Duskvale was a city of whispers.A place where the sun never quite reached the stone.
Caelan stood at the edge of the old bridge that led into the Vale, his cloak whipping in the wind. Below, the valley hissed with mist—hot, sulfur-scented, rising from cracks in the earth like the exhale of some slumbering beast.
The city's gates were open, yet guarded by pale-eyed wardens in blackened armor. They watched him and Elira with the silent intensity of hounds barely held on leash.
"This place feels wrong," Elira murmured beside him.
"It's meant to," Caelan replied. "The Ash Widow rules here."
A steward in crimson robes approached, bowing low. "Ashborne. The Widow awaits. She has... been expecting you."
They were escorted into Duskvale's heart—a city of basalt towers, arcane lanterns, and veiled statues that stared too long. Every alley sang with echoes. Every wall was etched with warning.
As they passed, Caelan noticed it: markings in the stone—subtle, but deliberate. Glyphs. Old ones.
Elira leaned close. "These are Weavebound. Some kind of ward."
"Not just wards," Caelan whispered. "They're containment runes. This city's sitting on something dangerous."
They were led into a sprawling chamber within the Widow's Sanctum—a domed palace carved from obsidian, with no windows, only hanging crystals that hummed faintly.
She stood at the center of the chamber, clad in layered silk that shimmered like spider threads. Her face was hidden behind a veil of glass beads, her hands bare, delicate, scarred.
"You are later than I'd hoped," the Ash Widow said softly. "But the prophecy still stirs."
Caelan didn't bow. "You knew I'd come?"
"I dreamed of fire walking on two legs," she said. "Of a boy with a broken soul and a blade that speaks. You are him."
She moved slowly, deliberately. Every motion like a ritual.
"There are seven Heirs," she continued. "But only one flame strong enough to wake what sleeps beneath the Throne. And only one shadow dark enough to hide the others from the truth."
Caelan frowned. "You speak in riddles."
"That's because I don't lie." She smiled. It was not kind.
He took a step closer. "Why did the Severed Choir attack me?"
"Because you're close to awakening the third thread of your Veil. And because you are not the only one following the Ember Path."
Caelan froze.
The room dimmed. The Ash Widow raised a hand, and the obsidian floor beneath them rippled—revealing a map etched in molten silver. A sprawling tree with seven roots. Each root ended in a glyph—six flickered. One burned red.
"This is the Eclipsed Veil," she said. "The true map of the heirs. It lives inside your soul... and beneath this city."
She pointed to the center—where the roots converged.
"The Ember Cradle. A relic buried deep in the undercity. It pulses only for an Ashborne."
"Then let's see it," Caelan said.
The Widow chuckled. "It's not so simple. The Cradle is bound in chains of memory. It can only be accessed by someone who's bled into the Weave."
Caelan held out his arm and slashed it across with his dagger. Blood spilled onto the floor.
"I've bled," he said.
Her laughter faded.
"Follow me, then. Let's see if your blood burns."
The Undercity
The path into the Ember Cradle was a descent into memory.
They walked through corridors lined in bone ash, past murals that showed scenes of fire and betrayal—kings turning to beasts, Weavers losing control, cities melting under eclipsed skies.
"Each heir," the Widow whispered, "is a shard of the soul that shattered the world."
Caelan stopped. "You're saying we've lived before?"
"Some of you," she said. "Some were reborn. Others... were made."
They reached the threshold of the Cradle: an immense door pulsing with living light. The glyph of Caelan's soul—burning, spiked, furious—glowed at its heart.
He reached out.
The moment his hand touched it, the world screamed.
A Vision
Caelan stood in a battlefield of ash.
Above him, the Eclipse blazed—seven rings of light. Around him stood six figures: cloaked, masked, crowned in flame, shadow, frost, and bone. At the center, an empty throne.
One of the figures turned—a man with eyes like a void, holding a sword of fractured light.
"We were meant to rule together," he said. "But you broke the pact."
Caelan tried to speak. He couldn't. Blood poured from his mouth.
The others stepped forward. One lifted a crown. Another lifted chains.
"The Hollow comes. The Throne must be filled."
They rushed him.
Reality
He collapsed to his knees, coughing smoke, his skin scorched.
Elira caught him. "What did you see?"
Caelan stared at his hands. They were still smoking. Still shaking.
"Us. Together. Killing each other."
The Widow nodded solemnly. "That was the last Eclipse. The one they erased."
He looked up at her. "Why show me this?"
"Because the past is not dead. It's waking. And the Hollow Prince already remembers what he lost."
Caelan stood, pain seething beneath his skin. "Then he's not just another Heir."
"No," the Widow said. "He's the one who broke the Throne. And now he wants to rebuild it… without the rest of you."
Elira's face was pale. "If he remembers, and he moves first…"
Caelan stepped toward the exit.
"Then I'll move faster."
Outside the Sanctum
The sky over Duskvale cracked with distant thunder.
In the west, smoke rose. The Hollow Prince had made his first move.
And the Ashborne had just stepped into his past.