The Ashen Veil was a desert that looked like it wanted to kill you just for existing. Endless dunes of gray sand stretched under a sky baked to a dull orange, the sun a blurry smear behind clouds of dust that never settled. The air was so dry it sucked the moisture from your mouth, leaving a taste of ash and metal, like licking a rusted knife. Heat shimmered off the ground, warping the horizon into a mirage of false lakes and ghost cities. Scattered bones—human, animal, something else—jutted from the sand, bleached white and cracked, as if the desert had chewed them up and spat them out. The wind hissed, a constant low moan, carrying whispers that weren't quite words but made your skin crawl, like someone was breathing down your neck.
Kaelith Varn trudged at the front, her boots sinking into the sand, each step a fight against the desert's pull. Her cloak was a rag now, patched with scraps from the Frostspire, its edges frayed to threads. The shard at her belt flickered, its glow a sickly green, like a bruise you couldn't ignore. Her dark hair clung to her face, matted with sweat and grit, half-hiding gray eyes that looked too big for her sunken cheeks. Her hands shook, clutching the scroll from the Sea of Whispers, its map glowing faintly, pointing to a ruin somewhere in this wasteland. The heart's power was a furnace inside her, burning her to cinders. She coughed, spitting gold ichor that sizzled on the sand, and wiped her mouth, pretending it didn't scare her.
Torren Ashkarn staggered behind, his big frame leaning on a stick he'd found in the fishing village. His tunic was gone, replaced by a scavenged robe stained with blood and sweat, bandages peeling off his chest where spawn claws had torn him open. His scarred hands gripped the stick, knuckles white, no hint of riftweaving's fire—just a tremor that wouldn't stop. His face was a mess of bruises and stubble, his dark eyes dull, like he was staring through the desert to somewhere worse. Every breath rattled, and he moved like he was dragging a mountain, but he kept going, too stubborn to quit.
Sylvara Ren walked beside him, her auburn braid stuffed under a scarf to keep the sand out. Her green eyes were red-rimmed, squinting against the glare, filled with a worry she couldn't hide. She'd lost everything—satchel, herbs, hope—except a dagger strapped to her hip, its handle worn smooth from use. Her jacket was too thin, patched with sailcloth, and her trousers were torn at the knees, showing scrapes that wouldn't heal. She hugged herself, shivering despite the heat, her lips cracked and bleeding. The Hollow's death was a weight she carried in her chest, heavier now in this lifeless place.
Rhydian Thalor scouted the flanks, his lean frame weaving through the dunes like he was born to them. His coat was a tattered mess, flapping open to show a shirt stained with salt and blood. His blue eyes glinted, sharp as ever, catching every shadow, every odd shape in the sand. His dagger spun in one hand, a restless habit, while the Weaver tablet pressed against his ribs, its runes a silent hum he couldn't shake. His face was gaunt, stubble thickening into a beard, and his smirk was gone, replaced by a frown that said he knew they were walking into trouble.
They'd clawed their way here through too much pain to count. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, chasing the Codex's heart, had dragged her through rifts, ruins, and seas. Torren's run from the Emberfall Dominion, haunted by burned lives, had landed him in the Waste, the Isles, the Frostspire, now this desert. Sylvara's mission to save the Verdant Hollow had turned her into a fighter, her hands bloody from more than herbs. Rhydian, dodging his Riftborn curse, had tied his life to theirs, his tablet a mirror to Kaelith's shard. The Weaver's Voice was their shadow, its promises of freedom through ruin louder in the Ashen Veil, its laughter a knife in their backs after every fight.
"This place sucks the life out of you," Torren muttered, his voice like gravel, barely audible over the wind. He leaned harder on his stick, wincing as his bandages shifted. "Feels like I'm breathing sand."
Sylvara glanced at him, her scarf slipping. "You're still breathing, though. That's something. Just… keep going, okay?" Her voice was soft, but it cracked, like she was trying to convince herself too.
Kaelith didn't turn, her eyes locked on a dune ahead, the scroll crumpled in her fist. "The map says there's a ruin nearby. A Weaver temple, maybe. The anchor's there. We're close."
Rhydian hopped down from a ridge, sand cascading around him. "Close to what, exactly? Another rift? More spawn? I'm getting tired of bleeding for your hunches, Varn."
She stopped, spinning to face him, her face pale but fierce. "You got a better plan, Thalor? Cause I'm all ears. The shard's pulling me, the scroll's glowing, and the Tapestry's screaming. We stop now, we're done."
Rhydian raised his hands, dagger glinting. "Easy, priestess. I'm just saying, every time we follow that thing, we end up in deeper shit. Look at us—half-dead and bickering like kids."
Torren coughed, spitting blood. "He's not wrong. I can barely swing a sword. Riftweaving's killing me, and you're not looking so hot either, Varn."
Sylvara's voice sharpened, her hands on her hips. "Stop it, all of you! We're falling apart, and it's not helping. Torren, you're tougher than this. Kaelith, you're not alone. And Rhydian, quit poking holes unless you've got something to fill 'em."
Kaelith's shoulders sagged, her voice quieter. "She's right. I'm sorry. I'm just… scared. The heart's eating me alive, and I don't know how much I've got left."
Torren looked at her, his eyes softening. "We're all scared, Kaelith. Doesn't mean we quit. Lead on."
They pushed forward, the dunes giving way to a flat expanse littered with ruins—crumbled pillars, shattered walls, their stones carved with runes that glowed faintly, like dying coals. The wind picked up, stinging their faces with sand, and the whispers grew louder, forming words now: break, fall, end. Sylvara shivered, clutching her dagger, her voice a whisper. "Anyone else hear that?"
"Yeah," Rhydian said, his dagger still. "It's like the sea, but worse. Like it's inside my head."
Kaelith's shard flared, its light cutting through the haze. "There," she said, pointing to a sunken temple, its dome half-buried, runes pulsing along its cracked surface. "That's it."
Before they could move, the ground shook, a deep rumble that sent sand cascading. A rift tore open, its violet light blinding, its hum a scream that made their teeth ache. Spawn poured out—creatures of sand and bone, their bodies spiked with obsidian, eyes like burning coals. One charged, its claws ripping the air.
"Scatter!" Kaelith yelled, diving behind a pillar. The shard blazed, and she wove a barrier, its golden light flickering as a spawn smashed it. She gasped, blood dripping from her nose, gold ichor staining her chin.
Torren swung his sword, riftweaving sparking weakly. He hacked a spawn's arm, its body crumbling, but another tackled him, claws tearing his robe. "Damn it!" he roared, flames bursting, searing it. He fell to his knees, blood soaking the sand, his breath ragged.
Sylvara slashed with her dagger, aiming for a spawn's throat. It screeched, swiping at her, but she rolled, sand in her eyes. "Torren, stay down!" she shouted, stabbing another that lunged. Her arm bled, her jacket shredded, but she kept fighting, her voice breaking. "We've got this!"
Rhydian moved like a ghost, his dagger sinking into a spawn's back. He warped the air, crushing another, but blood poured from his ears, his face white. "Varn, close it!" he yelled, dodging a claw that grazed his shoulder, tearing his coat.
Kaelith's barrier shattered, her body crumpling. "It's too much!" she sobbed, the shard burning her hand. The Tapestry's threads were chaos, slipping through her fingers, and her vision swam, gold ichor pooling under her.
The Weaver's Voice rose, its shadow swallowing the rift's light. "You chase anchors," it whispered, a chorus of despair, "but you are the ruin. Break, and be whole."
"Shut up!" Torren bellowed, staggering up. He swung at the Voice, flames flaring, but it laughed, slamming him into a pillar. Blood sprayed, and he slumped, still.
Sylvara screamed, diving for him, her dagger slashing a spawn to keep it off. "Torren, please!" she cried, dragging him back, her hands slick with his blood. "Don't leave me!"
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith, pulling her up. "You're not done!" he shouted, his powers surging, a weak shield holding the spawn back. "We need you!"
Kaelith nodded, tears mixing with ichor, and wove again, the shard blinding. Sylvara stabbed a spawn, clearing a path, her arm trembling, blood dripping to the sand.
The rift shrank, threads snapping into place, but the Voice struck, its shadow breaking Kaelith's weave. She screamed, falling, the scroll slipping from her hand.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!" she sobbed, her voice raw, slashing another that got too close.
Rhydian steadied Kaelith, his eyes fierce. "One more time, Varn! Together!"
Kaelith wove, the shard's fire consuming her, threads aligning. The rift closed with a deafening crack, the Voice's laughter fading: "You weave your end."
The spawn dissolved, the desert quiet except for their gasps. Kaelith slumped, the shard dark, her body shaking. Sylvara checked Torren's pulse, sobbing as he groaned, alive. "You're okay," she whispered, tearing her scarf to bandage him, her hands shaking.
Rhydian kicked a bone, his voice hoarse. "We're not gonna make it if this keeps up. That was too damn close."
Kaelith crawled to the scroll, its map glowing brighter. "The temple," she rasped, pointing to the dome. "The anchor's inside."
They staggered to the ruins, sand stinging their wounds, the wind howling like a mourner. The temple's entrance was a jagged maw, runes glowing along its edges, pulsing like a heartbeat. Kaelith led them in, her shard flaring, lighting a chamber of polished stone and crystal. Pillars lined the walls, carved with Weaver faces—some serene, others screaming—watching them with empty eyes. At the center stood a pedestal, a crystal sphere atop it, glowing gold, its threads weaving into the air—an anchor, pulsing with the Tapestry's life.
"It's… beautiful," Sylvara said, her voice awed, helping Torren lean against a pillar. "Like the Hollow, before it died."
Torren coughed, blood on his lips. "Beautiful's dangerous. That thing's gonna kill us, isn't it?"
Rhydian circled it, his dagger still. "Another anchor. My tablet's humming—says this one's tied to the desert's veins. Like roots, holding the weave."
Kaelith touched the sphere, visions hitting her—Weavers burying anchors in sand, their blood soaking the earth, binding the Tapestry. "It's part of the heart," she said, her voice trembling. "It's keeping the weave alive—but it's breaking, like us."
Sylvara's hand tightened on her dagger. "Can we fix it? Like the Frostspire?"
Kaelith shook her head, gold ichor dripping. "Fix or cut. The scroll says we're anchors too. We can channel it—heal the Tapestry—or break it free."
Torren's voice was grim. "Break it. I'm done being a puppet."
Rhydian's eyes darkened. "Break it, and what? The world collapses? We're guessing here, and I don't like the odds."
Sylvara stepped forward, her voice fierce. "We're not guessing. We're fighting. For the Hollow, the Dominion, everything. We mend it, Kaelith. Together."
A rumble shook the temple, sand pouring from cracks above. The Voice returned, its shadow filling the chamber. "You cannot mend the broken," it hissed. "The anchors are mine."
Kaelith faced it, her shard blazing. "Not today!" She wove, the sphere's light merging with hers, threads surging.
Torren pushed off the pillar, flames sparking. "Back her!" he shouted, slashing a spawn that leaped from the shadows.
Sylvara stabbed another, her arm bleeding. "Kaelith, faster!" she yelled, dodging claws that cracked the floor.
Rhydian crushed a spawn, blood streaming from his nose. "Finish it!"
Kaelith channeled the sphere, the heart's fire roaring. The threads aligned, the anchor stabilizing, but the Voice struck, its shadow shattering her weave. She fell, screaming, ichor pooling.
Sylvara tackled a spawn, saving Torren. "Get up!" she cried, her voice breaking.
Rhydian grabbed Kaelith, his eyes fierce. "One more!"
Kaelith wove, the sphere blinding, the anchor's light flooding the temple. The rift closed, the Voice gone, its whisper fading: "You are the end."
They collapsed, bloody and spent. Kaelith clutched the scroll, its map shifting—to the Starfall Crater, beyond the desert. "Another anchor," she whispered, her voice gone.
Sylvara bandaged Torren, tears falling. "We're still here," she said, fierce.
Rhydian wiped his dagger, his voice low. "Barely. But yeah."
Kaelith stood, swaying, her eyes hard. "The Crater's next. We end this."
They left the temple, the wind howling, the anchor's light fading. The Tapestry held, but they were fraying, and the Voice waited, patient as death.