Chapter 16: The Third Tide
The reset tore Kael from the jaws of battle and flung him back to the wind-scoured cliffs of Moonfall. The world snapped into place with the cold certainty of a snapped thread. He staggered forward, gasping, the salty wind biting at his cheeks. Above him, the rift-moon's violet shadow stretched across the sky like a wound in the heavens, clawing deeper into the night. It loomed low, its unnatural light staining the sea with hues of bruise-purple and bleeding gold.
He could already feel it—time unraveling, days devoured. What had once been two full days was now dwindled to a precarious one and a half. The hum that echoed from the drowned cave pulsed in his bones, relentless, rhythmic, alive. And deeper still, like a thorn threading through his mind, the voice whispered again—"Soon…"—the Sleeping Tyrant's promise, soft as silk and sharp as obsidian.
Kael clenched his fists, breath steaming in the air. The Moonweaver's name seared his chest like a curse etched into his ribs. Gavyn's crashing tides, Lysa's whispered bargains, Maraen's silent grief—they were all woven into this. All threads winding toward the drowned cave.
He moved fast. There was no time to waste—not now, not with the clock burning away.
First, the docks. Gavyn was there, as always, muscles taut beneath a salt-stained tunic, hauling his net hand over fist. His face, carved like driftwood and just as weathered, turned toward Kael as if he'd expected him.
"We don't have time for this," Gavyn said gruffly, tossing the net aside.
Kael didn't slow. "The cave. It's waking up—tonight. If we're late, we lose everything."
A grim line formed on Gavyn's lips. He grabbed his spear without another word.
"Saw it pull me under last time," he muttered, voice low, tight with memory. "Dragged me through water and fire. I'm in."
Next was the market square, where the last of the day's light caught on tarnished coins. Lysa stood behind her rickety stall, tallying copper with deft fingers and sharper eyes. When Kael approached, she didn't look up.
"You're back early," she said dryly.
Kael's voice was hard. "We don't have another shot."
"Mm. So you say every time." She flicked a coin into the air and caught it. "The cave showed me riches—gold thicker than ship-hulls. Nearly drowned me in them."
Her eyes lifted to meet his. Cold, clever. Then she pocketed the coin. "Let's sink the bastard."
Finally, the cliffs above. Maraen stood outside her cottage, her back straight, a woolen shawl wrapped tight against the rising wind. Her fingers clutched a silver locket pressed to her chest.
"It's happening again," Kael said gently.
"I know," she replied. Her voice was soft, but it carried an edge, like wind over broken glass. "I felt it when the tides turned. I dreamed of Torm's voice. He was crying."
The locket trembled in her grip. "For him. I'll see it end."
Together, they moved west.
The path to the drowned cave twisted along the cliffs, slick with sea spray and the tears of the sky. The rift-moon bathed everything in its ghastly light, warping even the shadows. Panic clung to Moonfall like a fog—though few could name it, they all felt it. The pull. The presence. The pulse.
Kael led them down, his dagger drawn, the runes along its blade glowing faintly—a shimmer of violet flame etched in steel. Every footstep brought them closer to the cave, and every breath was tinged with salt and dread.
The entrance yawned before them, a jagged black maw half-submerged by the rising tide. The sea lapped hungrily at the cave's rim, where ancient runes flickered with a dim, alien light. The hum grew louder, almost sentient now, and the cave exhaled warm, wet air thick with decay and magic.
Kael stepped inside first, runes brightening, casting sharp light across the wet stone.
"Stay close. It'll sense us."
The others followed. Gavyn's boots splashed steadily, spear in hand. Lysa moved lightly, the quiet jingle of coins at her hip barely audible. Maraen's shawl rustled, her eyes locked ahead with quiet fury.
The interior stretched deep—too deep for the distance they walked. Rift-warped moss clung to the walls, pulsing faintly, and water dripped from the ceiling in slow, rhythmic beats, like a countdown.
The chamber opened ahead.
At its heart shimmered the rift—no longer wild, but quiet. Watching. The beast Kael had slain in the last cycle was gone, erased by the reset. In its place rose something older.
A shrine.
It stood tall and stark—black stone etched with spirals and runes, its surface alive with threads of violet light. The patterns shifted slowly, like they breathed. At its center, something pulsed—a lock, a heart, a barrier.
"There," Kael said, voice tight. "The Moonweaver's anchor."
He stepped forward—then froze.
The rift flared.
Threads erupted, spiraling out in dizzying arcs, weaving themselves into a form. Tall. Wraithlike. A silhouette crowned in shadow, its edges flickering with flame and nightmare. Its limbs were curved, elongated, inhuman—its right arm held a massive scythe, forged not of metal, but of dream and fire.
The cave's air dropped in temperature. Breath crystallized. Light bent.
And then, the voice.
"Kael…" it whispered. "Soon…"
Kael's pulse thundered. Behind the whisper lurked a second voice—deeper, ancient. The Tyrant's own—its tendrils wrapping around the Moonweaver's.
Gavyn's grip on his spear tightened. "It knows you."
Kael nodded once. "It's known me since the Shattered Crown."
The runes along his body blazed brighter, casting fierce light into the cave.
"Stay back. This one's mine."
He surged forward.
The Moonweaver moved like a breaking tide. Its scythe carved the air—one wide, merciless arc—a crescent of shadow-flame that hissed and cracked as it tore toward Kael.
Kael vanished.
Thread Step: Phantom Drift!
He reappeared in a blur of light, trailing shimmering threads like afterimages. The scythe crashed into stone where he'd been, shattering it into molten shards. Kael spun around, threads flaring.
Thread Dance: Crescent Slash!
His dagger swept through the air, unleashing an arc of glowing threads. It met the Moonweaver's form with a burst of light, forcing the creature back a step. The cave shook with the impact.
The Moonweaver hissed—a sound like bones snapping under waves.
It retaliated, flinging threads from its form like razors, dozens at once.
Kael leapt.
Thread Step: Sky Fang!
The threads propelled him skyward, flipping through the air in a tight spiral. He landed behind the creature, momentum flowing through his stance. His palm burned.
Thread Lance: Falling Star!
A spear of light burst forth, hurtling toward the Moonweaver's core. It struck with a deafening crack, blowing flame and thread in every direction. The creature reeled.
And yet—it stood.
"Kael…" the voice called again, deeper now, more whole. "Join us…"
The scythe thrust forward, a tidal wave of threads surging behind it, a blade the size of a ship's hull.
Kael threw his hand forward, shouting—
Thread Wall: Vortex Shield!
A whirling disk of light exploded from his palm, catching the incoming wave. The impact howled. Violet light met black. For a moment, the air itself fractured. Kael skidded backward, boots dragging along slick stone, arms shaking from the force.
"Not a chance!" he barked through clenched teeth.
The Moonweaver lunged again. Faster. Stronger.
Its scythe came in a vertical arc—pure destruction.
Kael spun.
Thread Dance: Spiral Evasion!
Threads spiraled around him like a cyclone, deflecting the blow. Sparks flew. The scythe slid harmlessly along the edge of the spiral.
Kael's dagger flared.
Thread Dance: Binding Lash!
Threads lashed out like serpents, wrapping around the Moonweaver's limbs. Its scythe-arm was caught mid-swing, immobilized. The threads pulled tighter, glowing with strain.
"End this!" Kael shouted.
Thread Pulse: Crescent Wave!
A surge of energy burst from his palm, a horizontal wave of raw power crashing into the Moonweaver's chest. Its form staggered, the silhouette flickering, threads snapping away in pieces.
But then—it laughed.
A cold, cruel echo that reverberated through the cave like a funeral bell.
The rift pulsed.
New threads wove themselves around the Moonweaver, forming a cocoon—a shield. The Crescent Wave shattered harmlessly against it in a burst of sparks.
"Kael… Soon…" the voice growled.
Then the Moonweaver dissolved. Its body unraveled into threads, sinking back into the rift.
The chamber stilled.
Kael collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, a thin cut on his cheek where a thread had grazed him. Blood trickled down, warm and real. The runes dimmed. The rift's light flickered, but the hum had not ceased.
Gavyn splashed forward, spear raised, eyes darting.
"You drove it off. What now?"
Kael stood slowly, wiping the blood from his cheek. "The shrine. It's a lock. We need to open it."
He stepped to the black stone, studying the spirals and lines. Runes of the ancient Weaver. Not just language—music, math, dream. A puzzle, alive.
Gavyn pointed at a shape carved like a wave. "That's a tidal mark. I've seen it in old maps."
Lysa stepped closer, tracing a pattern shaped like a coin. "Trade rune. I've used it in old pacts."
Maraen knelt. "Storm-thread," she murmured, eyes softening. "It's in Torm's letters."
Kael placed his palm to the center.
Thread Pulse: Unraveling Cry!
The runes lit. Threads spun outward from Kael's hand, darting through the shrine's carvings, weaving the tidal rune, the coin-spiral, the storm-thread into one luminous tapestry.
The lock clicked.
The rift shuddered, shrinking. The light dimmed. The chamber softened.
But the whisper lingered.
"Soon…"
Clearer now.
Sharper.
A promise, not a threat.
Kael exhaled. His body trembled.
"It's not gone," he said. "Just waiting."
Lysa's voice broke the silence. "Waiting for what?"
Maraen's voice, quiet and steady, answered. "For us."
Kael didn't hesitate. He raised his hand once more.
Thread Reset: Tide's Turn!
A burst of light. Time fractured, then bent. The world blurred—
And snapped back.
Gavyn hauling his net.
Lysa counting coins.
Maraen clutching her locket.
One day left.
The Moonweaver's threads were tightening.
The Tyrant's voice hovered like thunder behind the horizon.
Kael's resolve flared—hot, focused, storm-bound.
The next time, there would be no retreat.