The clash of steel rang through the air, the sound of blades meeting in a violent rhythm, but it barely registered in Elira's mind. Every move she made was instinctive, driven by the primal need to protect, to shield Caelan from whatever storm he was about to unleash. Her dagger flashed in the dark, deflecting another of the Watcher's brutal strikes, but she didn't feel the bite of the blade as it scraped against her own, or the rush of blood in her veins from the strain of the fight. All she could focus on was him—Caelan.
His aura was shifting, a violent pulse of energy rippling through the air, like the world itself was trembling in response to something beyond mortal comprehension. His breathing had become erratic, as though every inhale was a desperate plea for control, every exhale a silent scream.
He's slipping, she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. He's losing himself.
Elira's eyes flicked back to the Watcher. The man was relentless, his movements precise and deadly, but there was something in his eyes now—something darker than before. He wasn't just trying to kill Caelan anymore. No, this was about something deeper. Something older.
"We don't have much time," the Watcher growled, his voice low, almost a whisper beneath the clash of steel. "Once the Weave takes hold of him completely, there will be no stopping it. And no turning back."
Elira didn't reply. There was no point. The Watcher wasn't interested in debate. His mission had already been decided long ago, and nothing—no one—would change his mind. But that didn't matter anymore. She had already made her choice.
Caelan was her responsibility now.
And she wasn't going to let him fall into the same darkness the Watcher feared.
Another strike came, and Elira twisted her body just in time to avoid the blade, her movements as fluid as water. She was no longer simply defending herself. The dagger felt like an extension of her own will, her thoughts sharp and clear as she anticipated every move the Watcher made.
I need to reach him, she thought desperately, her eyes locked on Caelan's shifting form. I need to reach him before it's too late.
She sidestepped the Watcher's next strike and moved with fluid grace, taking a step toward Caelan, her eyes never leaving the boy at the center of the storm. His energy was growing, pulsing like a heartbeat. It was intoxicating, raw power coursing through him—power that had no name, no form. But it was there, surging, begging for release.
"Stay back, Elira," the Watcher snapped, his voice cold and commanding. "You don't understand what you're dealing with."
"I understand enough," she said through gritted teeth, her voice steady. "I understand that you want to kill him because you're too afraid of what he might become. But you're wrong. You're wrong about him."
With a swift motion, Elira dodged another strike and closed the distance between herself and Caelan. Her heart beat faster as she approached him, her hands shaking not from fear, but from the sheer force of what was unfolding around them. The air was thick with energy—his energy—and it was unlike anything she had ever felt before.
He was reaching for something inside himself, something that had been dormant for so long. Something that could either save them all or doom them to destruction.
Focus, Elira told herself, taking a deep breath. You have to focus.
She crouched next to Caelan, her hand trembling as she reached out toward him. His energy was wild, chaotic, but there was a thread of something familiar, something she could recognize. She could feel it—the Weave.
It was ancient. Powerful. Alive.
"Caelan!" she called, her voice rising above the cacophony of the battle. "You have to listen to me! You can control this. You can control the Weave!"
For a moment, nothing happened. His eyes were glazed over, lost in the swirling chaos within him. His breathing was ragged, strained, and his fingers twitched as if caught in a current he couldn't break free from.
Elira's breath caught in her throat. He was slipping—his control was slipping. She could see it in the wild, dangerous flashes of power rippling through the air. He wasn't just awakening the Weave. He was becoming it.
But then—just as the storm seemed about to overtake him—his eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, Elira saw a flicker of recognition in them.
"Elira..." His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper, but she heard it. He was still there. Caelan was still inside, still fighting.
"That's it," she whispered, her voice trembling with relief. "You're still here, Caelan. You're still you."
His breath steadied for a moment, and the surge of energy around him seemed to calm, as if in response to her words. But the Watcher wasn't done yet. He saw the shift, and with a snarl, he charged forward, his blade raised high, intent on finishing what he had started.
But Elira wasn't backing down. Not now. Not when they were so close.
She lunged forward, intercepting the Watcher's strike with her dagger, and the shock of the clash nearly knocked her off balance. The Watcher's eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a cruel smile.
"You're making a mistake," he spat, his voice thick with venom. "He's beyond saving. He's already lost."
"No," Elira said, her voice low and steady, her grip tightening around her dagger. "You're the one who's lost."
She moved with deadly precision, parrying his blade again, and this time, when their weapons met, she pushed him back. The Watcher stumbled, surprised by her strength, but Elira didn't give him time to recover. She pressed the attack, pushing him farther away from Caelan.
"Stay away from him," she hissed.
But the Watcher wasn't finished. His fury burned brighter now, and with a growl, he charged again, faster, more desperate than before. The battle between them raged on, but Elira knew one thing for certain now: she was not backing down.
Not while Caelan still had a chance.