The battlefield lay beneath a sulfurous sky, the air thick with the stench of scorched earth and iron. Smoke curled from the carcasses of Thornmarch soldiers, their thorned armor reduced to smoldering husks. Kael knelt in the mud, his shadow-blade trembling in his grip, its obsidian edge slick with ichor. The remnants of the Thorned King's crown lay shattered at his feet, its fragments oozing a viscous, iridescent fluid that hissed as it seeped into the soil like a serpent retreating to its den. Elara stood beside him, her form flickering like a guttering candle. Her teal eyes, once luminous, now dimmed to the pallor of fogged glass.
"It's done," she whispered, her voice hollow. The Veil's threads, once radiant, now hung frayed and gray around her shoulders, unraveling with every labored breath.
Veyra crouched nearby, her golden flames reduced to sputtering embers. She prodded a charred root with her boot, her scars glowing faintly under the ash-streaked light. "For now," she muttered, her voice raw. "The rot's still here. Just… quieter. Like it's holding its breath."
Sorin knelt beside a puddle of sludge, his dagger scraping a fragment of the crown. The metal screamed, releasing a plume of acrid smoke. "Quiet's worse. Means it's planning something." His gaze flicked to Kael, sharp as a blade. "You feel it too, don't you? That itch under your skin."
Kael's jaw tightened. The shadow in his chest stirred, a dormant serpent uncoiling. "Not planning," the Thorned Prince whispered, his voice silk-thin. "Waiting. For you."
...
They retreated to a derelict chapel on the forest's edge, its stone walls choked by ivy and its roof sagging under centuries of neglect. The stained-glass windows, cracked and grime-coated, depicted a weeping saint crowned in thorns, her hands outstretched as if begging for mercy. The altar, once polished marble, was now stained with candle wax and dried blood. Veyra lit a fire in the hearth, the flames licking reluctantly at damp wood, their light casting jagged shadows over peeling frescoes of forgotten gods.
Elara slumped against the altar, her translucent fingers brushing the Veil's threads. They pulsed faintly, like a dying heartbeat. "I can't hold it much longer," she admitted, her voice trembling. "The Veil… it's not just collapsing. It's unraveling. Every thread I grasp slips away."
Kael paced the nave, his shadow-blade humming in restless arcs. "There has to be another anchor. Another way to mend it."
Sorin tossed a pouch of crushed herbs into the fire. The smoke coiled into shapes—serpents, thorns, a woman's face contorted in a scream. "The First Weaver's temple. If her crown was the key, maybe her bones are the lock. Bury the rot with her."
Veyra stiffened, her flames flaring. "You want to dig up a corpse? That's your brilliant plan?"
"Got a better one, Pyre?" Sorin's smirk didn't reach his eyes.
"Don't. Call. Me. That." The fire roared, Veyra's scars igniting like molten veins.
"..."
The temple loomed at the heart of the blight, its arches strangled by thorned vines that pulsed like living veins. The air hummed with a dissonant choir—whispers of the dead, the creak of roots, the drip of ichor. Elara's pendant glowed faintly, casting teal light over the path ahead, where the earth writhed as if breathing.
"Cheerful place," Sorin muttered, slicing through a curtain of fungus that wept black tears. "Smells like a tavern after last call."
Kael's shadow-blade hummed, its edge parting rotted flesh walls that shuddered at his touch. The Thorned Prince's voice coiled around his thoughts. "She led you here to die. How poetic."
Shut up, Kael thought, cleaving a root that bled thick, syrupy liquid.
"You know it's true. The Veil's crumbling. She's already half-gone. Why cling to a ghost?"
Elara stumbled, her hand passing through a moss-covered pillar. "Here."
The chamber beyond was a tomb. The First Weaver's skeleton lay atop a stone slab, her bones fused with thorned roots that burrowed into the rock. Her skull, crowned in rusted iron, tilted as if watching them. At her feet rested a journal, its pages brittle but intact, the ink shimmering like liquid night.
Veyra reached for it, but Sorin caught her wrist. "Don't. Cursed things, Weaver journals. Burned my sister's fingers off when she touched one."
Elara's translucent fingers brushed the pages. The ink writhed, rearranging into a warning: "The rot is a mirror. It shows us what we fear… and what we crave."
"..."
Night fell, thick and suffocating, the temple walls throbbing like a heartbeat. Kael stood guard at the entrance, the shadow-blade cold against his palms. The Thorned Prince materialized from the gloom, his antlers dripping venom that sizzled on the stone. "You're wasting time. Let me show you the truth."
"No more games," Kael growled.
The Prince smiled. "As you wish."
The vision struck like a blade.
Kael stood in a sunlit field, wildflowers swaying in a breeze that carried the scent of honey and pine. Elara laughed beside him, her hair untainted by teal streaks, her skin glowing with life. Veyra and Sorin sparred by a crackling fire, their banter warm, unburdened. The village thrived in the distance, smoke curling from chimneys, children's laughter echoing. Then shadows surged—the Thorned King, the Mother, the Unseen—tearing through the idyll. Elara screamed, dissolving into starlight. Veyra burned, her golden flames snuffed. Sorin fell, his dagger shattered. Kael stood alone, the crown in his hands, its thorns biting into his flesh.
"This is your future," the Prince whispered, his voice a lover's caress. "Unless you act."
Kael wrenched free, gasping. The temple walls pulsed, roots squirming like awakened serpents.
...
The rot attacked at dawn.
It came as a living storm—a tide of thorns and teeth, shapeless and ravenous. Elara's threads wove a shield of starlight, but the Veil's weakness left gaps. A tendril lashed Veyra's arm, her blood sizzling gold as it struck the rot.
"Get to the bones!" Sorin shouted, hurling a vial that exploded in a burst of acrid smoke. The swarm recoiled, shrieking.
Kael fought toward the First Weaver's tomb, the shadow-blade a whirlwind of fury. The Prince's voice urged him on. "Take the crown. Remake it!"
Elara's hand gripped his, solid for a heartbeat. "Don't. Please."
The rot surged, swallowing the chamber in a cacophony of screeches.
"..."
Veyra reached the skeleton first. Her flames ignited the roots, the fire spreading golden and relentless. The First Weaver's bones glowed, her voice echoing from the ash.
"The crown cannot be destroyed. Only transferred. Will you bear it, child of embers?"
Veyra hesitated, her scars burning. "What happens if I do?"
"You become the rot's keeper. Its prison… and its prize."
Sorin grabbed her arm. "Don't you dare. We'll find another way."
Elara's threads faltered, the shield collapsing. The rot closed in, thorns snapping like jaws.
Kael raised the shadow-blade. "Do it!"
...
Veyra's flames fused the crown's fragments, molten gold and rot intertwining in a searing helix. The temple shook, the First Weaver's bones crumbling to dust. The crown settled on Veyra's brow, thorns biting into her skin. Her eyes blazed gold, flames erupting in a cyclone that devoured the rot.
The swarm recoiled, screeching as it dissolved into ash.
Elara collapsed, the Veil's threads snapping. Kael caught her, her form barely tangible.
The Thorned Prince laughed. "A new queen rises. How… predictable."
"..."
In the chapel, Veyra stared into the fire, the crown's weight a constant ache. Her scars pulsed with every flicker of the flames.
"How long?" Sorin asked, sharpening his dagger with deliberate slowness.
"As long as it takes," she said, her voice hollow.
Elara slept fitfully on a pew, her dreams filled with unraveling stars and distant screams.
Kael stood watch at the door, the shadow-blade humming. The Prince's voice lingered, a poison in his veins.
"Your turn will come, little king. And you'll beg for my help."
Outside, the rot stirred, patient and hungry.