The temple's cold stone walls felt even colder now, as though the weight of Caelan's actions had seeped into the very foundation. The air inside the hall was thick with dust and tension. The floor beneath his boots was slick with moisture, a grim reminder that time here had not been kind. Outside, the storm raged on, a howl of wind and crackling thunder, as if the world itself had noticed the shift in Caelan's soul.
He stood in the center of the grand hall, his senses sharp, his eyes scanning the shadows where the light of the flickering torches barely reached. The Weave hummed quietly beneath his skin, a constant presence now, a reminder of what he had chosen to become.
The old man had left him to meditate on the consequences of his actions, to test his resolve. But Caelan found himself restless, as though something beyond his control was pulling him forward, beckoning him to move.
The sound of boots on stone echoed in the distance.
A shadow emerged from the archway, and Caelan's hand instinctively went to his sword. He was ready—he had to be. The world outside was turning, and there were enemies lurking in every corner.
But the figure that stepped into the light wasn't an enemy. It was a face Caelan had never thought he would see again.
Vivian.
She stood there, her long purple hair damp from the rain, her gaze as sharp as ever. Her eyes, though, held a weariness that hadn't been there before. The weight of something unsaid hung between them, and Caelan could feel it like a palpable force, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She had always been his anchor, his reminder of the world beyond the violence and the power. But now?
Now, there was a distance between them. A chasm.
"Caelan," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I heard the storm had returned. Thought I might find you here."
He nodded, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. "What are you doing here?"
She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving him. "I came to warn you. The others are moving."
Caelan's pulse quickened. The others. The other heirs, the ones who had risen during the Eclipse, the ones who were just as marked as he was. They had been silent for so long, their movements hidden in the shadows, but now? Now, the world was waking, and so were they.
"Moving?" Caelan repeated. "Where?"
Vivian's lips twisted, a grim smile. "Somewhere they think they can control. The Silver Court is playing a dangerous game, Caelan. And the one from the Dusklands? He's been hunting your kind."
Caelan felt a flicker of something deep inside him—rage, fear, maybe both. "Why now? What have they been waiting for?"
"The right moment." Vivian's voice dropped. "And it's coming faster than any of us thought."
Caelan's eyes narrowed. The Weave pulsed in his chest, as if answering to the tension in the air. He had felt it, too. The world was on the edge, trembling beneath the weight of something far worse than anything they had imagined.
Vivian stepped closer still, her eyes darkening as she searched his face. "Caelan," she said quietly, almost too softly. "I don't know what the Weave has done to you, but whatever it is, you need to stop. The power—it's changing you. And the more you use it, the harder it will be to come back."
Caelan's hand flexed at his side, his fingers brushing against the hilt of his sword. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn't come. He knew she was right. He felt it, the pull of the Weave. It was intoxicating, a fire that burned bright and hot, threatening to consume everything in its path.
But he couldn't stop now. Not when there was so much at stake. Not when the throne was so close.
"I can't stop," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "Not now."
Vivian's expression softened, but there was an edge of sadness in her gaze. "You don't have to do this alone, Caelan. There's still time. We can stop them. We can stop it."
Caelan shook his head, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he had learned. "The others won't stop. They won't wait. And neither will I."
There was a long silence between them, one that stretched and bent, filled with everything unsaid. Caelan could see the hurt in Vivian's eyes, but there was something else too—something darker, more resolute. She wasn't going to back down.
"I can't follow you down this path," she said, her voice breaking, her gaze unwavering. "Not if it means losing myself. Not if it means losing you."
Her words hit him like a blow. Caelan opened his mouth, but the words were gone. There was nothing he could say to make her understand, nothing he could do to pull her back into the world he was now part of. The world of power, of death, of a throne that was never meant to be sat upon.
Vivian turned, her face pale in the dim light. "I'm leaving, Caelan. Before it's too late. And you should, too."
He watched her walk away, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the hall long after she had gone. The storm outside raged louder, the winds howling like the cries of forgotten gods.
Caelan was left alone, the weight of the world pressing down on him, the Weave thrumming beneath his skin.
And for the first time, Caelan wasn't sure if he had made the right choice.