Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 21: Chapter 16: Monsters and Thralls

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

Time: Hours After the Explosion

Edvard heard her groan before he saw her move. The sound was raw. Pain-filled. Nothing like the controlled, superior voice she usually used.

”Wha—” Saphira’s voice cracked. ”What happened? Why does—why does everything—”

She stopped. The quality of her breathing changed. Went sharp and panicked.

Edvard couldn’t see her from his bed. Couldn’t turn his head without stabbing pain lancing through his ruined chest. But he could hear. Could hear the rustle of bandages. The hiss of indrawn breath. The beginning of a scream that got choked off into something worse—this whimpering, keening sound of pure horror.

”My face,” Saphira whispered. Then louder, rising toward hysteria: ”My face—what happened to my face?!”

”Lady Saphira, please—” A healer’s voice, trying to be soothing. ”You need to remain calm. The burns are severe, but with time and treatment—”

”Burns?” Saphira’s voice went shrill. ”What burns? I want a mirror! Someone bring me a mirror right now!”

”That’s not advisable—”

”I SAID BRING ME A MIRROR!”

Silence. Then footsteps. The sound of something being handed over.

And then Saphira screamed.

The sound was raw. Primal. The kind of scream that came from something breaking deep inside. Not just pain—though there was plenty of that—but the sound of a person’s entire identity shattering.

”No. No no no no—this isn’t—this can’t be—” Saphira’s voice dissolved into sobbing. Harsh, gasping sobs that sounded like they were tearing her throat apart. ”My face—my beautiful face—it’s ruined—”

Edvard finally managed to turn his head. Pain lanced through his chest—gods, it felt like his Crucible Core was grinding itself to powder—but he needed to see. Needed to witness what had happened to his partner in crime.

Saphira sat upright in the bed across from his. Bandages covered most of her torso, her arms, and parts of her neck. But her face—

Her face was visible. Mostly. The left side, anyway.

And it was bad.

Burn scars twisted across her skin in angry red patterns. Her left cheek looked like melted wax, the skin puckered and shiny where it’d been seared. Her eyebrow on that side was gone completely. The burns continued down her neck, disappearing under the bandages, and from the way the fabric bulked oddly, they probably covered most of her body.

The right side of her face was better. Still had burns, but less severe. Almost like the blast had caught her from an angle, scorching one side worse than the other.

But it didn’t matter which side was worse.

Saphira’s beauty—the thing she’d been most proud of, the source of all her confidence and social power—was gone. Destroyed. Replaced by twisted scar tissue that would mark her for life.

She stared at herself in the small mirror the healer had reluctantly provided. Her blue eyes were wide with horror. With absolute, devastating comprehension of what she’d lost.

”The Divine Tome,” she whispered. Voice empty. Dead. ”It did this. When it activated. The power—the backlash—”

She looked up. Her eyes found Edvard across the room.

And something changed in her expression. The horror shifted. Twisted. Became something ugly and sharp and furious.

”This is your fault,” she hissed. ”Your stupid plan—you said it would be simple! You said we’d just frame her and she’d be executed and everything would be fine! You didn’t say the tome would—that it would—”

Her voice broke. Hands coming up to touch her ruined face, fingers trembling as they traced the burned skin.

”I’m a monster,” she whispered. ”A hideous monster. No one will want me now. The suitors, the marriage offers, my position in society—all of it, gone. Because of you.”

Rage flashed through Edvard’s chest. Hot and bitter and wholly unfair, but he didn’t care.

”My plan?” His voice came out rough. Accusatory. ”It was your idea! You’re the one who said we needed to get rid of her! You’re the one who wanted to frame her for breaking the tome!”

”I suggested getting rid of her!” Saphira shot back. Her voice was gaining strength now, powered by fury and denial. ”You’re the one who came up with the brilliant scheme to use the Divine Tome! You said it would be foolproof! You said—”

”You agreed!” Edvard tried to sit up, gasped at the pain, and fell back. ”Don’t you dare put this all on me! You pushed her! You’re the one who made contact! This is as much your—”

”ENOUGH!”

Elder Tessa’s voice cut through their argument like a blade. She stood between their beds now, face carved from stone, radiating disapproval so thick Edvard could practically taste it.

”It doesn’t matter whose idea it was,” she said coldly. ”It doesn’t matter who pushed whom or who touched what. What matters is that you both—both—conspired to destroy a priceless clan treasure and frame an innocent for your crime. And in doing so, you may have brought catastrophe down on all our heads.”

Saphira’s face twisted. ”Innocent? That thing is Voidforge! An abomination! We were doing the clan a favor by—”

”That ’thing,’” Elder Morven interrupted, voice flat, ”is apparently the chosen one. The one the prophecy spoke of. The one who will either save us all or destroy us completely.”

Silence crashed down.

Saphira stared at Elder Morven like he’d started speaking gibberish. ”What?”

”The Divine Tome chose her,” Za’thul said. His voice was hollow. Dead. Like he was speaking from the bottom of a very deep well. ”Bonded with her. Manifested the dragon and the gates—all the signs of prophecy fulfilled. She’s the one we’ve been waiting for.”

He laughed. The sound was awful—bitter and broken and edged with something that might’ve been hysteria.

”And we spent ten years torturing her in the slave pits.”

Saphira’s face went through several expressions in rapid succession. Disbelief. Denial. Dawning horror. And then—unexpectedly—rage.

”No,” she said. Voice shaking. ”No, that’s not—you’re wrong. The prophecy was about someone worthy. Someone powerful. That Voidforge scum is nothing! She’s nothing! The tome must have malfunctioned or—or maybe it was a fluke, some accident of blood and—”

”The Path to Immortality doesn’t appear for accidents,” Elder Tessa said quietly. ”The dragon formed from all eight essences doesn’t manifest for flukes. The tome recognized her. Chose her. Bonded with her.”

She paused. Let that sink in.

”She’s the chosen one. And every single one of us who voted to stone her mother, who condemned her to the slave pits, who beat her and starved her and denied her basic dignity for ten years—we’re all going to pay for it.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

But Saphira wasn’t done. Her face was still twisted with rage and denial, her hands clenched into fists despite the pain it must’ve caused.

”Then we kill her before she grows strong enough to be a threat!” Saphira’s voice rose, shrill with desperation. ”Don’t you see? She’s still weak now! Still just a fifteen-year-old girl with no cultivation! We find her, we end her, and this nightmare is over!”

”You can’t be serious—” Elder Tessa started.

But Saphira was turning to Edvard now, her ruined face twisted with something between hope and malice.

”Look at him,” she said, gesturing at Edvard with a shaking hand. ”Look what happened to the great Edvard Freehold. Twenty-one years old. Sparkforged tier. One of the clan’s rising stars.” Her voice dripped venom. ”And now? Now he’s nothing. His Crucible Core is shattered. His cultivation is gone. He’s weaker than a child!”

She leaned forward despite the healers’ protests, her eyes boring into Edvard with cruel satisfaction.

”You know what that means, don’t you, cousin? According to clan law, your rank is determined by your power. No power means...” She smiled. It was hideous on her burned face. ”You’ll be stripped of your privileges. Your chambers. Your servants. Everything.”

Edvard’s blood ran cold.

”You’ll fall all the way down to thrall status,” Saphira continued, each word a knife. ”Maybe they’ll be merciful and keep you out of the slave pits. But probably not. After all, what use is a powerless cultivator? At least I still have my cultivation, even if my face is—”

She stopped. Touched her scars again. And something shifted in her expression.

Something darker.

”At least I can still defend myself,” she whispered. Then louder, voice gaining a manic edge: ”At least when they come for revenge—when she comes for revenge—I’ll be able to fight back. You?” She laughed. Sharp and cruel. ”You’ll be helpless. Just like she was. Fitting, really.”

Fury exploded in Edvard’s chest. White-hot and overwhelming.

Before he could think, before the pain could stop him, words were pouring out: ”You think you’re so much better? Look at yourself! You’re hideous! A monster! No one will ever want you now! At least I can hide my shame—you’ll wear yours on your face for the rest of your—”

He saw it coming. Saw Saphira’s hand snap up, saw the blue-white light gathering around her fingers as Torrent essence coalesced into deadly purpose.

”You dare—”

The water whip lashed across the space between their beds, razor-sharp and screaming.

Edvard’s body moved on instinct. Tried to. Reached for his own essence, for the familiar well of power that had always answered his call—

Nothing.

The sensation was worse than pain. Worse than the physical agony of his shattered Crucible Core. It was an absence. A void where power should be. Like reaching for a limb that had been amputated and feeling only empty air.

His Crucible Core was gone.

Really, truly, gone.

The water whip dissolved as a healer threw herself between the beds, hands glowing with Verdant essence that disrupted Saphira’s technique. But Edvard barely noticed.

He was staring at his hands. Trying again to summon even a spark of essence. Anything. Anything.

Nothing responded.

Sixteen years of cultivation. Years of training, of advancement, of sacrifice, of being praised as talented, as special, as destined for greatness. All those resources poured into his development. The expensive techniques. The rare pills. The specialized instruction.

Gone.

Edvard’s hands were shaking. Actually trembling. From shock or rage or horror—he couldn’t tell anymore. Everything was collapsing. His future. His status. His very identity.

And Saphira was laughing.

The sound started soft. Almost disbelieving. Then grew louder, harsher, edged with hysteria and vicious satisfaction.

”You can’t cultivate anymore!” She was clutching her burned stomach, the laughter making her wince, but she couldn’t stop. ”You tried—I saw you try—and nothing happened! You’re powerless!”

Her eyes glittered with malicious glee, burns forgotten in the pleasure of his humiliation.

”Oh, this is perfect. This is perfect. Edvard Freehold, the talented torrent cultivator. Edvard Freehold, who always looked down on thralls and commoners. Edvard Freehold, who took such pleasure in making others suffer.”

She leaned forward again, her ruined face split in a terrible smile.

”Now you’ll know exactly what it feels like. To be powerless. To be at the mercy of everyone stronger than you. Which will be everyone.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. ”You’ll be a thrall, Edvard. And everyone you ever hurt? Everyone you ever tormented? They’ll remember. Oh, they’ll remember.”

The truth of her words hit like a physical blow.

All those people. All those thralls, servants, and even vassals, he’d made suffer because he could. Because it was fun. Because they were weak and he was strong, and that’s just how the world worked.

Now he was the weak one.

And they would remember.

”Separate them!” A senior healer’s voice cut through the chaos. ”Get Lady Saphira moved to a private room immediately! This is a medical hall, not a—”

But Edvard barely heard them. Barely felt the healers checking his vitals, adjusting his bandages, murmuring about elevated stress levels and potential complications.

He was staring at his hands. At the empty, terrible void where his power used to be.

(What will I do? How will I survive?)

The future stretched out before him like a wasteland. No cultivation meant no status. No status meant no protection. No protection meant—

He thought of Jade. Ten years in the slave pits. Beaten. Starved. Humiliated.

Had she felt like this? This crushing weight of knowing the world had turned against her and there was nothing—nothing—she could do about it?

And now she was the chosen one. With the Divine Tome’s power. With the prophecy fulfilled.

When she came back—if she came back—what would she do to the people who’d tortured her?

What would she do to him?

Edvard closed his eyes. Felt tears burning behind his eyelids.

For the first time in his life, he understood what true fear felt like.

As healers moved between the rooms, separating Saphira and Edvard into different chambers, Za’thul stood frozen in the hallway. The temperature around him had dropped. His Inferno essence was no longer barely controlled—it had gone cold. Dangerously cold.

The way fire burned before it exploded.

Elder Morven approached carefully. ”Za’thul. We need to call a full council. All the elders. Branch family heads. This is—”

”I know what this is,” Za’thul said quietly. His voice was empty. Dead. ”This is the end of everything.”

He turned to face Elder Morven. And for the first time in decades, the clan leader looked old. Actually, genuinely old.

”Call them,” Za’thul said. ”Everyone. We need to vote.”

”Vote on what?”

Za’thul’s hands clenched into fists. When he spoke, his voice was flat. Cold. The voice of a man who’d already made his choice and was simply following it to its logical conclusion.

”On whether we hunt down Jade Freehold and kill her before she becomes powerful enough to destroy us all.”

The words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.

Elder Morven’s face went pale. ”You can’t be serious. Kill the chosen one? That’s—that’s—”

”Survival,” Za’thul finished. ”It’s survival. Because if we don’t kill her first, she’ll come back with power beyond our comprehension. And she’ll make us pay for every single thing we did to her.”

He thought of Jade’s eyes. Those flat, black eyes filled with hatred so pure it’d made him step back even when she was just a powerless child chained to a whipping post.

He thought of Shyenho’s execution. How he’d forced Jade to watch every single stone strike her mother. Every scream. Every moment of agony.

He thought of ten years of systematic torture. Of deliberate cruelty. Of denying her basic dignity and humanity.

(Will she forgive us?)

No.

She’d never forgive them.

”Call the council,” Za’thul said again. ”Within the hour. Everyone must attend. No exceptions.”

Elder Morven hesitated. Then nodded slowly. ”I’ll send messengers immediately.”

As the elder hurried away, Za’thul stood alone in the hallway. The sounds of the medical hall faded—Saphira’s sobs, Edvard’s labored breathing, healers moving between rooms—until there was only silence and the crushing weight of what he’d set in motion.

A thousand years of waiting.

And the chosen one was the very child he’d spent ten years destroying.

The irony would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so catastrophically, irreversibly tragic.

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