The Ember Veil stretched over Thornhollow, a bruised sky dropping warm cinders like endless snow. I slipped through the petrified tree-city, my bare feet silent on root-paths worn smooth by scavengers like me. As a Driftkin, I hunted cinders—tiny sparks of a shattered star. They powered our magic, called Cinderweaving, but each weave stole a memory, a price I'd seen in the clouded eyes of others.
My own past was a void before age eight. No family, no home—just an ache of being alone, found by older scavengers who taught me to survive. Today, the Veil was stingy, my pouch light with small cinders, barely enough for Old Man Hemlock's stall. He'd trade them for stale bread, maybe a cup of mist-water that tasted of earth. My stomach growled, but I kept moving, my worn leather gloves shielding my hands from the ash's faint burn.
Thornhollow was a maze of tangled roots and crumbling paths carved into the ancient wood. Glow-moss lanterns pulsed along the main arteries, casting long shadows that danced across petrified surfaces. I knew every hidden alcove, every crevice where the desperate hid. My lean frame let me squeeze through gaps others couldn't, a skill that kept me alive.
I ducked into an alcove under a gnarled root, the air thick with ash's metallic scent. The twilight under the Veil was a constant near-night, filtered through cinders that dusted every surface. I sat, catching my breath, and pulled a cinder from my pouch. It was no bigger than my thumbnail, glowing with a soft, orange pulse, like a heartbeat trapped in stone.
Lyra's face flashed in my mind—a Driftkin weaver, my only friend, taken by Skyweavers months ago. I'd watched her mend her coat once, her fingers tracing intricate patterns to shape a cinder's light. Each weave left her eyes a little duller, another memory gone. She'd laughed it off, joking about forgetting her own name, but it chilled me. My empty past was bad enough; losing what little I had left was unthinkable.
I'd memorized her patterns, practicing in secret, but fear always stopped me. Weaving meant sacrifice, and my memories—Lyra's smile, the scavengers' whistles, the taste of mist-water—were all I had. Yet tonight, something stirred. A reckless need to know, to touch the power that took her.
I held the cinder, its warmth spreading through my glove. My fingers moved, slow and deliberate, tracing Lyra's patterns in the dusty air. The cinder warmed, then flared. A steady light orb floated above my palm, casting a soft glow on the root overhead. It wasn't flickering, wasn't fading—it was mine.
My heart pounded. The light was real, solid. I waited for the haze, the emptiness of a memory slipping away. But Lyra's face stayed sharp. I could still taste the mist-water, hear the scavengers' annoying whistle from the path hours ago. Nothing was gone.
This wasn't right. Weavers always paid a price. Lyra's sighs, the older Driftkin forgetting their tools—it was the way of things. But not for me.
A shiver ran through me, not from the damp chill. If this was true, I wasn't just different—I was impossible. In Thornhollow, secrets like this didn't last. Skyweavers, ruling from their lofty fortresses, would kill to understand this. Ashbreakers, who called the Veil a curse, might hunt me too.
I doused the light, my hands shaking. The alcove felt too open, the shadows too deep. I stood, shoving the cinder back in my pouch, and headed to Hemlock's stall. His eyes lingered as I traded my cinders for a chunk of bread, hard as wood, but he said nothing. I ate as I walked, the bread dry in my mouth, my mind spinning.
A sound stopped me cold. A whisper, soft and old, drifted from the Abyss below the islands. It spoke a name—my name.
I froze, bread crumbling in my hand. The Abyss was a place of mist and monsters, where Ashwraiths fed on lost memories. Driftkin stayed clear, whispering tales of shadows that sensed your fears. But this whisper wasn't hungry. It was curious, almost expectant.
The cinders in my pouch seemed to pulse, warm against my leg. Whatever was down there knew what I'd done. My weave hadn't been silent.
I swallowed hard, forcing my feet to move. The Veil's twilight hid secrets deeper than I'd ever imagined. And somehow, I was part of them.
The root-paths twisted under my feet, the glow-moss dimming as I moved deeper into Thornhollow. My pulse hadn't slowed, the whisper's echo looping in my head. I'd heard stories of the Abyss—old scavengers swearing it spoke to those who wove too much, drawing Ashwraiths like moths to a flame. But I'd woven once, a single light. Why me?
I passed a group of Driftkin, their voices low, bartering broken tools for cinders. One glanced my way, her eyes half-clouded, a weaver who'd lost too much. I looked away, my chest tight. Lyra had been like that near the end, her laugh fading, her stories cut short. I couldn't let that happen to me—or to her, wherever she was.
The cinder in my pouch felt heavier, its warmth a reminder of what I'd done. I could still see the light orb, steady and bright, unlike the flickering weaves I'd seen Driftkin make. If I could weave again, maybe I could find Lyra, figure out why the Skyweavers took her. But every weave was a risk now, not just of Ashwraiths, but of someone noticing I hadn't paid the price.
I reached a quieter path, the air cooler, the ash thinner. My gloves were fraying at the seams, a gift from Lyra before she vanished. I clenched my fists, her absence a weight I couldn't shake. She'd taught me to navigate Thornhollow, to spot cinders in the ash. Without her, I was just another scavenger, scraping by.
The whisper came again, fainter, like a sigh through the roots. I stopped, my breath catching. It wasn't my imagination. Something in the Abyss knew me, sensed my weave. I glanced down a crevice, where the path dropped toward the island's edge. Mist curled below, hiding whatever lived in that void. I backed away, heart hammering.
I needed to be smarter, stay hidden. Hemlock's stare had been too sharp, his silence too heavy. If he suspected anything, he'd sell me out for a handful of cinders. I'd have to avoid him, find another trader. But first, I needed to understand what I'd done—what I was.
The Veil above glowed, its cinders falling in a slow, endless dance. I'd always thought it was beautiful, a shattered star lighting our world. Now, it felt like a warning, a sky that saw too much. I pulled my hood up, the bread forgotten in my hand, and slipped into the shadows.
Whatever this gift was, it wasn't just mine anymore.
The Abyss was listening.