
They scattered as a creature lunged from the underbrush. It was a grotesque mimicry of a wolf, its body twisted and elongated, bones jutting through patchy fur. Eyes like molten copper glowed in its skull, and its jaws dripped venom that sizzled where it struck the earth.
Torren swore, fumbling for his sword. The beast swiped at him, its claws tearing through his cloak. He stumbled, and Sylvara screamed as the creature wheeled toward her.
Rhydian moved first. He flung his dagger, the blade sinking into the wolf's flank. It howled, whirling on him, but Kaelith was already there. The shard blazed in her hand as she slammed it into the beast's side. Golden light erupted, searing the creature's flesh. It collapsed, twitching, before dissolving into black smoke.
Silence fell, broken only by their ragged breaths.
"What in the Void was that?" Torren panted, clutching his torn cloak.
"A rift-spawn," Kaelith said, her voice hollow. "But twisted. Corrupted."
Sylvara knelt beside the fading smoke, her throat tight. "The blight isn't just killing the forest. It's changing it. Warping the creatures here into… into that."
Rhydian yanked his dagger from the ground, wiping it on his coat. "Lovely. So every step we take, we're dancing with monsters. Anyone else feel like turning back?"
"No," Kaelith said. She turned to Sylvara. "The Grove. Now."
The Grove of Echoes was a graveyard.
The ancient oaks that had once formed a protective ring around the clearing were now blackened skeletons, their branches tangled like broken fingers. At the center stood the Lorestone, a pillar of green marble etched with runes. It was cracked down the middle, oozing a viscous, iridescent fluid that pooled at its base.
Sylvara approached, her boots crunching on dead leaves. "This is where we stored our histories. Our cures." Her voice broke. "It's all gone."
"Not all," Rhydian said. He crouched, prying a moss-covered slab from the ground. Beneath lay a hidden compartment, its contents shielded from the blight. A single scroll rested inside, its parchment brittle but intact.
Sylvara snatched it, her hands trembling as she unrolled it. The ink was faded, but the symbols were unmistakable: a heart entwined with roots, veins of gold spreading like a spider's web. "It's a map," she whispered. "Of the Tapestry itself. See? The heart isn't just a weapon. It's… connected. To everything. To us."
Kaelith leaned over her shoulder. "The roots here. They're the same as the ones in the Dominion's forge. The same as the ones in us."
Torren scowled. "So what? We're just… branches on some cursed tree?"
"Worse," Rhydian said. He tapped the scroll. "We're the anchors. The Weavers didn't just make the heart. They split it. Scattered its pieces to bind the Tapestry. And now that it's failing…"
"The anchors are breaking," Kaelith finished. Her face paled. "Which means we're breaking."
A low, familiar laugh echoed through the grove.
The Weaver's Voice emerged from the shadows, its form shimmering like smoke. "Clever little mortals," it crooned. "But too late. The roots are rotten. The heart's light dies with you."
Sylvara stepped forward, her fists clenched. "We'll stop you. We'll mend the Tapestry."
The Voice tilted its head. "Will you? Look at your allies, child. The warrior fades. The Riftborn unravels. And your precious priestess…" It gestured to Kaelith, whose nose was bleeding freely now, golden ichor staining her lips. "She is the last thread. When she snaps, the weave ends."
Torren lunged, his sword slicing through the apparition. It dissolved, laughing.
"It's right," Kaelith said quietly. She wiped her face, her hand coming away smeared with gold. "The heart is killing me. But if I can hold on long enough to find the other anchors…"
"No," Sylvara said fiercely. She gripped Kaelith's arm. "We do this together. Or not at all."
Rhydian snorted. "Sentimental. But practical. If we're anchors, maybe we can… redirect the roots. Use the heart's power to heal the Tapestry instead of letting it drain us."
"Or we could cut the roots," Torren said grimly. "Free ourselves."
Kaelith stared at the map, her jaw set. "The next anchor is in the Frostspire Mountains. We go there. We mend the weave. And then…" She hesitated. "Then we cut the roots. All of them."
The words hung in the air, heavy as a blade.
Sylvara nodded, though her chest ached. "Together."
As they left the grove, the Lorestone crumbled behind them, its runes fading to dust. Somewhere in the shadows, the Weaver's Voice whispered, a promise and a threat:
"You cannot outrun the unraveling."