There were no birds here.No wind.Not even the bugs dared hum.
It was the kind of silence that made you wonder if sound had ever existed.
They called it Nareth's Spine on the old maps. The locals called it Deadroot.
The Eclipse Hunters knew it only as what it was:
A Weave-dead zone.
Squad Four advanced without torches. Light attracted things. Light was a lie in places like this.
They moved in a diamond formation, glyph-etched blades drawn, footsteps muffled by spellcloth wraps. Every inch of their gear was warded. Vocht had made sure of it.
Still, unease crept in.
Because something wasn't right.
The Weave was gone. Not dim. Not weakened.
Erased.
Sergeant Keryn tapped her throat twice. The silent signal for Pulse Check.
Each member of Squad Four paused and activated their mind glyphs. A soft blue shimmer rippled around them. Four pulses—one for each—confirmed survival.
No one spoke.
They weren't supposed to.
But something laughed again.
This time it wasn't in their minds.
"Commander," one whispered through a Thread-suppressed whispercharm, "We're not alone."
Vocht raised a hand. Halt.
He knelt beside a strange indentation in the soil. Fresh. Soft. Too light to be human. Not quite animal.
Then the Seer's voice crackled faintly through the charm relay.
"The Ashborn does not run. The Ashborn waits."
And from deeper within the woods—
A child's voice, echoing through the trees:
"Do you remember her, Caelan?"
Vocht froze.
"…That's not his voice," Keryn said.
"No," Vocht whispered, hand on his blade. "That's the fracture."
The trees shifted.
Not moved. Shifted.
Reality bent a little too far left.
Vocht's hunter senses screamed. The forest was rewriting itself. They were in a dreamspace—no, a bleed, overlapping with the Ashborn's inner Weave.
And that's when the first soldier died.
No scream.Just gone.
One blink he was there. The next—his head was ash. His boots remained, filled with blood and molten bone.
Vocht didn't flinch. He'd seen this before.The Ashweave didn't kill. It remembered you to death.
He drew his blade.
"Break formation. Rotate Echo Pattern. Don't engage unless he touches the Thread."
But Caelan wasn't fighting.
He was watching.
More laughter.
This time from three sides. Voices he'd never known. A girl. An old man. A baby wailing in reverse.
Keryn dropped to her knees, eyes bleeding light.
Her glyphs burned out.
"Sir—he's—inside the glyphs! He's rewriting them!"
Vocht snarled, slashing her glyph band with one clean motion before it exploded. A flash of ash and bone sprayed the trees.
Only he and one remained.
"Squad Four, down to two," Vocht hissed into the charm. "Ashborn has initiated localized Weavebend. Requesting flare from Squad One. Repeat, he's not just threading—he's weaving instinctually."
No answer.
Because the charm was melting in his ear.
The last hunter turned to him, wide-eyed.
"Sir, I think he's—"
A sword of ash rammed through his throat.
From behind.
Vocht whirled.
And for the first time, he saw him.
A boy, sixteen maybe. Half-covered in soot. Eyes ink-black with a flicker of ember deep inside. Hands trembling—not from fear, but from the effort of holding back.
And then—
"You followed me," the boy said softly. "You shouldn't have."
The trees began to twist. Bark peeled into flesh. Branches unraveled into threads of memory and smoke.
Vocht readied his blade.
"By Order of the Nine Sigils," he recited, voice calm, "I sentence you to erasure, Ashborn."
Caelan's eyes narrowed.
Then—
The Ashweave roared.
‹ Eclipsed Veil ›
Thread Control: +1Willpower: +2New Trait Unlocked: Feral ThreadbendInstinct guides the hand before thought can form.Ashweave Resilience enhanced in Weave-dead zones.