The fall of Saint Voril sent a ripple across the divine hierarchy.
For the first time since the Goddess returned, one of her chosen had failed—not to divine judgment, but to a mortal.
The Eye in the Sky dimmed.
Just for a moment.
But it was enough to change everything.
Aftermath in Ash
Mount Veridan still burned from the inside, not with flame but with residual will. Voril's essence had left a spiritual stain across the land, causing whispers to haunt the fog and shadows to flicker against logic.
Solenne spent hours in trance, undoing soul knots and unraveling silent curses. Caedra turned one of the mountain's cliffs into a ward-stone and branded it with celestial runes. Ren and Seris took turns patrolling.
Callan sat at the edge of the crater Voril had created in the final moments of their clash.
The sword rested beside him, humming softly like a beast digesting memory.
He whispered, "What do you want from me?"
The blade pulsed once.
"To remember."
Dreams of the Loom
Callan's sleep was no longer his own.
That night, he dreamt of a massive loom, suspended between stars, its threads made of light and soul. At the loom sat a woman with no face—only hands that moved with impossible grace.
Every thread she wove became fate.
Every one she snipped became loss.
She looked up at him without eyes.
And he felt her speak.
"You cut what I weave."
"You threaten what must be."
Callan awoke with blood on his hands—not his own.
And in the distance, to the east, the sky turned silver.
Saint Elasha Approaches
Reports arrived from five provinces simultaneously.
Rain falling upward.
Children speaking in prophetic tongues.
Soldiers forgetting how to hold weapons.
In each case, the land remained untouched—but the minds of its people were unraveled.
Saint Elasha had entered the theater.
Known as the Weaver of Grace, she was not a warrior. She was a concept. She didn't kill. She removed—memories, abilities, even names.
Solenne read the records aloud in disbelief. "She unstitched a mage mid-spell. He forgot what fire was."
Seris cursed. "You can't fight someone who can erase your will."
Caedra added grimly, "Unless your will's been burned into you."
All eyes turned to Callan.
And the blade that never stopped screaming.
Memory as a Weapon
Callan began to experiment.
With Seris's help, he focused on turning the sword's memory-scars outward—flashing moments of past pain at incoming threats. When tested on an enchanted puppet, it reeled and collapsed, overwhelmed by visions not its own.
"It's not mind magic," Solenne observed. "It's deeper. It's... soul-burn."
Caedra frowned. "She weaves with grace. You're going to fight her with trauma."
Callan didn't smile.
"Grace only works when the fabric's still whole."
Infiltration
They moved fast.
Saint Elasha had established her domain in the Silver Basilica—an ancient monastery repurposed into a sanctified prism. Anyone who stepped within a mile of its border felt "lighter," as if their worries and identity were being peeled away.
Ren led the infiltration team. The Shadeborn used masks made of dreamroot bark—designed to contain the self. Solenne crafted mental anchors to tie each scout to a core memory. Caedra's fire runes pulsed at their backs to offer constant orientation.
Callan walked alone, unmasked.
Because he had no intention of returning the same.
Inside the Basilica
The halls were impossibly bright.
So bright that shadows bent wrong, as if the light had memory and knew what came next. Monks—once human, now serene shells—walked in silence. They smiled at Callan, as if they'd known him forever.
"Welcome home."
He kept walking.
The sword throbbed louder with every step.
Until finally, at the basilica's center, he found her.
Saint Elasha.
She sat at the loom of dreams—the very same from his vision. Her face was soft. Ageless. Gentle. A mother, a sister, a weaver of peace.
"Child of Ash," she said without voice. "Why do you carry knives into peace?"
Callan answered, "Because your peace costs choice."
She smiled.
And the duel began.
The Battle of Thread and Flame
It was not a clash of swords.
It was a battle of truths.
Elasha pulled memories from Callan's mind—his first wound, the betrayal of his old friend Varien, the death of his mentor. She twisted them into threads and tried to rewrite his reactions.
He resisted with fire.
Not to destroy—but to remember.
He let the blade scream not in rage but in grief. Each time Elasha tried to calm his fury, he showed her why it existed.
He showed her Draeven's fall.
The genocide of the old world.
The lies of the divine.
And for a moment—just a moment—her hands shook.
That was all he needed.
The sword cut the loom.
And Elasha collapsed, gasping, her memories crashing in on her.
A Moment of Clarity
Callan knelt beside her.
She wept—not from pain, but from feeling.
"I didn't know," she whispered. "They said we were healing the world..."
He looked her in the eyes.
"You were silencing it."
She touched his face—soft, tender.
"Then scream, Ashbearer. Scream until the stars break."
And with a final breath, she vanished—threads unraveling into silver mist.
The Loom Burns
As the team escaped the Basilica, it began to collapse—not with thunder or explosion, but with silence.
The fabric of "grace" shredded. The people under Elasha's domain awoke confused, sobbing, free.
Solenne healed dozens of psychic scars.
Seris ensured no assassins lurked.
Caedra burned away lingering spirit traps.
And Callan?
He stood in the ashes of the loom, sword still in hand, and whispered to the skies:
"One left."
Saint Merion.
The Sunblade.
The Champion.
And he was already waiting.