The Starfall Crater was a scar on the world, a vast bowl of cracked earth and molten rock that glowed faintly under a sky torn open with streaks of red and gold, like blood seeping through a bandage. Jagged spires of obsidian jutted from the ground, their surfaces catching the light and throwing it back in shards that stung the eyes. The air was heavy, thick with the stench of sulfur and charred stone, so hot it felt like breathing soup. Every step kicked up ash, fine as talc, that clung to skin and clothes, creeping into mouths and noses. The ground pulsed, a slow, deep throb that vibrated through boots and bones, like the heartbeat of something ancient and angry.
Kaelith Varn led the way, her boots crunching on the brittle crust, her tattered cloak dragging behind her like a broken wing. The shard at her belt flickered, its glow a dull amber, barely strong enough to cast shadows. Her dark hair was a mess, knotted with ash and sweat, plastered to a face so pale it looked like chalk. Her gray eyes were sunken, rimmed red, darting over the crater's edge as if she could will the anchor into view. Her hands shook, clutching the scroll from the Ashen Veil, its map now a faint pulse pointing to the crater's heart. The heart's power was a furnace in her chest, burning her hollow, leaving her dizzy, her breath shallow. Gold ichor crusted her lips, a constant drip she wiped away with a sleeve already stained.
Torren Ashkarn followed, his big frame swaying like a tree about to fall. His scavenged robe was shredded, bandages unraveling from his chest where spawn claws had carved him deep in the desert. His scarred hands gripped a spear he'd cobbled from a broken spire, using it like a crutch to keep upright. His face was a wreck—bruises fading to yellow, stubble thick as a beard, dark eyes clouded with pain and stubborn grit. Riftweaving had left him a shell, each spell stealing more life, and his steps were heavy, his breath a rasp that sounded wet, like blood was pooling somewhere it shouldn't.
Sylvara Ren stayed close, her auburn braid stuffed under a scarf caked with dust. Her green eyes were bright with worry, flicking between her friends and the glowing ground, catching every crack like it might spit out a monster. Her jacket was gone, replaced by a tunic stolen from a desert camp, too big and torn at the seams, showing scrapes on her arms that wouldn't heal. Her dagger hung at her hip, its blade chipped but sharp, her only weapon since the Hollow's fall. Her lips were cracked, her hands fidgeting, missing the herbs she'd once used to fix them all. Grief clung to her, heavy as the ash, but she kept her chin up, refusing to let it win.
Rhydian Thalor prowled the edges, his lean frame weaving through the spires like a wolf dodging traps. His coat was barely holding together, patched with whatever he could find, flapping open to show a shirt stiff with dried blood. His blue eyes glinted, sharp and restless, scanning the crater for trouble before it found them. His dagger spun in one hand, a nervous tic that never stopped, while the Weaver tablet pressed against his ribs, its runes a silent buzz he felt in his teeth. His face was gaunt, cheekbones cutting through stubble, and his usual smirk was gone, replaced by a frown that said he was waiting for the next disaster.
They'd fought their way here through blood, loss, and sheer stubbornness. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, chasing the Codex's heart, had dragged her through ruins, rifts, and seas. Torren's run from the Emberfall Dominion, haunted by burned lives, had carried him from the Waste to the Frostspire, now this glowing hell. Sylvara's mission to save the Verdant Hollow had turned her into a fighter, her hands bloody from more than dirt. Rhydian, dodging his Riftborn curse, had tied his fate to theirs, his tablet a mirror to Kaelith's shard. The Weaver's Voice was their constant shadow, its promises of freedom through ruin louder here, its laughter a blade after every fight—from the Isles' lagoon to the Ashen Veil's temple.
"This place is trying to cook us alive," Torren grumbled, his voice rough as broken glass. He leaned on his spear, wiping sweat from his brow, smearing ash across his face. "Feels like my lungs are burning."
Sylvara glanced at him, her scarf slipping to show worry lines creasing her forehead. "You're still walking, Torren. That's more than most could do. Just… don't push too hard, okay?"
He snorted, a weak sound. "Push? I'm barely crawling, Ren. Riftweaving's got me on borrowed time, and I'm running out."
Kaelith didn't turn, her eyes fixed on a spire ahead, the scroll crumpled in her fist. "We're all running out," she said, her voice low, like she was chewing on gravel. "The map says the anchor's down there, in the crater's center. A Weaver vault, maybe. We keep moving."
Rhydian hopped onto a rock, balancing as he spun his dagger, his eyes narrowing at the glowing ground. "A vault? In this pit? Sounds like a trap, Varn. You sure that scroll's not just screwing with us?"
She spun, her face pale but fierce, gold ichor glistening on her chin. "You wanna quit, Thalor? Go ahead, walk back to the sea. The shard's pulling me, the map's glowing, and the Tapestry's screaming in my head. This is it—or we're done."
Rhydian raised his hands, dagger glinting in the red light. "Whoa, easy. I'm not bailing. Just saying, every time we chase that thing, we end up bleeding. I'm starting to think we're cursed."
Torren coughed, spitting blood that sizzled on the ground. "Cursed or not, I'm sick of arguing. Let's find this anchor and get out before I keel over."
Sylvara stepped closer, her voice sharp but warm, like a big sister scolding a kid. "Nobody's keeling over, Torren. We're beat up, yeah, but we're tougher than this. Kaelith, lead the way. We've got your back."
Kaelith's eyes softened, just for a second, and she nodded. "Thanks, Sylvara. Stay close—this place feels wrong."
They descended into the crater, the ground sloping sharply, ash sliding under their boots like snow. The air grew hotter, the pulse stronger, rattling their teeth. Spires loomed closer, their runes glowing red, casting jagged shadows that danced like ghosts. The whispers were louder now, forming words—fail, break, die—slipping into their thoughts like poison.
"Anyone else hear that?" Sylvara asked, her voice small, her hand brushing her dagger. She hugged herself, ash smudging her tunic. "It's like the desert, but… meaner."
Rhydian nodded, his dagger still. "Yeah, it's in my head too. Like the sea's whispers, but these want blood. Keep your eyes open."
Torren gripped his spear tighter, his face gray. "Blood's all I've got left. If something's coming, let's make it quick."
Kaelith's shard flared, its light cutting through the haze. "There," she said, pointing to a sunken structure at the crater's heart—a dome of black stone, half-melted, runes pulsing along its cracked surface like veins. "That's the vault."
Before they could move, the ground shook, a deep boom that sent ash flying. A rift tore open, its violet light blinding, its hum a scream that clawed their minds. Spawn poured out—creatures of molten rock and shadow, their bodies spiked with obsidian, eyes like furnaces. One charged, its claws ripping the ground.
"Get back!" Kaelith yelled, diving behind a spire. The shard blazed, and she wove a barrier, its golden light flickering as a spawn smashed it. She gasped, gold ichor streaming from her nose, staining her cloak.
Torren swung his spear, riftweaving sparking weakly. He stabbed a spawn's chest, its body crumbling, but another tackled him, claws tearing his robe. "Damn you!" he roared, flames bursting, searing it. He fell to one knee, blood soaking the ash, his spear shaking.
Sylvara slashed with her dagger, aiming for a spawn's eyes. It screeched, swiping at her, but she rolled, ash in her hair. "Torren, stay down!" she shouted, stabbing another that lunged. Her arm bled, her tunic ripped, but she kept swinging, her voice cracking. "We can do this!"
Rhydian moved like a shadow, his dagger sinking into a spawn's neck. He warped the air, crushing another, but blood poured from his ears, his face white. "Varn, close it!" he yelled, dodging a claw that shattered a spire, shards flying.
Kaelith's barrier broke, her body crumpling. "It's too strong!" she sobbed, the shard burning her hand. The Tapestry's threads were a storm, slipping away, and her vision blurred, ichor pooling under her.
The Weaver's Voice rose, its shadow swallowing the rift's light. "You seek the anchor," it whispered, a chorus of despair, "but you are the fracture. Break, and be free."
"Shut your damn mouth!" Torren bellowed, staggering up. He swung at the Voice, flames flaring, but it laughed, slamming him into the ground. Blood sprayed, and he lay still, spear rolling away.
Sylvara screamed, diving for him, her dagger slashing a spawn to keep it off. "Torren, please!" she cried, dragging him back, her hands slick with his blood. "Don't you dare die!"
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith, pulling her up. "You're not done!" he shouted, his powers surging, a weak shield holding the spawn back. "We need you!"
Kaelith nodded, tears mixing with ichor, and wove again, the shard blinding. Sylvara stabbed a spawn, clearing space, her arm trembling, blood dripping.
The rift shrank, threads snapping into place, but the Voice struck, its shadow breaking Kaelith's weave. She screamed, falling, the scroll slipping from her hand.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!" she sobbed, slashing another, her voice raw.
Rhydian steadied Kaelith, his eyes fierce. "One more, Varn! Together!"
Kaelith wove, the shard's fire consuming her, threads aligning. The rift closed with a deafening crack, the Voice's laughter fading: "You weave your doom."
The spawn dissolved, the crater quiet except for their gasps. Kaelith slumped, the shard dark, her body shaking. Sylvara checked Torren's pulse, sobbing as he groaned, alive. "You're okay," she whispered, tearing her tunic to bandage him, her hands trembling.
Rhydian kicked a rock, his voice hoarse. "We're not surviving another one like that. We're done, Varn."
Kaelith crawled to the scroll, its map glowing brighter. "The vault," she rasped, pointing to the dome. "We're not done."
They staggered to the ruins, ash stinging their wounds, the wind howling like a mourner. The dome's entrance was a jagged gap, runes glowing red along its edges, pulsing like a wound. Kaelith led them in, her shard flaring, lighting a chamber of obsidian and crystal. Pillars lined the walls, carved with Weaver runes—swirls and knots that seemed to move, watching them. At the center stood a pedestal, a crystal prism atop it, glowing gold, its threads weaving into the air—an anchor, pulsing with the Tapestry's life.
"It's… alive," Sylvara said, her voice awed, helping Torren sit against a pillar. "Like the Hollow, but stronger."
Torren coughed, blood on his lips. "Stronger's bad. That thing's gonna finish us."
Rhydian circled it, his dagger still. "Another anchor. My tablet's screaming—says this one's tied to the earth's core. It's holding everything together."
Kaelith touched the prism, visions flooding her—Weavers forging anchors in fire, their blood pooling, binding the Tapestry. "It's part of the heart," she said, her voice breaking. "It's keeping the weave—but it's killing us."
Sylvara's hand tightened on her dagger. "Can we fix it? Like the sea?"
Kaelith shook her head, ichor dripping. "Fix or cut. We're anchors too. We can channel it—heal the Tapestry—or break free."
Torren's voice was grim. "Break it. I'm done bleeding for this."
Rhydian's eyes darkened. "Break it, and the world might end. We're guessing, and I hate guessing."
Sylvara stepped forward, her voice fierce. "We're not guessing. We're fighting. For everything we've lost. We mend it, Kaelith. Together."
A rumble shook the vault, ash falling from above. The Voice returned, its shadow filling the chamber. "You cannot mend the broken," it hissed. "The anchors are mine."
Kaelith faced it, her shard blazing. "Not today!" She wove, the prism's light merging with hers, threads surging.
Torren stood, swaying, flames sparking. "Back her!" he shouted, stabbing a spawn that leaped from the shadows.
Sylvara slashed another, her arm bleeding. "Kaelith, faster!" she yelled, dodging claws.
Rhydian crushed a spawn, blood streaming. "Finish it!"
Kaelith channeled the prism, the heart's fire roaring. The threads aligned, the anchor stabilizing, but the Voice struck, its shadow shattering her weave. She fell, screaming, ichor pooling.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!" she cried.
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith, his eyes fierce. "One more!"
Kaelith wove, the prism blinding, the anchor's light flooding the vault. The rift closed, the Voice gone, its whisper fading: "You are the end."
They collapsed, bloody and spent. Kaelith clutched the scroll, its map shifting—to the Skyveil Peaks, beyond the crater. "Another anchor," she whispered, her voice gone.
Sylvara bandaged Torren, tears falling. "We're still here," she said, fierce.
Rhydian wiped his dagger, his voice low. "For now."
Kaelith stood, swaying, her eyes hard. "The Peaks are next. We end this."
They left the vault, the wind screaming, the anchor's light fading. The Tapestry held, but they were breaking, and the Voice waited.