The silence after Vivian's departure felt like a weight in Caelan's chest, a crushing pressure he couldn't shake. The halls of the temple, once so full of potential, now felt hollow. The air tasted stale, the smell of ancient stone and decay suffocating his thoughts. He had thought that by walking this path, he would find the answers he needed. But now? He wasn't so sure anymore.
He paced in the empty hall, the echo of his boots loud in the stillness, as though mocking his indecision. The storm raged outside, its fury mirrored in his heart. He knew the time had come to make a choice, but how could he make that choice when he wasn't even sure of who he was anymore?
The Weave had changed him. It had consumed him, bound him with chains of power that threatened to pull him under. He could feel it now, thrumming beneath his skin, pushing him toward something—something dangerous.
He was no longer the boy from the slums. He had tasted power. He had tasted what it was like to bend the world to his will, and now, there was no turning back.
The question was, did he even want to turn back?
The heavy door to the temple creaked open, and Caelan turned to see the old man step inside. The man's cloak was soaked from the rain, his face hidden beneath the hood, but Caelan could feel his presence. The old man had been his guide, his mentor—his only connection to the path he had chosen. But now, Caelan wasn't sure how much he could trust him.
"You're still here," Caelan said, his voice sharper than he intended.
The old man didn't respond immediately. He simply stepped deeper into the temple, his boots quiet against the stone floor. His gaze rested on Caelan for a long moment before he spoke.
"Did she leave?"
Caelan stiffened. "You knew?"
The old man nodded. "I suspected. She isn't the first to walk away from the power, and she won't be the last. Power has a way of doing that—it divides, separates those who might have once been allies. You've felt it, haven't you?"
Caelan's fist clenched at his side. "It's not the power I fear. It's what it's doing to me. I can feel it, growing inside me. The Weave... it changes you. And I can't stop it. I don't even know if I want to anymore."
The old man sighed. "I can see it. The Weave is not a gift, Caelan. It's a burden. And only the strong—those who understand its price—can wield it without losing themselves."
"Then why didn't you warn me?" Caelan snapped, stepping forward, anger flaring in his chest. "Why didn't you tell me the price before I got this far?"
The old man met his gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Because there was no way to know if you would be strong enough until you tasted it. Until you saw what it could do. Now, you must make a choice—one that will define everything that comes after."
Caelan took a step back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The words weighed on him, pressing down on his chest. "And what if I'm not strong enough?"
The old man's lips curled into something like a smile, though it was more weary than anything. "You'll find out soon enough."
Before Caelan could respond, a loud crack of thunder split the air, followed by a flash of lightning that illuminated the temple in stark, jagged lines. The storm outside was growing fiercer, and it wasn't just the wind or the rain that made Caelan's skin crawl. The world was shifting again, and the echoes of something ancient, something dark, were beginning to surface.
"They're coming," the old man said, his voice low and grim.
"Who?" Caelan asked, heart thundering.
"The others."
Caelan's stomach twisted. "You mean the heirs."
The old man nodded grimly. "They've awakened. And they won't stop until they claim what they're entitled to. They'll come for you, Caelan. They'll come for all of us."
Caelan's mind raced. The world had changed, and there was no more time to hesitate. He could feel the weight of it—the weight of destiny, of the throne, of the war that had already begun. He had to act. But what was the right choice? Was there even a choice anymore, or had he already stepped too far into the dark?
"I need to find them," Caelan said, his voice steady despite the storm that raged within him. "I need to find the others."
The old man's eyes hardened. "You're not ready. You're still too weak, Caelan. The Weave—"
"I don't care about the Weave," Caelan interrupted, his voice hard. "I need to end this. I need to end it before they destroy everything."
The old man's expression shifted, something ancient and sorrowful flickering behind his gaze. "You may be right. But there are consequences, Caelan. You've already seen what happens when you push too far. If you truly wish to face them—"
"I will," Caelan said, his voice unwavering.
"Then go. But know this," the old man warned, his eyes locking with Caelan's, "The ones you seek are not like you. They are not children of the slums, not heirs of broken bloodlines. They will not hesitate to kill you."
Caelan didn't respond. He simply turned, his coat billowing behind him as he left the temple.
Outside, the storm was waiting. The wind howled, the thunder cracked the heavens wide open. Caelan could feel the presence of something looming on the horizon, just beyond his reach.
The heirs were coming. And he would meet them head-on.