Caelan's breath hitched. The First Thread glimmered before him, its presence as undeniable as it was terrifying. It thrummed with power, wrapping around his soul like an invisible coil, tightening with each passing second. There was no denying it anymore—whatever this path led to, there was no turning back.
The Blackroot's words still echoed in Caelan's mind, warning him of the price, of the consuming nature of what lay ahead. And yet, despite the knot of fear twisting in his gut, Caelan couldn't look away from the Weave, couldn't pull himself from the gravitational pull of the power that swirled before him.
"You will never be the same again."
Those words seemed to echo through him, rattling against his chest like the distant clang of iron in the dark. It was a warning. But also… a promise.
A challenge.
Something in Caelan stirred, a deep and primal instinct, a hunger to understand, to control, to shape whatever power he could wield. He wasn't just searching for answers anymore—he was searching for truth.
And truth, as he had learned, never came without cost.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he took a step forward, then another, until the distance between him and the Blackroot vanished. The air between them felt dense, suffocating. The Weave pulsed with an energy that made his pulse quicken, pulling him in.
"You've chosen," the Blackroot said softly, his voice tinged with something Caelan couldn't place—resignation, perhaps. "But you are not prepared."
Caelan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the shimmering thread of the First Thread, feeling it hum against his skin. It was cold, and yet it burned like fire. The energy shot through his arm, spreading into his chest, into his very bones. For a moment, it felt as if he might collapse under the weight of it, but his resolve held strong.
He had chosen this. There was no turning back now.
The Blackroot watched him, his hollow eyes unreadable. "You're still only scratching the surface. The Weave is a river, boy, and it can drown you. No one has ever mastered it without becoming something… other."
Caelan's throat tightened. He could feel the pull, feel the desire to surrender to the power. It whispered to him, promised him mastery over his future, over the very fate that had bound him to the Weave since birth.
But there was something else, something deeper—a connection.
"Who are you, really?" Caelan asked, voice hoarse as the weight of the First Thread pressed harder against his chest. "You speak as if you know it. The Weave. The First Thread."
The Blackroot's lips twisted into something that could have been a smile, but it was as empty as the rest of him. "I was once like you. A boy, searching for the answers that would keep him from breaking. But the answers were already inside me, Caelan. They always are."
For the first time since he'd met the Blackroot, Caelan felt the faintest tremor of doubt. He stepped back, trying to steady his breath, as the full weight of the Blackroot's words hit him.
"What do you mean?" Caelan demanded, though he felt his grip on the Weave slipping. His mind swam with images—of his mother, of the many others who had crossed paths with him on his journey. Had they all been mere pieces in some grand game? Were they just threads being pulled by something far older than him?
The Blackroot did not respond immediately. He seemed to study Caelan, as if weighing something unseen. Finally, he spoke again, his voice grave.
"There are forces in this world that transcend even the Weave. Forces that exist beyond the threads. You… you will learn this soon enough. The Weave is not a tool. It is a prison. And you will break it, boy. Whether you want to or not."
Caelan's heart skipped a beat at the implications. He could feel the weight of the words settle in his chest, heavy and oppressive. The First Thread twisted beneath his skin, threading through him with an urgency that left him breathless.
Before he could respond, the Blackroot held up his hand, stilling him.
"For now, you need only understand one thing, Caelan. The world is fractured. And you—" The Blackroot paused, letting the air grow cold, heavy with the gravity of his next words. "You are the keystone."
The words struck Caelan like a bolt of lightning, his vision blurring for a moment. The weight of them pressed against his skull, as if the Blackroot's words had opened a door he wasn't ready to walk through.
"I don't understand," Caelan whispered, though the answer seemed to be already unfolding in front of him, inside of him. The echoes of the First Thread called to him once more.
The Blackroot lowered his hand slowly, then turned, walking toward a crumbling archway in the distance. His cloak rippled with every step, as though it too were woven from the very threads of time itself.
"You will," the Blackroot said over his shoulder, his voice softening for the first time. "In time, you will."
Caelan stood there, frozen for a long moment, his mind whirling. The words, the sensations, the unraveling Weave—all of it was too much. Too overwhelming.
But then, he did something he had never allowed himself to do before.
He reached out—toward the Blackroot's fading form. Toward the unknown.
And in that moment, as Caelan took his first step into the shadow of Vereth Kal, the First Thread twisted within him once more, wrapping itself tighter around his soul.