Chapter 21: The Ashen Call
The wind howled across the Ashen Wastes like a wounded god, its dry scream dragging grit across the land, carrying the bitter tang of rift-ash. Kael trudged north from the ruins of Moonfall, the sky behind him a fading smear of violet and ruin. His cloak fluttered in tatters behind him, stitched and restitched a dozen times, its hem ragged from days spent carving paths through haunted soil. The dagger at his belt remained a familiar, comforting weight—less a weapon now and more a companion to his silence.
It had been weeks since the rift-moon fell.
Weeks since the sky tore itself open and bathed the world in pale, hungry light.
Weeks since the runes on his palm first stirred.
They itched now, always. A ceaseless throb under his skin, a rhythm woven into his bones. Violet threads shimmered faintly along his hand, pulsing with the same steady cadence as the dream-voice echoing in his skull. A whisper that returned again and again.
"Now…"
The voice of the Sleeping Tyrant.
Unrelenting. Inevitable.
He couldn't run. Not from that.
The Wastes spread before him like a scabbed wound, the land cracked and brittle, the bones of the old world laid bare. Earth split in jagged chasms like ancient scars, and once-proud towers of the Weavers jutted from the ground in collapsed ruin—stone hollowed by time and cursed by moonlight. Some glowed faintly, like fireflies suffocating under glass, violet streaks flickering against the gloom above.
Kael's boots crunched through the ash with each step. The air grew thicker with every mile, humming faintly with a power that reminded him too much of Moonfall. But this was worse. Wilder. It clung to his skin like oil, soaking into the threads pulsing from his hand. His pack clinked softly with every movement—small relics of another life.
Maraen's locket.
Lysa's coin.
Tethers to a home he couldn't return to. Not now.
Not ever.
Then—movement ahead.
A faint shimmer in the distance, blurred by the stormlight overhead. He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer.
A village.
Barely that.
A clutch of stone huts, scavenged from ruin and desperation. Their roofs sagged, patched with tarp and dried hide, the walls crumbling under the Wastes' weight. At its edge, a thin rift shimmered—jagged and raw, like the skin of the world had been scraped open with a dull knife.
Figures moved in chaos. Villagers, frayed and frantic, hauling barricades into place, slapping together makeshift defenses against something they could barely understand. Their shouts vanished into the howling wind.
Kael's hand burned.
The runes on his palm flared, violet light cracking across his skin in jagged bursts.
Something was coming.
The rift pulsed.
Shadow spilled out.
Threads of darkness spiraled from the wound in the world, curling like smoke given purpose. From that smoke, forms emerged—wraiths, twisted and lithe, their claws flickering with violet flame. Their mouths hissed open without breath, their voices a chorus of unbeing.
"Kael…"
His name.
Their voices knew him.
"Damn it," he muttered, already moving.
He drew the dagger with one hand, the other flaring with threads—living light that rippled from his palm. The air responded with a crackle, the hum deepening into a chorus of war.
A woman with a spear turned toward him, eyes wide, mouth ajar.
"Who—who're you?"
No time.
The wraiths lunged.
Kael moved—
Thread Step: Phantom Drift.
The world blurred. Threads surged beneath his feet, weaving a path between the real and the in-between. He darted left, then right—an afterimage of light. Claws slashed through where he had been, striking only earth. Ash burst upward in sharp bursts.
"Stay back!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Villagers scattered.
The spear-woman fell back, yelling something—"Rift-spawn again!"—but Kael wasn't listening. His focus narrowed, the threads on his palm dancing into form.
Thread Dance: Crescent Slash.
A crescent of violet light spun outward from his blade, a clean arc carving the air. It struck two wraiths mid-lunge—cutting through them with a hiss and a flare. Their bodies shattered into clouds of violet ash, fading like echoes into the storm.
But more came.
The rift pulsed again—angrier now.
Five wraiths rose, more defined than before. Their claws ignited with violet fire, their forms stronger, reinforced by whatever lay deeper in that wound.
Kael stepped back, breath catching.
"Too many…"
He flexed his fingers, calling on the runes. Threads snapped outward—twelve in total—glowing lines of force that responded to his will.
Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade.
The threads lashed outward, spinning in a chaotic storm, carving spirals through the battlefield. They moved like living blades—cutting through ash and shadow alike. Three wraiths fell, dismembered mid-charge, their screeches fading in a haze of sparks and drifting death.
But one remained.
No—two.
The first lunged, claws high. Kael didn't retreat.
Thread Step: Sky Fang.
Light exploded beneath him. Threads launched him upward—he flipped over the strike, flipping midair with a streak of violet. Dust burst from the impact below as he landed behind the creature, knees skidding against the ground.
No hesitation.
Thread Dance: Razor Weave.
The threads spiraled forward—precise, deadly—lancing into the wraith's chest and unraveling its core in a brilliant flash. The creature shrieked once, then crumbled.
Silence fell.
The rift pulsed one last time, then dimmed.
The remaining threads withdrew into Kael's hand, his runes dimming to a soft glow. He staggered slightly, chest heaving. Blood trickled from a gash across his arm—not deep, but sharp, and telling.
The power was growing. So was the cost.
Footsteps approached, crunching ash.
The spear-woman from before, wary but no longer terrified. She eyed him with a mix of awe and suspicion.
"You're no scavenger," she said slowly, her voice rough with dust and disbelief. "What are you?"
Kael slid his dagger back into its sheath. "Someone who's fought this before," he said. His voice was low, worn thin from use.
He turned his eyes to the rift—small now, like a scar just beginning to close.
"What's it doing here?"
A dry voice answered from the edge of shadow.
"Waking."
Kael's head snapped toward the sound.
A figure stepped forward from the remnants of a ruined hut—tall, lean beneath a frayed cloak. His face was worn and cracked like old stone, a deep scar slicing through one cheek and disappearing beneath his jaw. One eye was violet and glowing, matching the runes etched along his hands like scorched threadwork.
He stopped ten paces away, arms folded.
"Name's Tynar," the man said. "Used to weave for the Loom. Before it broke."
Kael's runes reacted immediately—flaring in resonance with the runes on Tynar's skin. A jolt, sudden and cold, rippled up his arm.
"You're marked," Kael said slowly. "Tyrant's thread?"
Tynar nodded once, gaze shifting toward the northern horizon. "One of the first. Back when we thought we could control it. Foolishness, all of it."
The horizon flashed.
Far north, across the Wastes, a violet storm brewed—clouds churning with slow, deliberate malice. Riftlight pulsed within the storm, casting flickers of unnatural light across the sky.
"They're stirring," Tynar said. "North, toward the Ridge. Tyrant's legion is waking. You've got the mark, boy. I can see it. You're Unshackled, aren't you?"
Kael's jaw clenched. The whisper in his head returned—"Now…"—stronger now. Closer.
"I didn't ask for this," Kael muttered.
"None of us did." Tynar stepped closer. "But we're the ones who've got it. The only ones who can shape the threads against them. You felt it back there—your threads syncing with mine? That's no accident."
Kael glanced back at the rift. Villagers were already repairing barricades, moving in silent dread. The spear-woman watched them both now, her hands shaking as she leaned on her weapon.
"You want to survive this?" Tynar asked, his tone sharp. "You train. With me. Or you burn. There's no third road."
Kael closed his eyes briefly. Gavyn's spear. Lysa's coin. Maraen's locket. The weight of all he'd lost settled in his chest like stone.
He looked north.
Toward the storm.
Toward the rising threat.
Toward the Tyrant's promise.
He opened his eyes. The runes on his hand pulsed—steady, defiant.
"I'm in," Kael said, voice hard.
Tynar smiled, grim and approving. "Then come, Unshackled. The Wastes are only the beginning."
The Ashen Wastes stretched endlessly before them, a canvas of desolation waiting to be rewritten. Above, the riftlight deepened. The Tyrant's whisper returned, louder this time, a drumbeat Kael could no longer deny.
"Now."
His threads glowed brighter than ever, the weave of his fate tightening around him.
He walked forward.
Ready to learn.
Ready to fight.