The battle at the Obsidian Spire had ended, but the scars of magic's near-collapse still ran deep. Though Seren had woven the first thread of the Magic Web, the world had not yet stabilized. The ley lines still trembled with instability, and the taint of the Void's Echo had not been fully erased.
As Ashen and Seren stood atop the Spire's ruined platform, gazing out at the fractured sky, they both knew their work was far from finished.
The wind howled through the broken towers of the once-magnificent Weaver's Council, carrying with it the whispers of power yet unclaimed. Below, the remnants of the battle lay scattered—fallen Weavers, shattered stone, and magic still crackling in the air like an uncontained storm.
Elara, the Grandmaster of the Council, leaned heavily on her staff, exhaustion evident in her aging frame. "The Web has been stabilized, but only just," she murmured. "Without the full reconstruction, the world will continue to fracture. The Void's taint may have been repelled, but it still lingers in the deepest corners of magic."
Seren clenched her fists. "Then we don't have a choice. We need to find the lost threads and fully rebuild the Web before the Void can take root again."
Ashen wiped the sweat from his brow, his body still aching from his duel with Veydris. He knew this wasn't over. The rogue mage had disappeared into the shadows, his followers still at large. If they didn't move fast, the Void's influence could spread again.
A Fractured Alliance
The Weaver's Council was in shambles. What had once been a unified order of master mages was now divided. Many Weavers lay injured, while others debated their next course of action.
Master Oris Valcor, a scholar of ancient spells, stepped forward. "The Council is weakened. Some among us still doubt your methods, Seren. They do not believe the Web can be restored without sacrifice."
Seren narrowed her eyes. "And what do they want? More control? More power?"
Oris hesitated before speaking. "Some believe that if the Web cannot be controlled, then it must be remade in a new image. They fear that your way—allowing magic to flow freely—will only invite chaos."
Ashen growled. "That's exactly what Veydris wanted. To take the Web for himself, to bend it to his will."
Elara sighed, her gaze heavy with sorrow. "Not all Weavers are like Veydris, but many have been tempted by the same promise of control. The longer we wait, the more divisions will arise."
Seren looked at the sky, where faint cracks in reality still pulsed with unstable magic. "Then we don't wait. We find the lost threads and complete the Web before anyone else can."
Elara nodded. "You must travel to the Eldertide Ruins in the west. If the ancient records are true, one of the last remaining Core Threads of magic was hidden there long ago. Without it, the Web cannot hold."
The Journey Begins
The Eldertide Ruins were a legendary place—an ancient city that had once been a beacon of magical knowledge, now lost to time. It was said to be hidden within the Stormveil Expanse, a land of constant, violent storms fueled by untamed ley lines.
Ashen, Seren, and a small group of trusted allies departed at dawn.
Their company included:
Master Oris Valcor, despite his neutrality, who insisted that he needed to see the Web's restoration firsthand.
Rin Aedros, a young but talented Windweaver who had been one of Seren's few supporters in the Council.
Dain Hallow, a rogue sorcerer who had once studied under Veydris but had abandoned him before the fall of the Spire.
Their journey took them across lands that had already begun to unravel. Rivers ran dry in some places, while in others, entire forests had been transformed into crystallized wastelands, frozen in time by rogue magic. The world was still breaking, even if no one could see it with their eyes.
By the third day of travel, they reached the edges of Stormveil Expanse.
The sky above was a churning mass of gray and violet clouds, shifting unpredictably as arcs of blue lightning split the heavens. The very air thrummed with unstable magic, causing spells to flicker and wane.
"We're close," Seren murmured, closing her eyes to attune to the ley lines.
A sharp pulse of energy responded. The ruins were hidden within the heart of the storm, deep in a land where magic ran wild.
Dain exhaled. "If the Core Thread is really here, it's no wonder no one's been able to reach it. This place is practically a graveyard for magic."
Ashen unsheathed Phoenix Fang, watching the way the storm's unnatural light danced along its golden edge. "Then let's make sure we don't become part of that graveyard."
With that, they pressed forward, stepping into the maelstrom of chaos.
Within the Storm
The moment they crossed into the Expanse, the storm reacted.
Gale-force winds roared around them, pushing against their every step. The ground cracked and shifted, reshaping itself as if resisting their passage. Spells failed without warning, while others amplified unpredictably, turning simple fire into raging infernos.
Seren held up her hand. "Stay together! The ley lines here are in turmoil—if we separate, we may not find each other again."
But the storm had other plans.
Without warning, the ground gave way beneath them, splitting open into a gaping abyss of light and shadow. The party was torn apart, each member vanishing into the swirling vortex.
Seren felt herself being pulled downward, her body weightless as the storm swallowed her whole.
Darkness.
Then—suddenly—light.
She landed hard on solid ground, gasping as the storm vanished around her. Looking up, she found herself standing in what could only be the heart of the Eldertide Ruins.
Towering structures of stone and crystal surrounded her, their surfaces pulsing with ancient glyphs. Strange, floating orbs of condensed magic hovered in the air, humming with power.
And at the center of it all—
A single, thread of light, stretching through the air, connecting to something unseen.
"The Core Thread," Seren whispered.
She reached out, but before she could touch it, a voice echoed through the chamber.
"Only those who understand the Web may claim its heart."
Seren's breath caught as a figure emerged from the shadows—
A ghostly apparition of a long-dead Weaver, clad in robes woven from pure magic.
"The Trial of the Thread has begun," the figure intoned.
Seren felt the air shift.
This was no simple test.
This was a battle of wills, of knowledge, of the very essence of magic itself.
She had come seeking the Core Thread—but to claim it, she would have to prove herself worthy.
And she was utterly alone.