The skiff hit the ground with a sickening crunch, metal and wood splintering as we slammed into the rocky outcrop at the Abyss's edge. My shoulder smashed against the railing, pain flaring, but I clung tight, ash choking the air. Varn's cinder bolts still crackled above, their glow fading as the mist swallowed us. Lyra was in those towers, her journal my only lead, and I wouldn't let this crash stop me.
Veyra crouched nearby, her cloak singed, her face pale from haze, eyes scanning the wreckage. She'd gotten us this far, but her secrets—what was she really after?—kept me wary.
Toren staggered to his feet, cursing, his scar stark in the cinder-lamp's flicker. "Move!" he barked, kicking a sparking panel.
The crew—two left, one missing—scrambled, hauling gear from the hold. Joren, that snake, was gone, probably signaling Veilkeepers. My pouch warmed, cinders pulsing, tempting me to weave, but I held back—Ashwraiths lurked in the Abyss below, and Veyra's haze was loss enough.
A low hum pulsed through the mist, not the skiff's engine, but something deeper, like a voice. Starborn… come… The Abyss's whisper, louder now, sharper than in Thornhollow. My chest tightened, the words pulling at me, like they knew my Spark. I shook it off, but the mist swirled, thicker, carrying a chill that wasn't just cold.
The Abyss wasn't just a void—it was alive, and it wanted something.
"Kael, get up!" Veyra's voice cut through, sharp but strained. She was already moving, checking the crew, her light dim to avoid notice. "We're too close to the Abyss. Veilkeepers'll track the crash."
Her focus was survival, not me, and I respected that—it kept us alive. But why risk her memories for a scavenger? I needed her, but trust was a long way off.
I stood, pain shooting through my shoulder, and scanned the outcrop—jagged rocks, ash-covered vines, the Abyss's mist curling up like fingers.
"We need cover," I said, voice low. "Joren's signal brought those bolts. Veilkeepers are coming." Lyra's journal, red-corded, flashed in my mind—find it, find her. Veyra's knowledge of Varn was my shot, but her silence nagged at me.
She nodded, pointing to a crevice in the rocks. "There. It'll hide us till we plan." Her eyes flicked to the Abyss, unease breaking her calm. "This place… Skyweavers say the Abyss was born when the Star shattered. Its cinders fell, made the Veil, but the Star's heart sank below, calling weavers to their doom." Her voice was low, like she half-believed it. "Ashwraiths are what's left—weavers who answered."
I froze, the whisper echoing—Starborn…
"You believe that?" I asked, sharper than I meant. The Abyss's voice, her tale—it wasn't just lore. It knew me, and I didn't like it.
Veyra's gaze met mine, guarded. "I believe it's dangerous," she said, turning away. "Focus, Kael. We need to move."
No warmth, just a plan, but her glance lingered, maybe seeing my unease. That spark—her resolve, my need—was there, faint, like a cinder not yet lit.
Toren interrupted, hauling a pack. "She's right. Veilkeepers'll be here soon." His smirk was gone, eyes darting to the mist. "Joren's with them, or dead. Either way, we're on foot."
His tone was too calm, like he'd planned this. I didn't trust him, not after Joren, but we needed his path to Varn.
The whisper pulsed again—Find me…—and my pouch burned, cinders flaring. A memory flickered, not mine: a weaver, screaming, consumed by mist, becoming an Ashwraith. I gasped, shaking it off. The Abyss wasn't just calling—it was showing me something, tying my Spark to its secrets.
I kept it to myself—Veyra and Toren didn't need to know, not yet.
We reached the crevice, slipping inside, the mist muffling Varn's distant hum. Veyra checked the entrance, her fatigue clear, scar stark in the dim light. She'd woven too much, and I felt the weight of it—her losses were my fault.
"Any sign of them?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
"Not yet," she said, scanning the mist. "But they're coming. We need a path to Varn's lower gates."
Her focus was sharp, but her hands shook slightly, haze taking its toll. I wanted to ask what she'd lost, but her clipped tone stopped me. We were allies, not friends.
Toren crouched, sketching a map in the ash. "Lower gates are guarded, but there's a smuggler's route. Risky, but it's our shot." His eyes flicked to me, calculating. "Unless your Spark can do something fancy, Kael."
He knew too much, and I didn't like it.
"Keep your route," I snapped. "I'll handle my Spark." Lyra was close, and I wouldn't let Toren play me.
Veyra's gaze flicked to me, assessing, but she said nothing, her silence louder than words.
A shout broke the quiet—Veilkeepers, their cinder-lamps cutting through the mist, voices sharp.
"Spread out! The Spark's here!"
My heart raced, Joren's signal pinning us. Veyra tensed, ready to weave, but I grabbed her arm, then let go fast—no touch, just instinct.
"Don't," I whispered. "Your haze."
She nodded, eyes hard, but grateful, and that spark flickered, cautious but there.
We slipped deeper into the crevice, the Veilkeepers' lights closing in. The Abyss's whisper grew—Starborn… rise…—and the mist thickened, unnatural, coiling like a living thing. Veyra's tale echoed: the Star's heart, calling weavers.
My Spark burned, and I knew—the Abyss wasn't done with me.
A screech tore through the mist, not human, not Veilkeeper. An Ashwraith rose from the Abyss, its form flickering—half-weaver, half-smoke—drawn to my Spark. Its hollow eyes locked on me, and I froze, the whisper roaring—You are mine.
The Ashwraith's screech pierced the crevice, its misty form surging toward us, cinders swirling in its wake. My pouch burned hotter, my Spark answering, pulling me toward the Abyss.
Veyra grabbed a rock, her light flaring briefly, then dimming—haze stopping her.
"Kael, move!" she snapped, voice sharp, no warmth, but her eyes flicked to me, worry breaking through. That spark—her focus, my survival—held, but trust was still a shadow.
Toren drew his cinder knife, cursing. "Your Spark's a beacon, Kael!" he hissed, dodging the Ashwraith's claw. "Control it!"
His eyes gleamed, like he'd use this against me. I glared, my suspicion of him as sharp as ever, but he was right—my Spark was drawing it.
I scrambled back, the whisper deafening—Starborn… claim… Another memory flashed: a weaver, consumed, their Spark fueling the Abyss's hunger. The lore Veyra shared—Ashwraiths as weavers' remnants—felt real now, and my immunity wasn't hiding me.
I couldn't weave, not without making it worse, but I couldn't let Veyra pay for my mistake again.
"Head for the smuggler's route!" Toren shouted, slashing at the Ashwraith, its form scattering, then reforming.
The Veilkeepers' lights closed in, their shouts louder. Veyra led the way, navigating the crevice's twists, her pace steady despite her haze. I followed, guilt gnawing—her losses were on me, and her secrets kept us apart, but her resolve kept me moving.
The crevice opened to a narrow ledge, the Abyss yawning below, mist curling up. Veyra paused, scanning the path.
"There," she said, pointing to a vine-covered tunnel. "It'll lead to the gates."
Her voice was clipped, but her glance at me—brief, steady—showed she hadn't given up. I nodded, relying on her, but my question lingered: what drove her?
The Ashwraith screeched again, closer, its claws grazing the ledge. Toren shoved past, leading to the tunnel.
"Move, or we're ash!" he snapped, but his glance at the Abyss held something—fear, or recognition. He knew more about this place, and I'd find out, after Lyra.
Veilkeepers' boots echoed, cinder-lamps flashing. I ducked into the tunnel, Veyra behind me, her breathing heavy, haze slowing her.
"You okay?" I asked, low, regretting it instantly—she didn't owe me answers.
"Keep going," she said, voice hard, but her eyes softened, just for a second.
That spark flickered, cautious, tying us together, even if trust wasn't there.
The Ashwraith's screech followed, the whisper roaring—Starborn… now—and I knew: the Abyss had marked me, and Varn was only the start.