The Memory Glimpse

My boots sank into the cavern's mossy floor, the air cool and damp after the Ashwraith's chase. Veyra leaned against a root, her light blade gone, her chest rising and falling. The glow-moss cast faint green patterns on her face, highlighting the scar on her palm.

I wanted to ask about it, but her sharp eyes stopped me. She was still a stranger, even if she'd just saved my life.

"That Ashwraith," I said, catching my breath. "It called me Starborn. What does that mean?"

Veyra's brow furrowed, her hood slipping back to reveal dark hair clinging to her sweat-damp neck.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Ashwraiths feed on memories, not words. But it was after you, Kael. Your weave yesterday—it's like a beacon to them."

Guilt twisted in my gut. My light orb, my reckless need to know, had drawn that thing.

"I didn't mean to," I said, voice low. "I just… wanted to understand."

Her expression softened, just a flicker.

"I get it. Weaving's a pull you can't ignore. But you're not like the rest of us, Kael. You don't lose anything." She paused, her voice quieter. "That's dangerous."

Dangerous. The word hung between us, heavy as the ash outside. I shifted, my pouch brushing my leg, the cinders inside still warm.

"You said Lyra's in Skyloft Varn," I said, changing the subject. "How do we get there?"

Veyra sat on a mossy root, her cloak pooling like ink.

"It's a floating fortress, guarded by Veilkeepers—Skyweavers trained to kill. I know a smuggler's path, but it's risky. Your weaves need to be quieter, controlled. Or we're both dead."

"Training?" I raised an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood. "I made a light orb. I'm not hopeless."

She snorted, tossing me a cinder from her pouch. It was larger than mine, glowing brighter.

"Prove it," she said, a challenge in her eyes. "Small light, no flare. Go."

I caught the cinder, its warmth grounding me. Her trust, even this small, felt like a lifeline in Thornhollow's chaos.

I sat across from her, the cavern's silence wrapping around us. My fingers moved, tracing the patterns I'd practiced, slower this time, focused. The cinder warmed, then glowed—a faint orb hovering above my palm, steady and soft.

No haze came, no memory slipped.

But something else did—a flash, sharp and foreign.

A Skyloft hall, marble and gold, lit by cinder chandeliers. Lyra, chained to a stone slab, her eyes dull, her face thinner than I remembered. A Veilkeeper in a silver robe spoke, voice cold: "The core's unstable. We need more weavers to stabilize the cinderfall."

Lyra's voice, weak: "You're killing us…"

The Veilkeeper turned, his face hidden, but a cinder glowed in his hand, pulsing like a heart.

I gasped, the orb flickering out. My head pounded, the cavern spinning. Veyra grabbed my wrist, her touch firm.

"Kael, what's wrong? You went pale."

"I… saw something," I said, voice shaky. "Lyra, in a Skyloft. Chained. A memory, but not mine."

The image burned in my mind—Lyra's pain, her voice breaking. My chest tightened, anger mixing with fear.

Veyra's eyes widened, her grip tightening.

"You glimpsed a memory? That's… impossible." She pulled back, studying me like a puzzle. "What else can you do, Kael?"

"I don't know," I admitted. The glimpse had left me dizzy, like I'd run through Thornhollow's deepest tunnels. "She's alive, Veyra. But they're hurting her, using weavers for something called the core."

Veyra's face hardened, her scar stark in the glow-moss light.

"The Veil's core," she said. "It's a machine, hidden in Skyloft Varn. They're amplifying cinderfall, draining weavers to keep it running. That's why I left." She stood, pacing, her cloak swishing. "If you can see memories, you're more than a key—you're a threat to them."

Her words sank in. My gift wasn't just freedom from loss—it was a weapon. But the glimpse had cost me, my head still throbbing.

"Can you teach me to control it?" I asked, standing to meet her.

She nodded, stepping closer.

"We'll try. But no more weaving in public. Veilkeepers have spies, even in Thornhollow." Her hand brushed mine, steadying me, and my pulse jumped—not from the pain. Her closeness, her resolve—it stirred something I hadn't felt since Lyra's laughs filled my days.

"Deal," I said, voice low.

I wanted to say more, to ask about her scar, her lost home, but a shout cut through the cavern.

"There!" A scavenger's voice, sharp and close. "In the cavern!"

I froze, Hemlock's face flashing in my mind—his stare yesterday, his silence. Veyra's eyes met mine, wide with alarm.

"Hemlock sold you out," she whispered, weaving a new light, faint but sharp. "Veilkeepers are coming."

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Veilkeepers—Skyweavers who hunted threats to their order. If Hemlock had told them about my weave, about Veyra, we were dead.

I grabbed Veyra's arm, pulling her toward the crevice we'd entered.

"We need to move."

She nodded, her light dimming to avoid detection. The cavern's glow-moss seemed brighter now, exposing us. Footsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate—not scavengers, but trained hunters.

I cursed under my breath. Hemlock had always been greedy, but selling me out this fast? I'd underestimated him.

Veyra's hand slipped into mine, guiding me through the crevice. Her touch was warm, steady, and for a moment, I forgot the danger.

"Stay close," she whispered, her breath brushing my ear. "I know these tunnels."

I followed, my lean frame scraping the narrow walls. The glimpse of Lyra burned in my mind—her chains, her pain. I had to reach her, but first, I had to survive.

Veyra's cloak brushed my arm, her pace relentless. She'd risked everything to warn me, to help me. I didn't understand why, but I trusted her—more than I'd trusted anyone since Lyra.

The footsteps grew louder, a cinder's glow flickering behind us.

A Veilkeeper's voice, cold and commanding: "Find the boy. His Spark's too bright."

My blood ran cold. They knew. Not just about my weave, but my Spark—my gift.

Veyra's eyes met mine in the dim light, a silent promise: we'd make it.

But the tunnel ahead split, and a new hum rose—not an Ashwraith, but something worse.