Darkness.
Not the kind that merely lacked light—but a depthless, suffocating void that swallowed even thought.
Auren floated somewhere between dream and death, the echo of the Shard's warning still ringing in his bones.
"You are not worthy…"
But who decided worth?
He clenched his fists. Not them. Not anymore.
Suddenly—light. Faint and silver, threading through the dark like veins. It shimmered across his vision and pulled him forward, as if tugged by something ancient and inevitable.
He landed—hard—on a smooth, black surface. But when he stood, the world around him was not the frozen chamber.
Instead, he stood in an empty space lit by glowing strands that stretched endlessly in all directions—some thin and trembling, others thick and pulsing with power.
A single voice cut through the silence:
"So… you finally arrived, Dream-Touched."
A woman stood ahead, barefoot atop the glowing web. She wore robes of starlight and shadow, and her eyes held galaxies.
Auren's breath caught. "Who are you?"
"I am the Weaver. And you…" She stepped closer, strands dancing at her feet. "…are unraveling."
Suddenly, the threads around Auren began to tremble. Some snapped. Others twisted into tight knots. Visions blurred around him—Kael shouting, Miera crying, the storm over Talven, the fire in the ruins of the Hollow Spire.
"Why are you showing me this?" he asked.
"Because every fate has a pattern. And yours is broken."
One thread snapped violently. Pain lanced through his head. He stumbled.
"Each Shard you claim bends your pattern. Changes the weave. You think you're gathering power, but power always costs."
Auren stared at his hands. They glowed faintly now. Not just with light—but with something… older. Deeper. It wasn't just power—it was memory.
"Then what do I do?" he whispered.
The Weaver smiled softly.
"You must choose. Will you stitch a new fate—or tear the old one apart?"
Suddenly, the vision shattered.
He gasped and jolted awake.
The icy cavern was gone. He now lay beside a dying campfire under open skies, stars swirling above like silent watchers. Miera sat nearby, watching him, silent as ever. Her eyes were red.
"How long was I out?" he croaked.
"Three days," she said quietly. "You wouldn't wake. The Shard vanished. But… something else stayed with you."
Auren touched his chest. A faint shimmer danced beneath his skin.
He remembered the threads. The choice. The Weaver.
And he knew: from here on, every step would reshape not just his fate—but the fate of the world itself.