The morning after the announcement dawned thick with frost.
Greyhart Village moved like a restless beast, its people stirring in hurried murmurs and brisk footsteps. Smoke coiled from chimneys. Windows opened and closed. Names were whispered, counted, and noted.
Thirteen to twenty. That was the age cut.
Those who didn't fall within it kept their distance, their faces pale and hollow-eyed, as if their guilt could summon misfortune upon them too.
Inside Zayn's home, the air was thick with silence.
He sat by the window, watching the fog roll over the hills beyond the cliffs, his dark Grimoire lying unopened on the table beside him. Its single page remained stubbornly blank, no matter how many times he'd tried to force it open again.
It just sat there.
Still. Waiting.
"You'll wear out your eyes staring like that," Maris muttered, bustling around the kitchen, packing small cloth bundles of bread and smoked meat. Her hands moved quickly, but her voice trembled beneath its usual steadiness.
"I'm not going to eat," Zayn mumbled.
"You will." Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and unyielding. "When we stop to rest, you'll eat. No arguments."
Darian entered, fastening his leather gauntlets, his sword strapped across his back.
"We leave by sundown," he announced. "Captain Lior from the east gate says the roads are still clear up to the Ruined Path."
"The Ruined Path?" Mira snorted from the corner, lacing her boots with quick, deft fingers. "Wonderful. Let's take the cursed road on the way to a death tournament."
"Not much choice," Darian muttered. "It's the fastest route."
"And after that?" Elsha asked softly, clutching her worn satchel to her chest.
Darian's face darkened. "We'll need help."
Silence stretched again.
Zayn felt it, that unspoken weight hovering in the room.
Help.
He already knew who they meant.
The Weaver.
"Is she really gonna help us?" Riven piped up from where he was crouched by the door, stuffing apples into his coat pockets.
Mira shot him a sharp glance. "You don't just ask for her help, idiot."
"But she's from here, right?" Riven's grin widened nervously. "She's one of us."
Maris sighed heavily, tying the last of the bundles. "She was."
That was all she said before gathering their things.
---
Later, Near Sunset…
The village watched in silence as Zayn's family walked toward the eastern cliffs, their bags slung over shoulders, blades strapped to belts.
Few dared meet their eyes.
Zayn could feel them, those stares burning through him.
Outcast.
Cursed.
Monster.
"Ignore them," Darian muttered under his breath as they walked. "They'll shut up once we come back with a squad crest."
"If we come back," Mira added darkly.
They reached the edge of the village—the place where cobblestones ended and dirt paths twisted through old trees, gnarled and blackened from long-ago fires.
There she stood.
The Weaver.
A tall woman wrapped in thick traveling robes of midnight blue, her face hidden behind a veil of thin silver thread. Long black hair fell past her shoulders, woven with small silver charms that jingled softly in the wind.
Her presence alone seemed to warp the air around her.
She turned her veiled face toward them slowly as they approached.
"You wish to cross the Ruined Path?" Her voice was soft and cold, like smoke curling through stone.
Darian nodded stiffly. "We'll pay."
"You'll pay," she agreed, tilting her head slightly. "But not with coin."
Zayn's heart sank.
This was what he'd feared.
"What do you want?" Garrick asked, stepping forward protectively.
The Weaver's veil shifted slightly as if she were smiling.
"Nothing yet," she replied, a faint hint of amusement in her voice. "Only a promise. When the time comes, I will collect."
She lifted her gloved hand, and the space around her rippled—a strange, quiet distortion, like watching moonlight bend over water.
A thin, silver portal unfolded before them, swirling slowly, the edges crackling faintly with hidden runes.
"You'll only travel halfway," she warned, her voice distant now. "The rest… you'll walk."
Darian swallowed hard but nodded.
"Fine."
Without another word, she stepped aside, letting them approach.
Zayn hesitated, staring at the portal's shifting depths.
It felt wrong—cold, ancient, watching him somehow.
But behind him, Mira pushed gently at his back.
"Move," she whispered, her voice surprisingly soft. "We go together."
And so, one by one, they stepped through.
---
Beyond the Portal — Somewhere Farther South
Zayn stumbled as he landed, his feet hitting rough stone.
Around them stretched a vast, ruined expanse—crumbling statues, shattered bridges, and ancient towers swallowed by creeping vines.
The air was thick and heavy, laced with magic that tasted old and bitter.
The Weaver's voice echoed faintly behind them, fading quickly.
"Remember… a promise unpaid is a curse earned."
Then the portal vanished, leaving them alone beneath a dull, fading sky.
Elsha clutched Zayn's arm tightly, eyes wide. "Where… where are we?"
"The Old Roads," Garrick said quietly, scanning the horizon. "This place hasn't been walked in decades."
"Great," Mira muttered. "Halfway to death already."
They began moving, their footsteps the only sound in the vast emptiness.
Hours passed—slow, tense, filled with whispered arguments about direction and occasional strange noises that none of them dared investigate.
Zayn's mind spun with it all—the Weaver, the Tournament, his Grimoire.
And the deeper they went, the more one truth gnawed at him.
He was changing.
He could feel it.
Somewhere inside him, that page was still watching.
Still waiting to be turned.