Veilstrum

The wind carried a biting chill as Arkan trudged forward, his legs dragging against the weight of exhaustion. Each step sent a jolt of pain through his body, his wounds a grim reminder of the battle he barely survived. His right arm hung limp at his side, his knuckles bloodied, and his breathing came in shallow gasps. The shard, cradled weakly in his left hand, had dimmed to a faint glow, as if its power was barely holding on—just like him.

Ash coated his boots as he stumbled into what remained of an abandoned village. The buildings, worn down by time and neglect, leaned precariously, their roofs caving under years of disrepair. Overgrown vines strangled what little life the place had left, and the eerie silence pressed on his ears like a weight. It reminded him too much of home—of what he'd lost.

Arkan stopped in the middle of the desolate path, clutching his side where blood had soaked through his tattered shirt. His knees buckled, and he collapsed against a crumbling wall.

"I can't…" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper. "I can't keep this up."

The shard pulsed faintly in his palm, as if rejecting his surrender. Its light flickered weakly, and for a moment, Arkan thought he heard the faint echo of a voice—his own voice—urging him forward.

His grip tightened around the shard. "Why?" he spat, his voice cracking. "Why won't you just let me go? Why did you choose me?!"

No answer came, only the cold silence of the village and the faint pulse of the shard.

Pushing himself to his feet, Arkan staggered forward, leaning heavily against the wall for support. His gaze darted around the village, searching for anything—food, water, shelter. But it was a dead place, lifeless and forgotten.

Then, a faint hum caught his attention.

The shard pulsed again, its light flickering erratically. Arkan froze, following its faint glow as it pointed him toward the center of the village. There, half-buried under rubble, stood an ancient well. The stone was cracked and weathered, but as Arkan approached, he noticed intricate patterns etched into its surface—patterns that resembled threads converging into spirals, just like the ones he had woven during the battle.

The shard grew warmer in his hand, and its light illuminated a small symbol near the base of the well—a Weaver's mark.

With trembling hands, Arkan brushed away the dirt and ash, revealing a hidden compartment carved into the stone. He hesitated, his heart pounding. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled it open.

Inside lay a weathered, leather-bound journal. Its cover was cracked and faded, but the Weaver's mark was etched clearly on the front. As Arkan opened it, a small piece of cloth slipped out, bearing an emblem—a crescent moon surrounded by stars.

"The Kingdom of Lyraeth," Arkan murmured, recognizing the symbol from old tales.

He flipped through the journal's brittle pages, scanning the notes scrawled in a hurried, desperate hand. The entries were fragmented, but they painted a grim picture:

"The Fracturing worsens… Nullus grows stronger… The Source Core remains unstable…"

"The First Weaver failed to stop him. The artifacts are all that remain…"

"The Nexus Collective… a chance, perhaps. But the price…"

Arkan's blood ran cold as he read the final line on the last legible page:

"To wield the shard is to carry the burden of balance—and destruction."

Arkan's mind raced. The journal confirmed what he had feared: the shard wasn't just a fragment of power—it was tied to the Source Core itself, the very essence of creation. And if Nullus wanted it, then it must be capable of more than he could comprehend.

A faint sound pulled him from his thoughts—a whisper on the wind. He looked up, scanning the village, but nothing moved.

"...Still alive… but for how long…?"

The voice sent a chill down his spine. It wasn't the shard's voice. This was different—hollow and mocking.

The shard flared suddenly, warning him. The oppressive presence of Nullborn seeped into the air, a suffocating weight that made Arkan's skin crawl. He turned, his eyes widening as shadows emerged from the edges of the village, their distorted forms flickering like broken reflections.

There were more of them this time—at least a dozen Nullborn, their glowing green eyes fixed on him. Arkan's heart pounded as they advanced, their hisses filling the air like static.

The shard pulsed weakly in his hand, its light flickering in and out. Arkan gritted his teeth. "Not now," he whispered. "Don't give up on me now."

The first Nullborn lunged, its claws slashing toward him. Arkan barely dodged, stumbling over rubble as he tried to weave. Threads of light sparked to life in his hand, but they fizzled out before forming fully.

"I can't… I can't do this," he muttered, panic clawing at his chest.

The shard's voice returned, sharp and commanding: "Stand. Fight. Survive."

Arkan's grip tightened. "I'm trying!"

The next Nullborn struck, and this time, Arkan managed to weave a thread of light just in time. It sliced through the creature, sending it dissolving into ash. But the effort left him staggering, his vision blurring from exhaustion.

The others closed in, their movements faster, more coordinated. Arkan fought desperately, weaving unstable threads that shattered as quickly as they formed. His strikes grew weaker, his body trembling with every motion.

A Nullborn's claw slashed across his shoulder, and he cried out, falling to his knees. Blood dripped onto the dirt, mixing with the ash.

"Is this it?" the mocking voice returned. "Is this all the shard-bearer can do?"

Arkan's vision darkened. He clutched the shard, its light barely a flicker now. Memories of his hometown flashed through his mind—his mother's smile, his friends' laughter, all swallowed by Nullus's void.

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I won't die here. Not like this."

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Arkan wove a final thread—a brilliant, chaotic weave of light that exploded outward, engulfing the Nullborn.

When the light faded, Arkan collapsed, gasping for air. The village was silent once more, but the weight of the fight had left him broken.

As dawn broke, Arkan spotted smoke rising in the distance. A settlement—or perhaps a camp. It was faint, but it was hope.

Clutching the journal and the shard, he forced himself to his feet, every step a battle against the pain. His determination burned brighter than ever.

"I'll keep going," he whispered. "Until I find the answers. Until I stop him."

The shard pulsed faintly in response, and Arkan limped toward the horizon, leaving the ruins—and the echoes of his past—behind.