The first sign of the attack was silence.


    Raine had been pacing his quarters, mind still reeling from the vision, when the distant hum of the Weaving Society’s underground halls simply… vanished. No murmur of voices. No footfalls echoing against stone. Just an unnatural, suffocating stillness.


    Then the walls shuddered.


    An impact—deep, resonant—sent dust spiraling from the ceiling. Raine’s instincts kicked in before his mind caught up. He grabbed his sword and threw open the door.


    A figure sprinted past, robes tattered, a Weaving Society mage clutching their side. Blood slicked their fingers. Their mouth opened as if


    they were about to speak—then they collapsed, their body hitting the ground with a sickening finality.


    Raine barely had time to react before the air cracked with the force of a spell slamming into the far wall. A surge of Essence—controlled, sharp—exploded through the corridor, sending debris and stone raining down.


    Then came the voices.


    "Seal the lower chambers.""Cut off any exits.""The Abyss-touched is here—find him!"


    Raine’s breath turned shallow. The Arcanum had arrived.


    He forced himself forward, stepping over the fallen mage, boots crunching against the dust of collapsing stone. His fingers tightened around his sword. The weight of the Abyss pulsed at the back of his mind, responding to the growing chaos like a predator stirring to hunger.


    No. Not yet.


    A figure burst through the dust ahead—Kael.


    "Move!" Kael barked, barely slowing as he grabbed Raine’s cloak and yanked him down another hallway.


    "What happened—?"


    "Ezren''s holding them back, but it won’t last. They sent an Anchor."


    The words hit like ice.


    An Anchor. One of the Arcanum’s elite enforcers, trained to sever magic at its root, to pin reality in place where it threatened to come undone. If an Anchor had been deployed, it meant the Arcanum wasn’t just trying to capture him anymore.


    They were trying to erase him.


    A deep boom shook the underground chambers again, followed by the unmistakable hum of a powerful ward snapping into place.


    Kael swore. "They’re locking down the tunnels—Ezren told me to get you out."


    Raine ground his teeth. "And what about him?"


    Kael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.


    That was enough of an answer.


    They turned a sharp corner—and suddenly stopped.


    Figures in dark robes, their faces obscured by enchanted masks, stood at the corridor’s end. Weavers loyal to the Arcanum.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    No chance to flee. No time to think.


    The air crackled—and then the Weavers attacked.


    Raine barely managed to raise his sword in time to deflect a strike—a sharpened arc of Essence slicing toward his throat. The moment his blade met it, the spell shattered, breaking apart like fragile glass.


    The Weavers hesitated.


    He felt it then—the Abyss curling at the edges of his mind, waiting.


    Kael didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, steel flashing, cutting through the confusion with brutal efficiency. Raine followed, his instincts taking over, his blade dancing between flickers of Essence as he weaved past their strikes.


    But there were too many. And worse—they were prepared.


    Another wave of magic crashed forward. Raine twisted to dodge, but his footwork faltered—one of the Weavers slammed a pulse of force into his ribs, sending him stumbling back.


    And then—


    The Abyss reached for him.


    It didn’t pull. It didn’t force.


    It simply waited.


    Raine clenched his teeth. He had fought it back before. He had stopped himself from sinking too deep.


    But now—


    Now, he didn’t have time for restraint.


    The next spell was coming, a barrage of Essence, a wall of raw force meant to crush him where he stood.


    Raine exhaled—and let go.


    The Abyss responded instantly.


    The world lurched. The spell meant to strike him bent, twisted, then collapsed inward. A ripple of unmaking spread through the corridor, consuming the Weavers’ magic before it could reach him.


    The Weavers froze.


    Kael cursed. "Raine—!"


    But it was too late.


    The Abyss wasn’t just responding to magic now—it was reaching for everything.


    The walls of the corridor darkened, the edges of reality fraying like an unraveling thread. The Weavers standing before him shuddered—their bodies flickering, as if something had begun pulling them apart from the inside out.


    Raine gasped, trying to stop it—


    But he couldn’t.


    He could feel himself slipping. The Abyss wasn’t just answering him—it was claiming him.


    His vision blurred. The Weavers were already gone. Unmade. The corridor felt stretched, the air bending, the world itself becoming something thin.


    "No."


    He tried to pull back.


    "Not like this."


    But the Abyss wasn’t letting go.


    Not this time.


    The weight of it crashed into him, a cold, endless hunger pressing down, swallowing his thoughts, his sense of self. His body felt distant. A whisper, low and ancient, slithered through his mind.


    "You walk where none should walk."


    His breath hitched.


    "This time, you will fall."


    No.


    No.


    A hand grabbed his arm.


    Reality slammed back into place.


    Kael was hauling him back, his grip viselike, his voice a sharp anchor.


    "Raine—stay with me!"


    The world snapped.


    The Abyss recoiled.


    Raine staggered, his body his own again, his breath ragged, his vision blurred—but he was here. He was still here.


    Kael didn’t let go.


    For the first time since they met, Kael’s expression wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t amused.


    It was grim.


    "You almost didn’t come back," he muttered.


    Raine swallowed, still shaking.


    Before he could answer—


    A presence filled the corridor.


    The air hardened, Essence shifting. The very fabric of reality locked into place, denying the Abyss outright.


    A figure stepped forward.


    Robes of black and gold. A mask covering their features. A presence so absolute, so unyielding, that Raine knew, instinctively, what this was.


    An Anchor.


    They had felt his presence.


    They had found him.


    The Anchor raised a hand. No words. No commands. Just judgment.


    Raine tried to move—but his body felt wrong. The backlash of the Abyss still clung to his mind, his limbs heavy, unresponsive.


    Kael didn’t hesitate.


    He shoved Raine behind him, his sword flashing up into a ready stance.


    "Run," he said.


    Raine barely had time to breathe before the fight began.