The clearing felt like a different world.

  The towering black monolith loomed above us, jagged and foreboding. Its glowing yellow runes twisted like serpents across its surface, pulsing in time with the chants of the hooded figures surrounding it. Their low, rhythmic voices vibrated through the air, resonating in my chest like an offbeat drum.

  Aeryn crouched beside me, her shadows pulled tight around her like armor. Lyra knelt on my other side, her daggers twirling lazily between her fingers, though her sharp eyes missed nothing.

  “This is bad,” Aeryn whispered, her gaze fixed on the Tower.

  “It usually is,” I muttered, clutching the shard in my pocket. Its hum was stronger here, the whispers rising to a near roar as though the tower were calling to it—or to me.

  “They’re binding the Rift to this place,” Aeryn said. “That monolith’s their anchor. If they finish, it’ll open a fracture so wide, this whole canyon will be consumed.”

  “Fantastic,” I said, my voice strained. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Break the tower,” Lyra said, her voice low but confident.

  Aeryn glared at her. “It’s not that simple. The Weavers are using it as a conduit, but they’re the ones fueling it. We take them out first, or it won’t matter.”

  Lyra shrugged, her smirk returning. “Fine, we can handle the zealots, leave the big rock to shard boy over there.”

  “Any suggestions?” I asked.

  “Try not to die,” they said in unison.

  The three of us split up. Aeryn melted into the shadows, her movements unnervingly quiet. Lyra darted to the right, slipping behind a cluster of jagged rocks with all the subtlety of a striking viper.

  That left me standing awkwardly in the open, the shard buzzing angrily in my hand. The whispers were louder now, pulling at the edges of my thoughts.

  “Fine,” I muttered, stepping into the clearing. “Guess I’ll just wing it.”

  The Weavers turned as one, their chanting faltering. Their hooded faces tilted toward me, and though I couldn’t see their eyes, I felt their collective focus like a physical weight.

  “The thief,” one of them hissed, their voice echoing unnaturally.

  “The wound,” another whispered.

  The shard pulsed in my hand, its light flaring briefly. The Weavers froze, their heads tilting in unison as if listening to something only they could hear.

  “You do not belong here,” the largest of them said, stepping forward. The glowing runes carved into their arms shimmered like liquid fire.

  “Yeah, well,” I said, gripping the shard tighter. “Neither does this thing you’re building.”

  The leader raised a hand, and the air around me grew heavy, like invisible chains were wrapping around my chest. The shard pulsed harder, and I realized the weight wasn’t just in my head—it was real.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “You carry a wound in the Threads,” the leader intoned. “A fragment of what was. A reminder of what will never be.”

  “Great,” I wheezed, struggling against the pressure. “Thanks for the poetry.”

  The shard pulsed again, and this time, I felt something different. Not just the raw power I’d relied on before, but something sharper, more focused.

  Break the chain. Reverse the flow.

  The thought wasn’t my own, but it made sense. I raised the shard, focusing on the invisible weight pressing down on me. The blue light flared, and the pressure shattered like glass.

  The Weavers recoiled, their chants breaking into dissonant murmurs.

  “You wield it without understanding,” the leader growled.

  “That makes two of us,” I muttered.

  They raised their hands again, and the air shimmered as glowing threads began to form around me—golden strands that pulsed with energy. They moved like living things, coiling toward me with deliberate intent.

  “Don’t let them touch you!” Aeryn’s voice cut through the chaos.

  The first thread lashed toward me, and I reacted on instinct, swinging the shard like a blade. The blue light sliced through the golden thread, severing it with a sharp crack. The air around me vibrated, the other threads faltering.

  The Weavers hissed in unison, their movements more frantic now.

  The shard’s whispers grew louder, and I felt an idea forming—not my own, but something it was showing me. The threads weren’t just attacks—they were connected to the Weavers.

  Fracture their ties.

  I focused on the nearest Weaver, the one with glowing runes crawling up their arms. The shard hummed as I imagined the golden threads snapping, breaking the flow of energy between them and the spire.

  The light around the Weaver dimmed, and they stumbled, clutching at their chest. The other Weavers turned toward me, their voices rising in anger.

  “Clever boy,” Lyra called from somewhere to my right. “Keep it up!”

  Aeryn’s shadows surged into the clearing, striking two of the Weavers with pinpoint precision. They collapsed without a sound, their threads unraveling into nothingness.

  The leader snarled, raising both hands. The golden threads flared brighter, weaving together into a massive, writhing construct—a glowing serpent made of pure light.

  “You have no idea what you’ve done,” they said, their voice a low growl.

  The serpent lunged toward me, its golden coils twisting through the air. I didn’t have time to think—I raised the shard, channeling its energy into a barrier of blue light. The serpent struck the barrier with a deafening crack, the force sending me skidding backward.

  The shard pulsed again, and I felt its power shift. The blue light spread out around me, forming intricate patterns in the air—shapes and symbols that seemed to echo the runes on the spire.

  Invert the flow. Rewrite the Thread.

  The words were clear now, threading through my thoughts like a melody. I focused on the serpent, on the energy tying it to the leader and the spire. The patterns in the air shifted, aligning themselves with the golden threads.

  The shard flared, and the serpent unraveled, its golden light collapsing into shards of energy. The leader staggered, their runes dimming as the connection between them and the spire broke.

  “You don’t understand what you’ve done,” they said again, their voice weaker now.

  “Pretty sure I do,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m sure you’ll send me an angry letter in the mail later.”

  With the Weavers defeated, the spire’s glow began to fade. The gold runes flickered, their patterns collapsing into static shapes.

  Lyra appeared beside me, her daggers sheathed. “Not bad,” she said, her smirk faint but genuine. “That line was especially cheesy.”

  Aeryn approached, her shadows receding. Her violet eyes fixed on me, sharp and assessing. “Don’t encourage him,” she said, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

  The leader lay on the ground, their body flickering like a dying flame. “You’ve delayed the inevitable,” they rasped. “But the Rift cannot be stopped. He will find you.”

  “Who’s ‘he’?” I demanded, crouching beside them.

  The leader’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “The one who breaks the Threads. The one who weaves the end.”

  Before I could press further, their body dissolved into green smoke, leaving only silence behind.

  Aeryn placed a hand on my shoulder, her expression unusually soft. “We need to move. This isn’t over.”

  I nodded, slipping the shard back into my pocket. Its whispers had quieted, but their message lingered in my mind.

  Whoever “he” was, I knew we’d be meeting soon.