The wind howled through Vaeloria's spires, carrying shards of ice that stung Kaelith Varn's face as she stood in the Court of Threads. The vast plaza, ringed by towering statues of the Weavers, shimmered under a sky heavy with storm clouds. Her priestess robes, once a pristine white, hung tattered around her, stained with ink and frost; the iron shackles on her wrists clinked faintly as she shifted her weight. Before her loomed the High Conclave: thirteen veiled figures perched on crystal thrones, their silence a judgment heavier than the stone beneath her feet.
High Priestess Myrith rose, her crystal staff glowing with a cold, piercing light. "Kaelith Varn," she began, her voice cutting through the wind, "you stand accused of heresy. You have defiled the Tapestry's sanctity, questioned its divine weave, and dared to read forbidden texts. How do you answer these charges?"
Kaelith's throat burned with the effort to speak, but she lifted her chin, meeting Myrith's gaze through the gossamer veil. "I answer with the truth," she said. "The Tapestry frays; rifts tear Eryndral apart, and the people die while you cling to your rituals. I read the Codex of Shards because no one else would. It speaks of the Weavers' survival, of a heart that could mend what's broken."
A murmur rippled through the gathered acolytes, their white robes fluttering in the wind. Myrith silenced them with a sharp gesture, her staff flaring brighter. "You speak of survival?" she said, her tone laced with scorn. "The Weavers gave their lives to weave the Tapestry, to seal the void. To claim they endure is blasphemy, a dagger aimed at the heart of our faith."
Kaelith's hands clenched, the shackles biting into her skin. "Faith?" she countered. "Or fear? The Codex reveals a truth you refuse to face: the Weavers may linger, their return a possibility—salvation or ruin. You bury it because it threatens your control."
"Enough of your poison," Myrith snapped. "You stole from the sacred vaults, spread doubt among the initiates. Do you deny it?"
Kaelith's mind flashed to that night in the vaults: the air thick with dust, her heart pounding as she slipped past the wards, her fingers trembling as she tore a page from the Codex. She had known the cost, yet the rifts' chaos had driven her to it. "I deny nothing," she said, her voice steady. "The knowledge belongs to all who serve the Tapestry, not just to those who hoard it."
A low chuckle broke the tension, coming from a Conclave member in a deep blue veil. "Bold words," he said, leaning forward. "But tell me, Kaelith Varn, what qualifies you to judge the Tapestry's weave? A novice barely past her vows?"
Kaelith turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "I've seen the rifts," she replied. "I've felt the threads slip, the weave unravel. Have you left your throne to witness it, or do you trust your scrolls over the screams of the dying?"
The man's smile faded; he sank back into silence. Another voice spoke, this one softer, from a woman in a silver veil. "You speak of rifts," she said, "but the Stable Weaving holds. The Order protects Eryndral, as it always has."
"Does it?" Kaelith said, her voice rising. "The rifts grow larger, more frequent. Last season, a village vanished—swallowed whole—while your Weaving flickered. I was there, tending the wounded, when your crystals failed. Tell me, how long will your protection last?"
The woman hesitated, her fingers tightening on her staff. Myrith stepped forward, her presence a storm of authority. "Your words are a plague," she said. "The Conclave has heard enough. Kaelith Varn, you are stripped of your rank, your title, your connection to the Tapestry. You are exiled to the Hollowed Waste; let your heresies rot there."
Kaelith's stomach twisted, but she held her ground. "Exile me," she said, "but the rifts won't stop. The truth won't fade. One day, you'll face what you've buried."
Myrith's eyes glinted behind her veil. "Take her," she ordered.
Two guards in crystal armor seized Kaelith, dragging her from the plaza. The crowd parted, their faces a blur of fear, scorn, and—here and there—flickers of doubt. She clung to those flickers, a lifeline in the storm.
The guards hauled her through Vaeloria's streets, the city's crystal lanterns casting a pale glow over ice-slick stones. The air carried the scent of frost and incense, mingling with the faint hum of Stable Weaving that pulsed through the cathedral-city. Towering spires of translucent stone rose around her, their tips lost in the clouds; beneath them, commoners huddled in doorways, their eyes wide with curiosity and dread.
"Where are you taking me?" Kaelith asked, her voice rough from the cold.
"To the gates," one guard grunted, his grip tightening. "Then you're the Waste's problem."
She stumbled, her boots slipping on the ice. "The Waste," she said, half to herself. "You think it'll silence me?"
The other guard snorted. "It silences everyone, heretic. No one comes back."
Kaelith glanced at the people watching her pass. A woman clutched a child, her face gaunt with hunger; a man with a scarred arm stared, his expression unreadable. She wanted to call out to them, to tell them the Order's lies were failing, that the Tapestry's collapse was real. But the guards' pace quickened, pulling her toward the city's edge.
The gates loomed ahead: massive slabs of crystal etched with Weaver runes, glowing faintly with protective Weaving. Beyond them stretched the tundra, a white void under a sky of iron gray. The guards unshackled her, shoving her forward. "Walk," the first growled, "and don't look back."
Kaelith caught herself, her hands sinking into the snow. She rose, her breath clouding in the freezing air, and turned to face them. "You'll see me again," she said, her voice low. "When the rifts reach your gates, you'll wish you'd listened."
The gates slammed shut, their clang a final severance. She was alone.
Kaelith trudged through the tundra, her pack—flint, waterskin, dagger, and the hidden Codex page—slapping against her hip with each step. The wind bit at her exposed skin, but her mind drifted to warmer days, to the Order that had once been her home.
She remembered her initiation, standing in the Cathedral of Veils as Elder Thalos placed a crystal shard in her hands. The Tapestry's threads had flared to life around her, their warmth and light filling her with wonder. "You're gifted, Kaelith," Thalos had said, his voice gentle. "The threads bend to your will, but they demand respect. We serve the balance, not our desires."
"I'll serve," she had replied, her heart swelling with purpose. "I'll protect Eryndral, like the Weavers did."
Thalos had smiled, his eyes crinkling. "Good. The Tapestry is our shield, our legacy. Never forget that."
She hadn't forgotten, but the shield had cracks. It began with whispers: acolytes speaking of rifts in hushed tones, of Stable Weaving faltering. Then came the day she found the Codex, hidden in the archives behind a false panel. Its pages, brittle and yellowed, told a story the Order denied: the First Shatter, the Weavers' sacrifice, and a hint that they lingered, their essence trapped beyond the Tapestry.
Kaelith had confronted Thalos, her voice trembling with urgency. "Elder, the Codex says the Weavers might return," she had said, holding the torn page. "It mentions a heart, a way to mend the rifts. Why do we hide this?"
Thalos's face had paled, his hands shaking as he took the page. "Kaelith, you don't understand," he had whispered. "The Conclave forbids this knowledge. It's heresy; it undermines everything we've built."
"But the rifts—" she had protested.
"Are a test of faith," he had cut in. "Promise me you'll destroy this, say nothing. They'll kill you if they find out."
She hadn't promised. Instead, she had kept searching, driven by the screams she'd heard at the rift-torn village, by the failure of the Order's rituals. Thalos had tried to shield her, but her defiance had led her here: exiled, alone, with only a shard and a page to guide her.
Hours bled into a haze of wind and snow. Kaelith's fingers brushed the Codex page in her cloak, its warmth a faint comfort; the shard sewn into her hem pulsed, a heartbeat against the cold. She didn't know its purpose, but it had called to her in the vaults, its energy strange and alive.
The ground trembled.
Kaelith froze, her breath catching. Snow cracked before her, a jagged line splitting the earth; blue light poured from the fissure, its hum a scream that clawed at her mind. A rift. She stumbled back, heart racing, as the tear widened, birthing a creature of nightmare: crystalline spikes formed its body, shifting like a shattered mirror, its eyes glowing with hunger.
"Who's there?" she shouted, her voice lost in the wind. The beast answered with a roar, lunging at her.
Kaelith reached for the Tapestry, her mind tracing its threads. "Hold," she said, light flaring from her hands into a shimmering barrier. The creature's claws struck, screeching against her shield; each blow weakened her, her focus fraying like the weave itself.
"Why won't you die?" she gasped, sweat beading on her brow despite the cold. The shard pulsed hotter, its energy flooding her veins. She channeled it, her barrier blazing brighter; the beast recoiled, shrieking, then shattered into fragments that sank back into the rift. The fissure snapped shut, leaving a scar in the snow.
Kaelith fell to her knees, gasping. "What was that?" she murmured, touching the shard through her cloak. Its warmth lingered, alien, powerful. She stood, legs trembling, and stared at the horizon. The Hollowed Waste loomed ahead, a place of legend and terror. The Codex promised a heart there, a chance to mend the Tapestry. She would find it—not for the Order, but for the truth, for the people she'd vowed to save.
As she walked, the wind carried faint voices—memories, perhaps, or echoes of Vaeloria. She recalled a conversation overheard weeks before her trial, two acolytes whispering in the cathedral's shadow.
"The commoners are restless," one had said. "They say the Order hoards crystals while their homes crumble."
"Let them grumble," the other had replied. "The Tapestry protects us, not them."
Kaelith's jaw tightened. The Order's arrogance had blinded them; the rifts spared no one, noble or common. She wondered if those acolytes still believed their words, or if doubt had taken root.
Ahead, the tundra stretched vast and unforgiving. She pressed on, the shard's pulse her guide, the Tapestry's fraying song her companion. The Waste awaited, and with it, answers—or oblivion.