The forest was still, suffocatingly so. The moon hung high in the sky, casting a pale light over the ancient trees that stretched like silent sentinels. Shadows clung to the earth beneath them, where the grass whispered of ancient secrets and the air tasted of ash.
A figure moved swiftly through the woods, her silhouette barely visible against the backdrop of towering trunks. Her steps were silent, measured—each one a calculated part of the hunt. She wore the markings of the Eclipse Hunters: a black cloak embroidered with silver sigils, a hood that obscured her features, and a crossbow at her side.
The air around her crackled, charged with tension. She wasn't here for sport. This was not a mere hunt. This was personal.
Her name was Elira, and she had been tracking Caelan for days. Since the moment he had triggered the surge of Weave energy at the border of the Dusklands, the resonance of his power had echoed through her like a beacon. The Eclipsed Heirs were not merely targets—they were cursed. Those who could tap into the First Thread were dangerous, volatile. And now, the hunters had been dispatched to ensure one thing: that no one would wield such power without consequence.
But Elira had a deeper reason for pursuing him. Her past was woven into the threads of his fate, though he had no knowledge of it.
The footsteps slowed, and she crouched down behind a cluster of thick, gnarled roots, scanning the area before her with hawk-like precision. A faint whisper in the wind warned her of movement to the left. Her hand instinctively brushed the hilt of a curved dagger hidden beneath her cloak, and she focused, allowing her senses to stretch beyond the visible world.
He's near.
Elira could feel the resonance of his power like a wave crashing against her own senses, though she did not share in it as she once had. She had severed that connection long ago, choosing instead to hone her skills as a Hunter, someone who could strike without leaving a trace.
But there was something different about him. There was a chaos to his power—an untamed, unrefined quality that sent ripples of unease through her.
No matter, she thought, gritting her teeth. I will find him.
Suddenly, a sharp snap of a twig broke the stillness. Elira's eyes narrowed. She was no longer alone.
A silhouette emerged from the mist—a figure cloaked in shadow, standing tall with a presence that seemed to command the forest itself. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, not from fear, but from an instinct that told her the forest itself was watching, waiting.
He stepped forward, his cloak dark and flowing like a wisp of smoke, and though she could not see his face, Elira knew exactly who he was.
The Watcher.
One of the oldest and most skilled of the Eclipse Hunters. He was both a mentor and rival, a creature of relentless pursuit who never failed his prey. His role was not only to track and eliminate but to guide the others—to push them further into the abyss of the hunt.
He stopped beside Elira, his presence a heavy shadow, and his voice was low, almost inaudible beneath the rustling leaves.
"He's close," The Watcher said, his tone calm but cold. "He's starting to understand the First Thread. The chaos within him is just beginning to take form."
Elira's grip tightened around her dagger, her eyes sharpening. "And the Blackroot?"
"We cannot afford to let him get close to it."
The Blackroot. Elira had heard the whispers—seen the consequences of the creature's influence. There was no place for such power in the world. It was dangerous, reckless, and ultimately destructive.
"He will not survive it," Elira said quietly, almost to herself. She didn't mean the Blackroot. She meant Caelan. The boy with the power to break the Weave.
"Then we make sure he doesn't." The Watcher's eyes gleamed, an unspoken order in his words.
The wind picked up again, and Elira felt the unmistakable pulse of power in the distance. It was Caelan—he was moving through the forest, likely unaware of the eyes on him.
The moment had come.
Without another word, Elira moved into the shadows, slipping between the trees with the grace of a predator. The Watcher followed, his presence as quiet as death itself.
They were close.
Caelan's Perspective
The deeper Caelan traveled into Vereth Kal, the more his connection to the First Thread deepened. The forest around him seemed to grow darker, the trees narrowing in on his path. He could feel something shifting within him, the weight of the ancient magic pressing harder with each step.
"What did the Blackroot mean by being the keystone?"
He had replayed the words in his mind a hundred times, each time growing more uncertain of their meaning. The First Thread tugged at him, pulling him closer to whatever truths lay beyond its reach. He had no answers, only a vague sense that the thread, the Weave, would unlock something profound.
But as he walked, he began to notice the change. It wasn't just the dense magic swirling within him. The very forest seemed to change too, the branches warping and twisting as if it was aware of his presence.
A sudden noise caught his attention. A rustle of leaves. Then, a shadow darted across his path.
Caelan's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, but there was no immediate threat. He felt the eyes on him though. Eyes that had been watching for some time, but he could never see the watchers themselves.
Is it them? The hunters?
A prickle of unease crept along his spine, and the sensation only grew stronger as the moments passed. They were closing in.
But something else stirred in him—a need to understand, to embrace whatever was drawing him forward. He would face them, whoever they were. This wasn't just about surviving the forest. It was about embracing his destiny, for better or worse.
The First Thread began to resonate within him, syncing to the rhythm of the earth itself. Caelan could feel his heartbeat quicken, the pulse of magic growing stronger. And for the first time, he wondered if he had made the right choice in stepping into this twisted, ancient world.
But it was too late now to turn back.