Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 20: Chapter 15: Shattered Power

Location: Medical Hall, Freehold Estate | Doha, Mortal Plane

Time: Hours After the Explosion

The smell hit first—sharp, medicinal herbs mixed with the copper-sweet stink of blood and burnt flesh. Made Edvard’s stomach turn even before he fully woke, before his eyes cracked open to see the medical hall ceiling swimming above him.

White stone. Carved with some healing formation he’d never bothered learning about. Glowing faintly with Verdant essence, which was supposed to speed recovery or something.

Didn’t feel like it was working.

Everything hurt. Everything. His chest especially—gods, his chest felt like someone’d reached inside and crushed something vital, something that’d been keeping him alive and now it was just... gone. Destroyed. Obliterated.

His Crucible Core.

The realization hit like cold water, jolting him fully awake. He tried to sit up—bad idea, horrible stabbing pain that made him gasp and collapse back against the pillows. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His hands were shaking.

(Can’t cultivate. Can’t feel my essence. Can’t—)

”Edvard!”

His father’s voice. Sharp with concern—actual concern, not the usual disappointed criticism. Footsteps rushed toward his bed, and then Kato was there, leaning over him with wide eyes and hands hovering like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

”Don’t move, don’t—the healers said you need to stay still.” Kato’s hand found his shoulder, squeezed gently. ”You’re awake. Thank the ancestors, you’re awake.”

Edvard blinked up at his father. The medical hall ceiling came into focus properly behind Kato’s worried face. Clean white stone. Those healing formations glowing with soft green light. Afternoon sun streaming through tall windows.

And beyond his father’s shoulder—Uncle Za’thul. Standing at the foot of the bed with several elders crowding behind him. All of them staring at Edvard with expressions that ranged from concern to calculation to barely-contained excitement.

The temperature in the room was rising. Actually, physically rising. Edvard could feel sweat starting to bead on his skin beyond what pain alone would cause, could see the air shimmering slightly around Za’thul’s shoulders.

Inferno essence. Barely controlled.

His uncle wasn’t just worried. He was agitated. Excited. Like he was waiting for news that would change everything.

”How do you feel?” Kato asked, his hand still on Edvard’s shoulder. ”The healers said—they said your Crucible Core was damaged. We need to know what happened. Can you tell us what—”

”Kato.” Za’thul’s voice cut through. Calm. Steady. But underneath it, this current of desperate hope. ”Let him gather himself first.”

Edvard’s mind raced. The library. The explosion. The plan with Saphira to frame the Voidforge thing for destroying the Divine Tome. It had all gone wrong—so, so wrong—and now his cultivation was destroyed and everyone was staring at him and—

Wait.

Why did Uncle Za’thul look... excited?

”I’m—” Edvard’s voice came out rough. He swallowed, tried again. ”I’m okay. I think. Everything hurts, but I’m—”

”What happened in the library?” Za’thul asked. Not demanding. Almost gentle. Like he was trying very hard not to spook a skittish animal. ”We saw the golden light. The explosion. Can you tell us what you remember?”

Golden light.

The Divine Tome activating. The runes lifting off the pages. The dragon manifesting behind—

Oh.

Oh.

They thought the tome had chosen someone. They thought the prophecy had come true. And they were looking at him with that desperate hope because they thought maybe, just maybe, it had chosen him.

Edvard’s thoughts stuttered. If he told them the truth—that it had been that Voidforge thing, that the abomination had somehow activated the tome—they’d... what? Kill her? Hunt her down? She’d already escaped, probably. The little rat always managed to slip away when she should’ve died.

But if he lied. If he said he didn’t remember, or that the tome had just exploded randomly, or that—

”Edvard.” His father’s voice, sharper now. ”What happened?”

”I...” Edvard’s eyes darted to the side. Couldn’t meet his father’s gaze. ”There was an explosion. I don’t really remember—”

”You’re lying.”

Kato’s voice had gone flat. All the warmth, all the fatherly concern—gone. Just a cold assessment and the beginnings of anger.

Edvard’s eyes snapped back to his father’s face. Kato was staring at him with this expression Edvard knew too well. The one that said he’d caught Edvard in a lie and was deciding how severe the punishment should be.

”You bite your lower lip when you lie,” Kato said quietly. ”You have since you were five years old. And your eyes go to the left. Every single time.” He straightened, pulling his hand away from Edvard’s shoulder. ”Don’t bother lying. You need to tell us exactly what happened.”

”I—”

”The tome activated.” Za’thul’s voice cut through, and now there was an edge to it. Impatience creeping in alongside the hope. ”We all saw the golden light. Felt the power surge. The question is—” He paused, and Edvard saw something flicker across his uncle’s face. Joy. Triumph. Pure, unbridled excitement barely held in check. ”—did it choose someone?”

Silence. Heavy and expectant.

Then Kato turned to look at Za’thul, and something passed between the two brothers. Some unspoken communication. Kato’s face shifted—hope draining away, replaced by dawning realization.

”Not Edvard,” Kato said slowly. Voice hollow. ”His Crucible Core is shattered. The tome wouldn’t—if it had chosen him, he’d be stronger, not...” He gestured at Edvard’s broken body. ”Not this.”

Za’thul’s expression cycled through denial, then grudging acceptance. But the excitement didn’t fade. If anything, it intensified.

”Saphira.” Kato breathed the name like a prayer and a curse combined. Then louder, turning back to Edvard with renewed focus: ”Did the tome choose Saphira?”

Edvard watched his uncle’s face transform. Watched Za’thul’s eyes go wide with hope so fierce it was almost painful to witness. Watched his uncle’s hands clench and unclench, fighting to maintain control while joy and terror warred across his features.

(His daughter. His heir. If the tome chose her—)

”Chose?” Edvard echoed. The word came out confused. Uncertain. Because the tome hadn’t chosen anyone, it had just—it had activated when that thing’s blood touched it, when the runes started glowing and—

”Yes, chose!” Za’thul’s patience snapped. He stepped forward, hands slamming down on the footboard of Edvard’s bed hard enough to make the whole frame rattle. The wood actually smoked where his palms touched it. ”Did the Divine Tome choose Saphira? Did it bond with her? Answer me!”

Edvard stared at his uncle’s face. At the desperate hope written there in every line, every tense muscle. At the way Za’thul was practically vibrating with barely-contained excitement, with the dream of prophecy fulfilled and glory eternal and—

And Edvard remembered.

Remembered the Voidforge thing standing there with runes disappearing into her skin. The dragon manifesting behind her. The gates opening. The impossible, impossible sight of all eight essences swirling together in a pattern that shouldn’t exist.

Horror dawned. Cold and complete.

”No,” Edvard whispered. ”No, Saphira wasn’t near the tome. She was—she was by the door, she pushed the Voidforge scum toward the case, and then—”

He stopped. Saw the way every face in the room had gone still. The way his father’s expression was shifting from confusion to something darker.

”What do you mean?” Kato’s voice had gone very, very quiet. Dangerous. The tone he used right before someone got hurt. ”Tell us exactly what happened. Every detail. Every step.” He leaned closer, and Edvard could smell smoke and steel and cold fury. ”And don’t you dare think about hiding anything. I don’t mind having the healers administer a truth-telling potion if necessary.”

A chill ran down Edvard’s spine that had nothing to do with his injuries.

Because Kato wasn’t asking as a father anymore. Wasn’t offering comfort or concern. This was Kato Freehold, an ambitious elder and would-be clan leader, recognizing that something was seriously, catastrophically wrong and demanding answers regardless of who got hurt in the process.

Even his own son.

”I...” Edvard swallowed hard. Tasted bile and fear and the bitter ash of destroyed dreams. ”We had a plan. Saphira and I. We were going to frame the Voidforge thing for destroying the tome. Get her executed. Finally, end the family shame.”

Za’thul’s face had gone very still. All that hope, all that excitement—frozen. Calcifying into something terrible.

”Continue,” he said. Voice like winter ice.

So Edvard told them everything.

Described how they’d positioned themselves as witnesses. How they’d planned to have the slave girl touch the case, break the wards, and get her marked for death. How it was supposed to be quick and easy, and no one would question executing a worthless Voidforge for destroying a priceless clan treasure.

”Seemed foolproof,” Edvard muttered, voice bitter. ”Just get her alone with the tome, push her into the case, watch it shatter. Guards would come running. We’d be there as witnesses. Execution by nightfall, problem solved.”

”But she touched the tome itself.” Elder Morven’s voice cut through. Sharp. Understanding already dawning in his eyes. ”Not just the case. The actual artifact.”

”Her blood,” Edvard said. The memory made his chest tight—or maybe that was just his shattered Crucible Core grinding like broken glass with every breath. Hard to tell anymore. ”When Saphira pushed her, she fell against the case. Cut her hand on the broken glass. And a drop—maybe two drops—hit the tome directly.”

The room had gone completely silent. Even the sounds from outside—birds, distant conversations, the normal life of the estate—seemed to have been swallowed by this terrible, expectant quiet.

”And?” Za’thul’s voice was barely a whisper.

”It activated.” Edvard’s hands clenched in the blankets. ”Started glowing. Gold light, so bright it hurt to look at. The whole book just—came alive. Like it’d been waiting for her. Waiting.”

He saw Za’thul’s face go from frozen to crumbling. Saw his uncle’s carefully maintained control start to fracture as the implications crashed through him like a tidal wave.

”The runes lifted off the pages,” Edvard continued. Couldn’t stop now, even if he wanted to. The words just kept spilling out. ”Golden characters floating in the air. And they all rushed toward her—into her—disappearing into her skin like they were being absorbed. I’ve never seen anything like it. Never even heard of—”

”The manifestation,” Elder Tessa breathed. Her face had gone pale as death. ”Tell us about the manifestation. What appeared?”

”A dragon.” Edvard’s voice cracked. ”Formed from all eight essences at once. Inferno, Torrent, Verdant, Terracore, Metallurge, Galebreath, Radiance, Voidshadow. All of them swirling together—which shouldn’t be possible, you can’t combine all eight, it’s fundamentally—”

”The gates,” an elder interrupted. Voice shaking. ”Were there gates?”

Edvard nodded slowly. Remembering. ”Behind the dragon. Massive. Had to be fifty feet tall. Made of white stone that also looked like light somehow. Covered in symbols that moved when you stared at them. And a bridge. White stone. Perfectly smooth. Leading up to—”

”The Path to Immortality,” Elder Tessa whispered. ”The gateway to the Immortal Realm. The bridge only the worthy can cross.”

She turned to Za’thul. Her expression was a mixture of horror and awe, and something that might’ve been pity.

”The prophecy,” she said quietly. ”It came true. The tome chose. But not—” She stopped. Swallowed. ”Not who we expected.”

Za’thul stood frozen. His face had gone through hope, excitement, joy—and now was cycling into denial. Absolute, desperate denial.

”No,” he said. Voice hollow. ”No, that’s not—it can’t be—she’s Voidforge. She has no Crucible Core. She can’t cultivate. How could the tome possibly—”

”Dragon blood,” Elder Morven said quietly. He was staring at nothing, eyes distant with the kind of realization that changed everything. ”The prophecy says, ’when dragon blood touches sacred page.’ We always assumed it meant one of us. Someone with the amber eyes. The family bloodline. But—”

”But she had amber eyes too,” Elder Korren finished. Voice grim. ”Before the Kindling Day. Before we forced her eyes to change to black. She was born with them. Born with our blood, even if the magic didn’t manifest.”

The silence that followed was crushing.

Edvard watched his uncle’s face crumble. Watched a thousand years of hope and prophecy and desperate dreaming crash into the reality that the chosen one—the savior they’d all been waiting for—was the very child they’d spent ten years torturing in the slave pits.

The child Za’thul had condemned to death alongside her mother.

The child they’d beaten and starved and humiliated for existing.

”It was her,” Za’thul whispered. His voice sounded broken. Empty. Like something vital had been carved out and left a hollow shell behind. ”The tome chose her.”

A sound from across the room. Movement. Fabric rustling against fabric.

Everyone turned.

Saphira was waking up.