The storm had not yet abated, and the world felt suffocated by its ferocity. Caelan moved through the streets, his boots slapping against the slick, wet cobblestones. His thoughts were clouded, fogged by the weight of what lay ahead—what he had to face. The others. The heirs.
He had expected fear. Expected hesitation. But as his heart raced with the pulse of the storm, there was only clarity—sharp and biting. This was his path now. There was no turning back.
The Dusklands were close. He could feel it in the very air around him. The city seemed to bend toward that direction as if the darkness had a magnetic pull. It was in the way the shadows stretched longer, deeper, and in the way the distant wails of the wind felt like a warning.
The old man's words echoed in Caelan's mind: They won't stop until they claim what they're entitled to.
And what if they were right?
Caelan's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as he moved through the alleyways, his senses on high alert. His mind kept flashing back to the day his mother died, to the moment he first awakened the Weave, to the raw power that had surged within him. His heart burned with the memory of the burning city, the screams, the blood.
He couldn't afford to hesitate anymore. The power inside him needed a purpose—something beyond survival.
As he neared the edge of Lowtown, the air thickened, and the sky darkened even further. The horizon bled with deep purple streaks, like the heavens themselves were bleeding out. The Weave thrummed in response, stretching and coiling through the air, responding to the call of something distant, something that wasn't entirely human.
Caelan paused at the edge of the district, staring into the distance. The Dusklands lay ahead, a desolate, forsaken stretch of land that stretched beyond the boundaries of the city, where the forgotten whispered and the cursed walked freely. It was said to be where the Weave had once originated, long before even the gods had abandoned their reign.
But that was myth, wasn't it?
The soft rustle of footsteps broke his thoughts, and Caelan turned swiftly, hand instinctively reaching for his sword. A figure emerged from the darkness—tall, shrouded in a tattered cloak, a sharpness in their movements that spoke of experience.
"Caelan."
He froze, voice caught in his throat.
Vivian.
She stood before him, eyes bright despite the darkness that swirled around them. For a long moment, neither spoke. The weight of their last conversation hung between them, heavy and unspoken.
"I knew you'd come," she said finally, her voice soft but resolute.
"You shouldn't be here," Caelan replied, his tone more distant than he meant. "This path isn't yours to walk."
Vivian shook her head. "We both know that's a lie. The moment you picked up that sword, it became mine too."
"Then why?" Caelan stepped forward, searching her face for answers. "Why walk away? Why leave me in the storm alone?"
She didn't look away. "I couldn't... let myself be consumed by it, Caelan. The Weave—it's too much. It takes everything from you until you don't even remember what you were fighting for."
"That's not—" Caelan began, but she cut him off, stepping closer, her hand reaching for his chest.
"It is," she said. "It's exactly what it is. I don't know who you are becoming, but I can't follow you down that road."
For a long moment, they stood like that—her hand over his heart, both of them suspended in time. But Caelan couldn't shake the feeling that the storm wasn't just outside. It was inside him. And no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that he was still the same, deep down, he knew it wasn't true.
"I'm not asking you to follow me," Caelan said finally, pulling back. "But I need to finish this."
"Then finish it, Caelan. But don't let it be the end of you."
She stepped back, and for a fleeting second, Caelan saw the familiar warmth in her eyes—the same warmth that had first drawn him to her. But it was fading. Like everything else in his life, slipping further from his grasp.
Vivian turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving Caelan with the deafening silence.
His fingers curled around the sword again, the weight of it grounding him. There were no more distractions. No more hesitations. It was time.
The Dusklands awaited.
Caelan made his way through the city's narrow streets, his heart thudding in his chest. The landscape began to change as the boundaries of Lowtown dissolved into the barren outskirts—the twisted, desolate land of the Dusklands. Here, the land was scarred, pockmarked with the remnants of ancient structures long since abandoned. Twisted trees grew at odd angles, their bark blackened and gnarled.
In the distance, he could see the outlines of ruined towers, their once-proud spires now reduced to skeletal remains. It was the kind of place that whispered of forgotten power—power that had twisted, bled, and decayed into something new.
Something dangerous.
The Weave was thick here, heavier than it had ever been before. Every step Caelan took seemed to drag him deeper into its currents. The feeling of power was almost suffocating, pulling at the edges of his mind, coaxing him to reach further, to tap into the raw energy that surged around him.
He could feel it—the presence of the other heirs. The tension in the air, the flickers of energy sparking like lightning across the sky. They were close.
And Caelan? He was ready.
As he pressed forward, a shadow passed across his path—a figure cloaked in a dark mantle, their presence unmistakable. The Weave swirled around them like an extension of their being.
"Another one," the figure muttered, barely audible over the wind. "You've come to claim what's yours, haven't you?"
Caelan didn't answer. He had no need to.
The figure stepped forward, revealing their face—sharp, with eyes that glowed an unnatural shade of green. They didn't need to speak for Caelan to understand.
The Weave responded to their presence, crackling in the air.
This was it. The moment he had been preparing for.