Lifeweaver: The Mage Without Flame

Eryndor woke in stillness so absolute that Sylven seemed to be holding his breath. The shattered stone of the Mirror Spire loomed above him, its shattered glass scattering shards of sky and root in a kaleidoscope of shining fragments. Each fragment glinted like a wound, a reminder of what had been rent asunder, and what was left to mend.

Sylrae followed him, crafting her mapping leather scroll with trembling fingers. Moonlight broke across ceiling fissures to reveal vines curled inward as if they scratched toward the gentle green heartbeat glowing from Eryndor's flesh.

They stood in the sanctum—a hall of crystal-arched circles. There were stagnant pools of water before them, each a glassy eye staring accusingly at them. Behind, spiral stairs unwound into darkness, beckoning and warning. There was something here that spoke of half-forgotten magic and abandoned altars.

Sylrae closed her eyes. "'Beyond the Spire' is a path to convergence," she breathed. "Where the three Awakened may meet—or be sundered."

Eryndor rose, releasing Sylven from the tangle in his arm. The wolf had picked up his scent and nuzzled him with expectation. He lowered himself to greet his glare: firm amber eyes full of faith.

He swallowed hard. "We rest no longer. We have to go."

Sylrae nodded. "Your healing pulse still lingers. But before long, the Vale will see your threads as claim—others will copy."

He set his jaw. "Let them."

She sighed, then stood. "The steps go up first… to the Skycourt. A place where memory aligns with wind. Then—after that—the Rooted Vault. A repository of Spiral lore. And then, the Conflux Bridge.".

Eryndor followed her up the twisting staircase. Each step clanged with tiny creaks, overlaid with the soft thrum of life's vibration embroidered beneath the vines. Roots entwined among broken tiles, passing on flares of energy that tickled his senses.

Higher up, the Skycourt at last unfolded: a circular balcony over the Vale's mirrored woods. The canopy unrolled in reverse beneath their feet, inverted roots reaching for the sky, branches trailing like the silent homilies. Blue firelight swirled through the air; a wind that was a taste of a sigh from somewhere old.

Sylrae reached out to the rail. "If you glance from here, you can see where reality and reflection get blurry. Take a look once."

Eryndor approached. Looking out, he saw the sky overhead bright, but turned upside down. Clouds flowed like rivers overhead. Brief lights strobed beneath the inverted canopy, like fireflies strobing in the root-net.

He closed his eyes.

He felt then the veil between realms shift—his thread bound to both. He felt the longing within him—Lysira's sigh, the elder twin's call, the Heartwood's pulse.

Outside the spire crests, a distant radiance—green and hopeful—called to him.

Sylrae's tone mellowed: "The Mirror Vale sings contracts. It asks for reflection—and then makes sacrifices."

He clung to himself. "I will not be sacrificed."

She regarded him. "Some willingly offer themselves."

He gulped.

Behind them was a groaning creak.

They whirled together for the stairs, only to see the conduit bridge across the court recoil loose from its base supports. A whirling whirlpool of vines lashed upwards, wringing around Carved Runes that moved towards the central basin—and then falling away to ignite the ceiling along them in shining cracks.

Sylrae hissed, drawing out her blades.

Eryndor steeled himself. "Stay close."

Sylven growled as shadow-light burst behind them. They sprinted down the stairs.

But when they reached the lower hall, the pools of water shifted into flowing mirrors. Doors of glass shattered into root-shards that jammed the steps.

Their exit had vanished.

Above, the vines across the ceiling writhed, gesturing like guiding tendrils.

Eryndor's heart pounded.

Sylrae's nerves twitched. "We're not being barred in," she gasped. "We're being channeled deeper."

Deeper still, the spire's roots—tangled and long—unwound into halls that never were. A soft thrum hummed outward to welcome them.

Moments before, they had made up their minds. Now the Vale made up their minds for them.

Sylven yapped sharply at someone emerging out of the darkness: Lysira, passing through rippled air like a ghost. Vines twined about her fingers, petals drifting like ash behind her. Her face was calm—knowing—and miserably sad.

She opened her mouth wide.

And the walls behind her reflected—bursting into pale haze as reflected selves coalesced into a circle of glinting faces: Figures in robes of root, flame, and void. Scars on reflection indelible by power and memory.

Eryndor's stomach roiled.

Lysira whispered, "They're waiting."

The circle of reflected figures lifted their hands as one, fingers glinting with green-gold fire. Their chant rang not in words, but memory.

"By the Spiral's chord and the Lifeweaver's root. We call you home."

And when their light climbed high, the mirrored walls shattered on Eryndor and Sylrae, opening out into a deeper corridor.

One that hummed with promise and with peril.

The passageway beyond radiated wet light, a living tube formed of root and reflected light, stitched with gentle pulsing of bioluminescent green. It bent impossibly down and sideways, as if space itself were bending around a heartbeat.

Eryndor approached slowly. The chant that had shattered the chamber still echoed faintly behind him, though the ring of bodies was no longer there. Only Lysira remained behind—rigid, silent.

"Are they alive?" he breathed, not knowing if he still had a voice.

Sylrae didn't respond right away. Her hand lingered at the hilt of her dagger, but she trailed along. "Echoes. Memories and rootlight constructs. Perhaps once living. Perhaps still, in part."

The walls of the passageway quaked at his tread, responding to his breathing, to his steps, as if the tunnel knew him. Vines unwound where he looked, curling into flowering shape—old sigils, remembered half-symbols of his childhood studies.

"They've been staring at me," he growled.

Sylrae nodded in agreement. "This place does not just hold memory—it lives on it."

"Then why do they desire it?" Eryndor asked.

"They require you to know who you are first, before you can determine who you will be."

Before them, at the end of the tunnel, a veil of clear root filaments closed off their passage. Sylven stepped forward, sniffing at it, eyes and ears on guard. The filaments throbbed with the contact. As Eryndor extended his hand, the veil parted, strands uncoiling in sweet, sighing spirals.

Beyond lay a vast vault—circular, domed, with vines creeping into huge shelves and alcoves. Glowing glyphs danced on all walls, each its own script, one which Eryndor somehow understood.

Sylrae stepped forward in wonder. "The Rooted Vault. Heart of learning, Spiral's."

Eryndor's eyes widened. The ceiling above spun like a chart of constellations, seething with light seeds that whirled in time to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

This is a room of remembrance," Sylrae explained, walking beneath the shifting star-chart. "Every Weaver who ever awoke here left something behind. A splinter of truth. A choice. A betrayal. A question. It waits for the next."

He followed her into the middle, where a podium of twisted roots lay. On top of it was a vial, suspended in amber filaments. In it glowed a single globule of fluid life—a splinter of raw power unbound to an element.

Eryndor's hand shook. "That's familiar."

Sylrae's eyes narrowed. "It's reaching for you."

He reached out. The filaments around the vial drew back a little as he approached, then turned green, easing.

When he stroked it, heat flared over his palm. Not burns, but fire. It stabbed his chest, through to his heartstone.

And suddenly he saw—

Echoes of memory that weren't his. Mages burning-eyed. Weavers spinning mad. Frenzied destruction of the woods. A boy like him, speechless, shaking on a ritual slab.

Then—her. A maiden with a staff bowed in curved form, eyes ringed in glimmering teal, holding up a mirror and not looking away.

He took a quick breath and released the vial. Sylrae caught it just in time.

"That was a Lifeweaver," she spoke softly. "One who rejected flame. Who lived regardless."

He stared at her.

"There have been others."

She nodded. "Few. Not often. But the Spiral remembers."

The vault bucked again. Sylven snarled softly. Another corridor groaned open in the opposite side, down, into deeper root, darker place.

The earth beneath their feet trembled once—twice.

And then—

A shriek was heard from beyond that new corridor. Thin, splintered, and quite clearly human.

Eryndor's blood froze. "That was—"

"Not an echo," Sylrae finished uncompromisingly. "That was real."

They ran.

Down the curving path, where the walls curved inward and air thickened, like drawing in fog. The lights dwindled behind them as they entered a room more below than the root system should allow. In this room, the life force did not radiate—it clung.

The corridor dead-ended into a room pulsating with savage green. Vines crept up stone columns like bones around marrow. And in the center of the room—

A figure.

Bound in root. Hanging over the earth. Her hair lay in tangled curls, her robe ripped at the sleeves. Her chest struggled to go up and down. Blood spotted her mouth.

Sylrae cursed under her breath. "Another Weaver."

Eryndor strode ahead.

But as he approached her, the vines reacted—snapping shut, drawing the girl up. Her eyes flashed open, and he saw the glint there—the same strange light that flickered in his blood.

She grated a single word: "Help…"

Before he could reach her, the vines receded—

And a shadow erupted from the far wall.

Something ancient. Not beast. Not mage.

It bore no face—only a mirrored mask of shattered reflection.

The thing swept its arm, and light in the chamber arced toward it. Roots snapped. The prisoner shrieked.

Eryndor advanced, pounding heart—and his chest had green fire kindling within it, heartstone burning as if it had awakened for war.

Whatever this was. It recognized him.

And it bowed.

Eryndor stood ready as the masked beast, and vine-wrapped, scaly limbs clumsily dragging through the miasma of stagnant air. Its head tilted, greeting him wordlessly. Not an attack. Identification.

Sylven snarled softly; his amber eyes blazed with shared urgency. Stepping back one step, Eryndor moved toward the bound Weaver. Sylrae held a position between them, blades raised, every muscle straining.

It spoke, though not in words. A hum of vibration passed through the room, as if sound were unnecessary. In the vibration, grief, warning…anticipation.

"You are the Weaver returned," it echoed. The mirrored mask recalled itself and displayed not a face, but the reflection of Eryndor's heartstone, quivering and alive.

A tremor ran through the vault. Alcoves shattered. Roots parted. The captive shuddered as the bonds of vine holding her untied, hesitantly.

Eryndor held himself firm. "I am… not your enemy."

Sylrae waved toward the child. "Release her."

The masked being lowered its head. Vines unwound and lifted the Weaver gently, setting her on the mosaic floor. She gasped, light weak in her veins. Eryndor knelt, relief washing over him—but Sylrae kept watch.

"If you heal her…" the creature's form trembled, questioning.

Eryndor closed his eyes. He sensed her life-thread—a frayed strand grasping at a spark. He placed his hand on her chest and allowed the Spiral to flow—pulses of warmth spilling from his core, reconnecting her frayed edges to life's core weave.

The vampire glow in her eyes flickered back, green wings of light fluttering across her skin. She gasped a shuddering breath and coughed.

The hooded figure breathed as well, sitting roots uncoiling down its branches. It retreated into darkness, fleeing in all directions around the dais. The vaulted ceiling above them opened, then re-sealed, this time raining light down.

Eryndor leapt to his feet as the being vanished. Sylrae helped the Weaver up.

"You did it," she breathed, the words hardly more than a whisper.

The Weaver looked at Eryndor with thankfulness. "And you are the Lifeweaver who still lives with life," she gasped.

At the back of Eryndor, the vault leaned again: glass tusks and roots thrust up through the ceiling, smashing the spire dome. Glimmering moonlight poured in, illuminating a spiral staircase cut into the root.

Sylrae pointed. "That's the Conflux Bridge. The next doorway."

Eryndor looked at the Weaver. "Your name?"

She provided unsteady lips. "I am Fayra." Her words were raspy—fear and wonder running through them. "I should have located the core first… but I was bound. Now I have nothing but questions."

He nodded. "Then let's go ask them."

Sylrae assisted softly in having Fayra lead. Sylven padded ahead, interposing between them in guard.

They ascended the stairs, and each step was lighter, leaving winter behind in favor of starlight. Eryndor sensed the corridor fall into place. The Spiral below flavored their welcome.

And yet at the top, they found the Conflux Bridge shattered.

A never-ending abyss lay ahead of them—black space between root arches suspended by shattered light shards. Across it, a ribbon of mirror sky beckoned… and insects of luminescent dust drifted upstream like hope.

Sylrae's voice shook. "Only one can cross the bridge."

Eryndor staggered. "But there are three Awakened—now four."

Fayra faced him. Tears glittered in her lashes. "You'll have to go alone. Only the Lifeweaver can cross the Conflux without destroying it."

Eryndor exhaled, icy fear constricting his chest.

Sylven moved closer.

Sylrae stepped close. "I'll anchor here. If you slip—if something emerges—call out. I'll follow through on what I can."

Fayra placed a trembling hand on his forearm. "Don't let the mirror-world take you."

He swallowed. "I won't."

He stepped forward.

The rift glowed with night without depth, lit only by suspended motes of memory-dust. Heartstone burned brightly. Life weaved and vibrated along his spine, compelling him forward.

He stepped out onto the lip of the broken bridge.

One step.

Wind struck him, not of air, but of thought.

He listened to whispers: Fayra's fear, Sylrae's doubt, Lysira's longing.

They curled in and wove around him.

Eryndor gasped for air.

He stepped onto a broken path.

The shards of twisted root and spire lined up, suspended beneath his stride like stairways held together with song. He walked.

At every step, light and life were warped as one. Life stories howled by him; moments of choice, regret, and beginning.

Sylrae bellowed from the rock outcropping: "Make it count."

Then, mid-span, the ghost of the elder Eryndor previously appeared beneath his feet, grinning like a wreath of rusty vine.

Slowing, deliberately, the shadow lifted one hand.

"Come join me."

 Eryndor froze. Sylven screamed in the back. He was in the center of the shattered bridge, Sturm of life whirling around him.

Below, the mirror sky broke apart. The elder's reflection beckoned him with a promise that resonated in Eryndor's bones.

"Join me," it repeated.

 His next step would decide not just his fate, but the fate of the Spiral itself