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The descent into the hidden stronghold was steep, the path twisting through layers of cold, jagged stone. Raine followed Kael in silence, his body aching from the last fight. His clothes were still torn, stained with blood—some his, most not.
The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. There was something wrong with this place. Not wrong in the way the Arcanum felt—where everything was too clean, too perfect—but wrong in a way that settled under his skin, like a weight pressing against his ribs.
At the end of the path, a massive set of black stone doors loomed, etched with intricate carvings that shimmered with faint light.
Kael stopped before them, placed a hand against the surface, and murmured something Raine didn’t catch.
The doors groaned open, revealing a city beneath the mountain.
Raine’s breath caught.
It was nothing like Vaelora. No grand marble towers or golden spires. The buildings here were carved directly into the rock, connected by twisting bridges over deep chasms. Narrow walkways wound between shadowed corridors where figures in dark robes moved, their voices hushed. The entire place pulsed with a quiet energy, a presence that gnawed at the edges of Raine’s senses.
Kael led him forward without a word.
People stared as they passed. Some whispered. Others turned away. But a few held his gaze—assessing, as if they already knew what he was.
At the end of the long walkway stood a tall figure cloaked in midnight blue.
His hair was streaked with silver, but his face was unlined, his features sharp with an intelligence that felt dangerous. He carried no visible weapons, but something about him felt like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
Kael stopped a few paces away.
“Ezren.”
The man’s gaze settled on Raine. “So. This is him.”
Raine clenched his jaw. “I have a name.”
Ezren’s mouth quirked upward, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t use it yet. Names carry weight. And I don’t think you even know what yours means.”
A strange chill settled in Raine’s chest at those words, but he shoved it down.
Ezren turned, gesturing toward the dark halls behind him. “Come. If we’re to discuss what you are, we should do it somewhere more private.”
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Inside the Weaving Society’s inner chambers, the air grew even heavier.
Raine could feel something here. It wasn’t Essence. It wasn’t magic. It was deeper. More fundamental.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Ezren led them to a circular chamber lined with bookshelves, an ancient table at its center. He moved with deliberate slowness, as if measuring his words before speaking.
“You’ve had a long few weeks,” Ezren said finally.
Raine exhaled sharply. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You think the Arcanum wants you dead because of your magic,” Ezren continued. “Because it’s Void. That’s what you’ve been told, yes?”
Raine nodded stiffly.
Ezren’s expression darkened. “The Arcanum is full of liars. And Void magic isn’t why they want you dead.”
A cold weight settled in Raine’s stomach.
“Then why?” he asked.
Ezren leaned forward. “Because what you wield isn’t Void.”
The words landed like a blade between his ribs.
Raine blinked. “What—?”
“Void is the absence of magic,” Ezren said. “A force that unravels Essence. A black hole in the fabric of reality, erasing what it touches.”
Raine stiffened. That was what he did—he could break spells, tear apart energy, erase what existed.
But Ezren wasn’t finished.
“What you did back there,” he continued, eyes sharp, “wasn’t Void magic.”
Raine frowned. “I—”
“You didn’t just break those men, did you?” Ezren interrupted. “You took something from them.”
Raine’s breath stalled. His fingers twitched involuntarily.
He had.
He had felt it when he devoured the last two bandits—their fear, their energy, their very existence folding into him.
It hadn’t been destruction.
It had been consumption.
Ezren leaned back. “That is not Void, boy. That is something worse.”
Kael, silent until now, finally spoke. “You’re saying he’s—?”
Ezren cut him a sharp look. “Not yet. But he’s close.”
Raine’s patience snapped. “Close to what?”
Ezren studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke.
“Have you ever wondered why the Arcanum erased entire bloodlines from history?”
Raine’s hands curled into fists. “I didn’t even know they did that.”
Ezren exhaled. “Of course not. That’s the point.”
He gestured toward the massive tomes stacked on the table.
“Magic, as the Arcanum teaches it, is drawn from the Realms. Fire, Water, Earth, Wind—each a structured force, an extension of existence itself. Essence Weaving manipulates those forces, bending them into spells, shaping reality like an artist shaping clay.”
Raine knew all this. Every mage did.
Ezren’s gaze turned cold.
“But before Essence, before the Realms, before the first mage ever wove a single spell—there was something else.”
He tapped the table lightly, and a black ripple spread outward, distorting the air.
“Something that existed before magic itself.”
Raine’s mouth went dry. “The Void?”
Ezren shook his head.
“No. The Abyss.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
Ezren’s voice dropped lower.
“The Void is emptiness. But the Abyss?” His fingers curled slightly, and for a moment, Raine swore he saw something move in the space behind his eyes.
“The Abyss takes.”
Raine swallowed hard. “And you think I—?”
Ezren didn’t answer immediately.
Then, finally, he said, “I think the Arcanum fears you for a reason.”
Raine felt like the floor had tilted beneath him.
He had spent the last few weeks believing he was a Void user—someone who could erase magic, break spells, unravel existence.
But if Ezren was right…
If what he had done—what he had felt—was something older than magic itself…
Then what did that make him?
Ezren stood.
“You want answers?” He gestured toward a doorway at the end of the chamber. “Then come. Because if I’m right, you’re going to need more than just control.”
Raine hesitated.
Then, without another word, he followed.
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