Trial Of The Forgotten

Eris kept her shoulders squared, refusing to shrink beneath the weaver's gaze. His presence was a weight in the room, sharp and judging, like a blade pressed against the fabric of their fates.

"The loom does not wait for the idle," he had said.

And yet, they were waiting.

Waiting for someone to break the silence.

Aven, predictably, stepped forward first. "We're here to learn," she said evenly, her voice carrying an edge that made it clear she would not tolerate being dismissed. "What must we do?"

The weaver's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Then step forward, and let the thread decide."

A ripple of unease passed through the group, but Eris forced herself to stay still.

The Loom of Fate stood at the center of the chamber, its massive frame carved from darkened wood, older than the walls that housed it. Silver threads, each glistening with an eerie sheen, stretched taut between the spindles, shifting and shivering without any wind to stir them. The loom was not ordinary—it pulsed, alive with unseen energy.

Aven was the first to approach. The moment she placed her hand on the loom, the silver threads trembled. For a breath, nothing happened—then the threads twisted, snapping into intricate patterns. The loom responded. It recognized her.

The weaver nodded approvingly. "Thread-wielder. Your magic aligns with the weave."

Aven barely reacted, but Eris noticed the tension leave her shoulders.

Ash stepped forward next.

Unlike Aven, he hesitated before touching the loom, his fingers hovering just above the threads. Then, with a quiet exhale, he pressed his palm against the wood. The reaction was immediate—flickers of distorted time rippled across the loom, causing some threads to fray and others to rewind, knitting themselves back together.

The weaver's brows rose slightly. "Time's tether," he murmured, studying Ash with something akin to intrigue. "Rare among weavers, but not impossible."

Ash stepped back quickly, as if uncomfortable with the attention.

One by one, the others approached the loom. Some threads barely shifted—others reacted in strange, unexpected ways. Orlen's flames made the loom glow red-hot before it cooled in an instant. Nia's magic sent the threads into slow, spiraling loops, their movement hypnotic and steady. Cinder's touch made the loom hum, a low resonance that vibrated through the air.

Then it was Eris's turn.

She placed her hand against the wood.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the threads convulsed.

The patterns did not form—they shattered, unraveled, reformed in a cycle that had no logic, no consistency. Some strands coiled into fractals, others wove into jagged, incomplete shapes before collapsing into chaos.

It wasn't that the loom couldn't recognize her magic.

It was that Eris couldn't recognize herself.

She wasn't weak.

She was Neutral High—the same as Aven. But where Aven's magic moved with precision, with confidence, Eris's hesitated. She didn't trust herself, so neither did the loom.

The weaver's eyes darkened.

"Unstable," he murmured.

Eris swallowed.

He did not say useless. He did not say weak.

But he did not need to.

She stepped back, heart hammering.

The last five participants approached the loom hesitantly. Their reactions were weaker, the loom responding only faintly. Some threads barely shifted, while others flickered before settling back into place. It was subtle, but Eris noticed the weaver's expression harden slightly.

Neutral Low. Inferior High.

She realized then—he was measuring them. Judging their worth based on how the loom reacted.

They weren't revealing their magic tiers, but the loom was exposing them anyway.

She clenched her fists.

Before she could dwell on it, the weaver straightened. "The loom has spoken," he declared. "Now, your first lesson begins."

With a wave of his hand, the silver threads unwound, stretching into the air like strands of fate itself. "Weaving is not simply an art," he continued. "It is the foundation of all things. Every spell, every bond, every contract—it is all woven."

The threads shimmered.

"To weave is to create. To create is to shape destiny."

His gaze swept over them.

"Now—show me if you are worthy of shaping yours."

The air thickened as the lesson had begun.

The silver threads slithered across the loom, their glow pulsing like veins carrying liquid light. The weaver gestured, and the threads responded, twisting into intricate patterns, shifting in ways that defied logic.

"This is the foundation of all things," he said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Weaving is more than thread and pattern. It is binding. It is unraveling. It is control."

He extended a hand, and a new set of threads emerged from the loom, floating in the air before them. Unlike the silver strands before, these flickered with traces of deep crimson, as though dyed in something richer than ink.

"Each of you will weave a simple form," the weaver continued. "A construct. Something tangible. You will take the thread, mold it with your magic, and stabilize it into shape. This is the first step of mastery."

The first to move was a stocky boy with pale eyes. He stepped forward, grabbed a thread, and closed his fingers around it. His magic flickered—a deep, earthen glow—and the thread began to stiffen, twisting under his will.

For a moment, it worked. The form of something solid—a stone carving, maybe—began to take shape. But then his control faltered. The weave frayed at the edges, splitting apart faster than he could mend it. The magic recoiled—and the thread snapped back into him like a whip.

He gasped, stumbling. The glow of his magic turned wild, out of control.

Then—the thread buried itself inside his body.

Eris's breath hitched as the boy convulsed. The magic within him, unable to escape, began to weave through his skin. His veins turned silver. His limbs stiffened. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The threads wound tighter.

A heartbeat later, his body folded inward.

No scream. No blood. Just—gone.

Eris swallowed hard.

The weaver barely acknowledged it. "Lack of control results in self-consumption. The weave does not forgive carelessness."

Nia let out a quiet whimper. Aven's expression had darkened, though she kept her stance firm. Ash stood rigid, his jaw locked.

Still, the lesson continued.

The next participant, a girl with long silver hair, stepped forward with more caution. She reached for a thread, channeling her magic with slow, measured precision. Her weave began to take form—a delicate lattice, almost like frost weaving across glass.

But then she hesitated.

The magic wavered.

The thread twisted violently, reacting to her uncertainty. The fragile weave began to break down, collapsing inward before she could react.

Then—it turned on her.

The unraveling energy lashed out, wrapping around her hand. She gasped, trying to pull away, but the threads didn't let go. They sank beneath her skin, spreading like cracks through ice.

A sharp, shattering sound echoed through the hall.

Her hand—no, her entire arm—splintered.

Then the rest of her followed.

Like fragile glass breaking apart, she disintegrated.

Eris bit back bile.

Two gone. Two failures.

She fought to keep her breathing steady, but her heart pounded against her ribs.

The others were just as shaken.

Nia trembled violently. Orlen remained eerily still. Cinder's lips moved in silent prayer. Even Ash, usually unreadable, looked deeply unsettled.

But they didn't move. They couldn't.

The weaver let the silence drag for a moment before speaking. "You fear failure," he observed. "Yet failure is a certainty if you do not learn."

His gaze swept over them.

"Take your threads."

They had no choice.

Eris reached for one, feeling the hum of energy against her skin. She could feel it fighting her, resisting. She exhaled and forced her magic into it, trying to stabilize the weave, to mold it into something solid.

The thread writhed in her grasp.

It refused to obey.

She clenched her jaw, trying to push past the instinctive panic, but her grip faltered, and the weave began to warp, threatening to snap apart—

A hand touched her wrist.

Ash.

A quick, silent warning.

She inhaled sharply and steadied herself, adjusting her focus.

This time, the thread held.

Not perfectly. Not smoothly.

But it held.

The weaver watched her for a moment before moving on.

One by one, the others wove. Some barely succeeded, their constructs weak and brittle. Others shaped their threads more firmly, though none with mastery.

By the time they were finished, the two deaths had left a heavy, suffocating weight over them all.

Eris didn't look at the spots where the others had vanished. She didn't dare.

Instead, she focused on something else.

The threads that made up the loom—the shifting patterns, the hidden weaves beneath the surface.

And there—just barely visible—was the map.

A path had been woven into the very fabric of the loom itself.

After the lesson, the trio slipped away unnoticed, making their way to a quiet corner of the ruins where the flickering torches didn't reach. A secluded alcove, shielded by timeworn pillars.

Once certain they were alone, Ash was the first to break the silence.

"You saw something, didn't you?" He wasn't asking.

Eris hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded. "It was a pattern of the map we found."

She recounted it as best as she could—the way the threads had shifted, revealing a shape before disappearing. A clue hidden within the weave itself.

Aven frowned, arms crossed. "If it was part of the weaving, then understanding the technique might be the key to unlocking the next step."

Ash's expression darkened slightly. "Then we're missing something. We need more insight."

That's when Eris thought of the villagers and they soon began to explore the village in hope for answers.

The first few attempts were disappointing.

Aven approached a weathered blacksmith, his hands still covered in soot from the forge. "We're looking for old ruins," Aven said casually, resting his arm on a wooden post. "Anything strange around these parts?"

The man barely spared him a glance. "Ruins? Bah. Plenty of those around. You're standing in one."

No luck.

Ash tried next, striking up a conversation with a group of traders unloading supplies. They were more willing to chat, but their answers were all the same—"Old ruins? Just broken stone and bad luck."

Eris, meanwhile, found herself watching the villagers with quiet curiosity.

Something about the way they moved felt… off.

She noticed how a man tending to his shop paused mid-step, hesitated, then resumed his motion—as if he had briefly forgotten what he was doing. A child chasing after a stray cat suddenly stopped, blinking in confusion, before continuing as if nothing had happened.

The air itself seemed thick with something unseen.

And then, finally, they found someone who seemed different.

An elderly woman sat near the edge of the village, resting under the shade of a gnarled tree. She was folding strips of cloth, her wrinkled hands moving with steady precision. Unlike the others, she didn't seem hurried or absentminded.

She noticed them before they even spoke.

"You three aren't from here." Her voice was warm but firm, her sharp eyes studying them.

Ash, always the smooth talker, offered a polite smile. "We're travelers. Searching for something."

The woman gave a knowing hum. "People always are."

Eris hesitated before stepping forward. "Do you know anything about the old ruins? The ones that… don't appear on any map?"

The woman's hands stilled.

For a long moment, she simply watched them. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she resumed folding her cloth.

"The Hollow does not keep things as they should be."****"Time does not flow in the Hollow as it does elsewhere."

Eris frowned. "What do you mean?"

The woman didn't answer immediately. Instead, she gestured to a half-finished scarf in her lap, tugging at the loose thread near the edge. "A tapestry unravels if the weaver does not pay attention."

Aven crossed his arms. "That sounds like a riddle."

The woman chuckled softly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you are simply asking the wrong questions."

Before they could press her further, the village bell rang in the distance, signaling the shift of the evening watch. The woman gathered her cloth and stood.

"To move forward, one must learn to weave between moments. Not all things are fixed."

She walked away before they could ask anything else.

Eris exchanged looks with Ash and Aven.

That wasn't just a riddle. That was a warning. She had left them deep in thoughts over her words.

Eris spoke first Her voice was quiet but certain. " I think I can understand what both the map and her words meant.The weaving isn't just about magic. It's about time."

Ash's eyes flickered with realization. "Which means if we must master it, we must be able to incorporate time itself into the threads."

Aven exhaled sharply. "That would explain why the ruin isn't marked anywhere on the usual maps. It's not a place locked in space—it's locked in time."

A pause. Then, a decision.

Eris looked at them both. "We need to find that ruin."

Ash nodded. Aven sighed.

The Hollow was hiding more than they had thought. And now, they had the first piece of the puzzle.