Chapter 8: The Sleeping Tyrant
The stairs steepened, coiling downward like the spine of some slumbering beast. With each step, the violet glow from Kael's shard dimmed—consumed not by distance but by the darkness itself. It wasn't the absence of light. It was something alive. Watching. Breathing.
The air thickened, no longer content to linger. It pressed against their skin like damp cloth, whispering threats in a language no tongue could form. An old tongue. A forgotten one. The kind that never needed to be spoken aloud to be understood.
Kael led the descent, his breathing shallow. Pain no longer spiked—it pulsed. It had taken root, blooming deep in his back and leg like a parasite feeding on his defiance. Blood trailed behind him, slow and steady, marking their passage with quiet red testament. Every drop, a memory. Every step, a sacrifice.
Behind him, Toren followed with grim steadiness. His massive hammer rested against his shoulder like a sleeping god, ready to wake. In his other arm, cradled with a gentleness that defied his size, was Lirien—small, alert, her fingers clinging to his cloak. Her eyes never left Kael. Not once. They weren't eyes of fear anymore. They were eyes of belief. Of trust placed in fire.
Mara brought up the rear. Slower than the others, her cane tapping only when she couldn't avoid it. Her right arm cradled her bloodied side, the fabric soaked through. The blood loss had turned her face pale, but her steps never faltered. Regret clung to her like a second skin—but so did resolve.
The silence broke—not with sound, but with rhythm. A pulse. Low, steady, seismic.
Thump… Thump…
It echoed inside Kael's skull, matching the beat of something old and buried, something still alive. The heartbeat of the vault. Or something buried deeper still.
The stairway ended.
The stone walls split wide into a chamber unlike any they'd seen.
The floor wasn't stone. It was a tapestry—intricate threads stretched taut, glowing with ember-like runes. They shimmered, but not with idle magic. These threads shifted as they moved, reforming in peripheral vision like they knew they were being watched.
The walls pulsed. Not light, not shadow—something between. They were breathing, trying to remember their shape. Dreamstuff. Half-formed and ancient.
At the center stood the Loom of Fate.
Raised on a dais of jagged obsidian, the Loom was skeletal in form. Its frame twisted with sharp black angles, threads dangling from its arch like the limbs of a dying god. They pulsed—not only with violet energy, but with memory. Names. Dreams.
Above it, the rift gaped—wide and torn, bleeding violet fire. The wound in the world churned, the edges clawing at reality itself.
Something moved within.
The Sleeping Tyrant was waking.
Kael stopped. The shard in his hand surged suddenly, defiant. A flare of light cast back the shadows for one stubborn heartbeat.
"That's it," he whispered, the words more breath than sound. "The Loom."
Toren stepped beside him, setting Lirien down gently. His voice was cold, ironbound. "And the monster guarding it?"
As if summoned by the thought, the rift pulsed. A thunderless roar shook the air.
And the Tyrant emerged.
No longer a shadow in their nightmares—it had form now. Height like a cathedral, woven of runes and unraveling night. Its limbs were thread and void, clawed and shifting, a nightmare given shape by hatred. Its face burned—a mask of violet fire, swirling with unspoken runes. Its eyes—if they were eyes—locked on Kael.
Pure malice. Timeless. Personal.
A being of Initiate Tier. Bound to the Loom like a maggot to meat. Damaged. Weakened. But wide awake.
It spoke.
"Kael…"
The name slid through the chamber like a blade. A whisper that pierced marrow.
"You've come," it hissed, voice low and terrible. "To sever the final thread."
Kael stepped forward, lifting the shard. Its glow sharpened. Challenging.
"You're done," he said, voice hard. "Release the village. Release them all."
The Tyrant raised a hand—if it could be called that. Tendrils of night spiraled down, entwining the Loom like possessive limbs.
"They are mine," it rasped, almost gloating. "Dream-woven. Soul-still. To unbind them… is to free me."
It leaned forward, mask flaring.
"Leave them, and they sleep. Forever. Safe. Peaceful. Mine."
Kael's hand didn't waver. "Then there's no choice."
Behind him, Toren stepped forward, hammer raised. "We finish this. With you."
Lirien's voice was soft, but solid. "You saved me. I know you can save them."
Mara stood silent. Her eyes locked on the Tyrant. Her silence was heavier than any vow.
Kael turned his eyes to the Loom. The threads pulsed—not with magic, but with names. Faces. Jessa. Korrin. Torm. The villagers—still trapped. Still dreaming.
He drew a breath and struck.
The shard whipped forward. Light lashed out—white and violet—cracking across the Tyrant's arm.
It struck true. The creature recoiled.
It laughed.
A low, grinding sound, like bones breaking underfoot.
"Foolish Unshackled," it sneered. "You dare weave with threads beyond your grasp."
Its second arm surged forward. Darkness like a wave.
Kael barely moved before it hit.
It crushed him.
The force lifted him off his feet. He flew back—skidding across the woven floor. Pain bloomed in his ribs. Something cracked. The shard slipped from his hand, spinning away.
"KAEL!" Lirien screamed.
Toren charged. Hammer up. Roaring.
He brought it down with the fury of falling suns.
Threads lashed out. They caught his legs mid-stride. Pulled.
He hung in the air, limbs flailing.
"Stay," the Tyrant commanded, voice like chains.
It flung Toren aside like garbage. He slammed into the wall and didn't move.
Lirien bolted for him.
Shadow snapped toward her.
"No—!" Kael forced his fingers forward. Thread. Just one.
A single strand of will.
It caught her. Yanked her back—barely.
The effort cost him everything. He sagged, vision swimming.
The Tyrant loomed above.
"Yield," it breathed. "Cut the Loom, and I am free. Do nothing, and they sleep. You sleep."
Kael's lungs burned. Blood soaked his shirt. The weight of the fight dragged on him like lead.
But he saw them—Lirien, stumbling but alive. Toren, groaning as he crawled. Mara, face bloodied, but watching. Waiting.
He stood.
No. He refused.
He limped to the Loom. His hand out. Searching—
There.
The shard.
He dove for it.
The Tyrant struck.
Claw met stone.
Kael rolled, snagging the shard and stabbing it into the Loom's side.
It shuddered. Threads writhed, entangling the shard.
The Tyrant screamed.
Darkness lunged—like a tidal wave. It slammed into Kael.
But he held on.
His hand blistered. Skin peeled. But the shard stayed.
"Stop!" Mara's voice rang out.
She stepped forward, cane raised like a banner.
Words poured from her—old words. Forbidden ones. Runes danced before her, shimmering in the air.
A barrier bloomed—fragile, pale—but real.
The Tyrant paused.
"You must channel it!" she cried. "Kael—the Loom! It's yours now!"
Kael coughed blood. "How?!"
"Through you!" she shouted. "You're Unshackled! You have no fate—so now you weave it!"
The Tyrant shattered her barrier. Threads lashed her leg—dragging her down.
"NOW, KAEL!"
He screamed. He stabbed the shard into the Loom's heart.
Everything broke.
Light exploded—vivid, unchained. Violet and white fire roared through the chamber. It didn't just shine—it sang. A song of unmaking.
It consumed him.
Power rushed into Kael like a thousand rivers. Every nerve burned. Every thought blurred.
His strength buckled. His soul cracked—and then rose.
He surged beyond Gifted.
For one breathless instant—he was Initiate Tier.
He saw.
The Loom. The threads. The villagers.
And the Tyrant's lie.
Kael raised the shard. Threads leapt from it—alive, burning.
They wrapped the Tyrant.
"You don't own them!" he roared.
He spun a thread—a trap. A simple one. Pure defiance.
It snaked into the Tyrant's core.
The monster writhed. Screamed. Threads snapped. Its form unwove.
"No…" it whispered. "Not yet… not yet…"
Kael twisted the shard.
And the dream collapsed.
The Loom pulsed once.
Twice.
Then it stilled.
The rift's fire faded. The Tyrant shattered. Its mask flickered—and went dark.
Darkness surged into the rift, dragging the pieces of the Tyrant with it.
And then… silence.
Kael dropped to his knees. The shard fell from his fingers, dull and empty.
The power was gone. He was Gifted again.
But alive.
"Kael…" Lirien ran to him, sobbing. "You did it!"
He nodded, blinking slowly. His gaze fixed on the rift.
"No," he rasped. "It's weaker. Not gone."
Toren groaned, dragging himself up. "You sure?"
Mara limped forward. Her eyes sunken, her voice hollow. "You freed their fates. But… that wasn't its full self."
Kael turned toward the rift. It still pulsed. Dim. But not dead.
Behind the Loom… a new path opened.
Stairs. More stairs. Descending.
The voice returned. Faint. Cold. Promising.
"Kael… soon…"
Kael turned to the others. His face set.
"No more secrets," he said.
Mara met his gaze. And nodded. "No more."
Together, they stepped into the dark.
The final thread awaited.