Chapter 15 – The Storm Between Shadows
The wind had changed in Tenggirang. It no longer whispered gently through the tall grasses or caressed the tips of the sacred trees; it howled with a coldness that felt ancient, as if the land itself remembered a betrayal yet to come. Mubali stood at the edge of the spiraling cliffs, her gaze sweeping across the pale horizon. Behind her, the shrine of the Silent Root lay in ruins, smoldering from the remnants of the battle that had torn through it just hours earlier. Blood—both mortal and spectral—still lingered on the stones.
Wira emerged from the smoke, limping slightly, his sword dragging behind him like a limb too tired to lift. His eyes were sunken, not from pain, but from something deeper: doubt. He had followed Mubali for years, through fields of fire and floods of ash, but now, something in him was breaking.
"She's not done," he said hoarsely, gesturing to the shattered horizon where clouds twisted unnaturally in the sky. "Lera's still out there."
Mubali didn't respond at first. Her hand reached down to the earth, fingers curling around the blackened soil. She could still feel the hum—weak but persistent—the rhythmic beat of the Ashmouth far beneath them. A signal. A warning. A pulse.
"She never stopped," Mubali replied. "Even when we silenced her voice, her will found new mouths."
A small figure approached, light on her feet but solemn in her stride. Tamri. The girl-seer with eyes that flickered like dying stars. She stood between them, clutching a bone charm in her small hands.
"She dreams again," Tamri whispered, eyes wide. "The Hollow Weaver. She's angry."
Wira exhaled sharply. "That's impossible. We sealed her thread. Seka said—"
"Seka's gone," Mubali interrupted, her voice sharper than intended. "And we only sealed a fragment."
Tamri lifted her head, face pale and distant, as if listening to something far away. "She wants to return through the gateway of despair. She said the Veil is thinner now, because someone called her."
Mubali's heart sank. She remembered the ancient prophecy etched into the rootstones: When the desperate whisper into shadow, the shadow becomes voice. Somewhere, someone had cried out to the Hollow Weaver. And that voice had opened the door.
That night, beneath the canopy of twisted stars, Mubali gathered the remnants of their fellowship. They were fewer now—many lost in the sandstorms of Khatra, others broken by the mind-warping echoes of the Root's betrayal. Only four remained: Wira, ever the silent sentinel; Tamri, seer of dreams and echoes; Neyla, the wind-binder whose wings had been scorched by Lera's last strike; and herself.
"The Eye is no longer blind," Mubali said quietly. "It sees us. All of us. Even in hiding."
They had no choice but to move. Staying meant waiting for death or something worse.
Their path took them through the Vale of Threads, where ancient spirits once weaved destiny into silk and song. Now it was silent, the looms shattered, their threads unraveled into dust. As they passed, ghostly silhouettes watched them from the corner of their eyes—figures flickering in and out of view, wearing faces that resembled their own.
Tamri clung tightly to Mubali's side. "They mimic to remember. But they forget too easily. And then… they become hungry."
Wira raised his blade each time one got too close. But none attacked. Not yet.
At the heart of the vale stood the Mirror Tree—a monument grown from bark and bone, whose reflective leaves showed not the viewer's face, but the face of their truest regret. Mubali approached it hesitantly, her fingers brushing one of the low-hanging branches.
In the reflection, she saw herself—not as she was, but as she could have been. Younger. Innocent. Standing beside Lera, not across from her. Laughing, not fighting.
She pulled her hand away.
Behind her, Neyla collapsed.
They rushed to her side. Her skin was cold, and her eyes had rolled back, but her mouth moved.
"She's… inside the roots… she's waiting…"
Mubali looked down. Tiny threads of ash had crept from the tree's roots, coiling around Neyla's limbs like serpents.
"We have to move," Mubali said, voice trembling. "This place wants us to remember. And remembering too long here will devour us."
They carried Neyla between them, racing past fields of forgotten bone, across bridges of lightning and thorn, until the air grew still again.
At last, they reached the Hollow Step—an ancient staircase carved into a mountainside that spiraled downward into the dark. The stories said it led to the Veil, where souls and secrets intertwined, where time grew thin and truth grew sharp.
They descended in silence.
As they went deeper, the air grew colder, not in temperature, but in memory. They felt every lost moment press against them: mistakes they hadn't made, choices they almost did, lives unlived but somehow real.
At the final step, they reached a door.
It was simple, wooden, bound in rusted iron. But it pulsed with life.
Wira stepped forward. "If she's through there…"
Mubali nodded. "We face her. Or we fall."
Tamri raised the bone charm. "She waits."
The door opened without a touch.
Beyond it, nothing. Just black.
And then a voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"I waited for you."
Lera stepped from the dark, her body intact, but her eyes hollow. She no longer wore anger like armor—instead, she wore stillness, as if even rage had given up on her.
"I only wanted us to fix the world," she said quietly. "You wanted compromise. I wanted purity."
"You wanted control," Mubali said, drawing her blade.
Lera raised a hand. "I was wrong."
Silence.
And then—
"No. You're lying," Tamri whispered.
The girl pointed behind Lera, where the darkness shimmered.
Something else moved.
The Hollow Weaver.
It stepped forward, tall and faceless, woven from thread, bone, and longing. It had no eyes, only mouths that whispered endless regrets. Its presence warped the air.
Lera turned, terrified. "No—she wasn't supposed to—"
But the Weaver wrapped her in silence.
And then it turned to the others.
"I remember you," it whispered in a thousand voices. "You are woven into my hunger."
Mubali felt her knees weaken. Wira stepped forward, but the creature didn't attack. It simply waited.
"Why show yourself now?" Mubali asked.
"Because you carry the thread of ruin," the Weaver said. "The Bone Compass shattered. The Ashmouth stirs. You seek salvation. I offer clarity."
"What do you want?" Wira growled.
"Nothing. I am not want. I am what follows."
The Weaver began to unravel.
Its body split into strands, each carrying memory and shadow. As it dispersed, the chamber began to collapse. Stones cracked. Roots burst through the ground.
"Go!" Mubali screamed.
They ran, dragging Neyla, clutching Tamri, racing up the Hollow Step as the Veil trembled behind them.
At the top, the door slammed shut.
Only silence remained.
Neyla stirred.
Wira dropped to the ground, exhausted.
Mubali turned to the horizon.
Dark clouds gathered again.
The Eye had seen.
The Hollow Weaver remembered.
And the war was far from over.