They paused once, near a low cluster of crumbling stones that might have once formed a shrine or watchtower. Asterion scouted ahead for a moment, scanning for illusions or watchers. Draven stood still, letting the ground shift beneath him, allowing it to ripple around his boots as if in challenge. He refused to be unnerved by it. He had survived cosmic anomalies in the Ashen Expanse, outrun illusions that hunted him like prey. Whatever game this twisted land intended, he would not falter.
When Asterion returned, shaking his head to indicate no immediate threat, they continued. The unnatural haze in the sky thickened overhead, swirling in lazy patterns reminiscent of bruises on flesh. Draven suppressed a grimace. The land felt wounded, every mile a fresh scab or open sore in the Tapestry’s weave. The worst was yet to come, he sensed—Kael’Thorne lay ahead, rumored to be the epicenter of these distortions. If their path was this bent and broken, how horrifying would the city itself be?
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Beneath the weight of so much gloom, they scarcely spoke. Survival dominated their priorities, each attuned to the possibilities of illusions ambushing them from behind warped rocks or half-dead trees. Now and then, they spotted footprints that sank deep into the pliant ground, leading off in random directions or stopping abruptly where the earth might have swallowed whoever made them. These traces told silent stories of travelers or Cultists, each lost or claimed by illusions. Draven paid them no heed beyond using them as cautionary tales. Keep moving. Keep watch.
Eventually, Asterion cleared his throat. "We should reach a vantage point soon. Once we can see Kael’Thorne from a distance, we’ll know how close we are."
Draven merely nodded. The vow he’d made to harness the leyline’s power, to ensure Belisarius’s unholy rebirth would be met with unstoppable resistance, burned in the back of his mind. Failing was not an option. Let the land twist, let illusions gnaw at the edges of reality—he would find the core, the place where this malignant energy pulsed, and tear it from the inside if he had to.
As if hearing his silent resolve, the land around them seemed to redouble its efforts at distortion. A wave of haze rolled across the path, trees contorting in slow, nightmarish spirals that coiled upon themselves. The stones underfoot glimmered, turning glassy or molten at the edges. Draven steadied himself, forcing a calm breath. Asterion’s expression tightened, but he pressed on, unwavering.
Beyond a final rise, the terrain dipped into a broad valley, the far end shrouded by thick mist that glowed faintly purple. Asterion pointed. "That’s likely where we’ll get our first real look at Kael’Thorne. The city’s outskirts should start around there." Read exclusive chapters at freewebnovel
Draven gave a slow nod. "Then we go down."
The final steps took them through a hush so complete it felt like the land had exhaled and then gone still. The road, ever-shifting, straightened out for a moment, granting them a corridor of relative stability. Draven didn’t trust it—gifts from illusions were often traps—but he accepted the reprieve. They descended, each step a testament to their refusal to yield. Overhead, the swirling clouds tightened into a spiral, as though framing their approach, and Draven sensed the thrumming under the ground intensify, beating like a dark heart calling them onward.
He had no illusions about what he’d find in Kael’Thorne: a city rotted from within by the uncontrolled leyline, a haven for cultists who believed unraveling existence would free them from destiny. The trees, the half-ruined villages, the ephemeral ghosts left behind—these were only harbingers of that place’s corruption.
He forced aside the faint pang of weariness in his limbs. Survival demanded unwavering will. If he let doubt worm into his mind now, the illusions would sense it, exploit it. No. He was Draven. He had carved a path through illusions before, torn free of the Ashen Expanse, and defied cosmic rewriting. Whatever waited in Kael’Thorne, he would meet it head-on.
Asterion slowed at the valley’s edge, turning to meet Draven’s eyes. For a moment, they simply regarded each other, silent partners in a world gone mad. Then, with a mutual, unspoken agreement, they moved forward, letting the valley swallow them, following the twisted road that led inevitably to Kael’Thorne.
And in the hush, the land pulsed with that same low thrumming, the heartbeat of a realm that had been pushed to its limits. The Tapestry was beyond mere disrepair—this was sabotage, an intentional unraveling. Draven didn’t speak, but the vow in his heart was clear: he would reclaim the power the leyline offered, no matter who or what tried to bar his path. Belisarius, the Cult, the Council’s meddling—none of it would stand if he was fully restored.
Above them, the gloom thickened, the sky unwilling to grant any sense of true daylight. The air felt heavier still, like an invisible hand pressed down on their shoulders. A faint moan echoed across the valley as though the wind itself mourned the fate of this land. Neither Draven nor Asterion paused to listen. Their journey demanded constant motion, each step drawing them closer to the heart of the distortion—a heart Draven intended to seize control of, one way or another.
He had seen illusions become reality. He had seen reality become illusions. And soon, he would see Kael’Thorne. That single thought fueled him through the final paces down the slope.
Draven said nothing. He had seen similar things—beings caught between existence and dissolution—in the deepest recesses of the Ashen Expanse. It was no surprise that Kael’Thorne’s leyline had started creating such abnormalities.
_____
They barely had time to catch their breath before they reached a fork in the road, one that branched off through a landscape every bit as warped as the one they’d just escaped. The path split into two uneven lanes, each seemingly leading into deeper mist, and the surrounding air felt unnervingly static—too still, too expectant. Draven paused, turning his gaze over each route, every sense on edge. Something about this crossroads was… false, like a stage set waiting for its actors. Even the ground beneath his boots seemed suspiciously perfect for a land so corrupted. It hinted that they were not alone, that illusions had been laid here with intent.
Asterion, standing at his side, caught the shift in the atmosphere as well. He hunched his shoulders, his hand drifting automatically toward his weapon. "Something’s wrong," he breathed, just loud enough for Draven to hear.
Before Draven could respond, the wind—or what passed for wind in this twisted realm—stirred. It didn’t blow from a single direction but seemed to swirl around them, forming an almost circular current that rustled the leaves of dead shrubs lining the path. The hush grew so profound that Draven thought he could hear his own heartbeat. Then, quite abruptly, there came a sound—a shuffle of movement, a brushing of cloth on stone. A figure emerged from the mist, robes shifting in color and pattern as though they couldn’t decide on a single hue.
He wasn’t alone. One by one, more of them materialized, stepping with synchronized grace out of the fog and onto the crossroads. Six in total, each wearing draping garments etched with constantly moving designs. For a moment, Draven’s focus slid off them, as though the illusions wove themselves into the corners of his vision. It was only by sheer force of will that he maintained clarity, refusing to let these robed strangers fade into the gloom.
"They’re here," Asterion whispered, but Draven had already sensed it. This was a confrontation orchestrated from the moment they set foot near the fork.
The group spread out in a loose semicircle, blocking both possible roads. Their leader took center position, a figure whose robe shimmered between deep violet and ashen gray. His head was hooded, but Draven could sense the intensity of the gaze beneath. When he spoke, his voice carried an unsettling resonance, like shards of broken glass softened by layers of silk. "Draven."
Draven felt a jolt of recognition in that voice—recognition that this cultist seemed intimately aware of who he was. He forced his muscles not to tighten. He’d faced illusions, monstrous apparitions, and cosmic distortions that would unmake lesser minds. He would not let a handful of fanatics seize the advantage through intimidation. Keeping his stance outwardly relaxed, he allowed only the faint tension in his arms to betray his readiness for violence.
He caught Asterion’s reaction out of the corner of his eye: the man’s hand twitched near his weapon, a small but telling movement. Draven couldn’t blame him. The tension in the air felt alive, pressing in with every breath.
The cult leader tilted his head in an almost courteous gesture, the layers of his robe swaying in a breeze that Draven himself could not feel. "Unravel willingly," he said, voice half-reverent, half-mocking, "or become a tether to hold the Tapestry’s suffering in place."
Asterion shot Draven a questioning look, but Draven was already stepping forward, meeting the cult leader’s invisible gaze with a piercing stare of his own. "I have no interest," he said flatly, "in being anyone’s pawn."