The Smuggler’s Path

The Veilkeepers' footsteps thundered in the tunnel, their cinder-glow flickering like a storm closing in. My heart slammed against my ribs as I squeezed through the crevice, Veyra's shadow ahead, her quick breaths steadying my panic.

The glow-moss cavern was gone, swallowed by Thornhollow's dark, twisting roots. Veilkeepers—Skyweavers who hunted threats—were after me, and Old Man Hemlock's betrayal had led them here.

"Faster!" Veyra hissed, her voice sharp but calm. Her cloak swirled as we darted through the narrow passage, ash and damp earth clogging the air. She'd called this a smuggler's path, used to slip into Thornhollow after defecting. I didn't know how she'd escaped the Skyweavers, but her steady pace said she wasn't letting us die.

A Veilkeeper's voice cut through, cold and precise. "The boy's Spark is bright. Find him!"

My stomach lurched. Hemlock must've seen my weave, my light orb that cost no memory. I'd been reckless, thinking Thornhollow's shadows would hide me. Now Veyra was running with me when she could've vanished alone.

The tunnel widened into a low chamber, roots arching overhead, dripping mist. Cinders embedded in the petrified wood hummed, glowing like trapped stars. Veyra's eyes scanned the dark, her movements sure.

"Stay close," she said. "There's a trap ahead—smuggler tech. Don't wander."

I nodded, breath ragged, Lyra's memory burning in my mind—chained, pleading with Veilkeepers. I had to reach her, but the footsteps were closer, the cinder-glow brightening.

Veyra knelt, fingers tracing the floor for a hidden panel. "Here," she muttered.

A click echoed, too loud. The cinders flared, and a net of glowing sparks shot across the tunnel, blocking our path. It pulsed with heat, the air shimmering like the Veil. I froze, the light stinging my eyes, my cloak too thin against its burn.

"Veyra, what's that?"

"Cinder trap," she said, voice tight. "Skyweaver design to catch smugglers. We can't pass."

She stood, hands weaving patterns, fluid and precise. Her pouch's cinder glowed, and a shield of light formed, flickering but solid, like woven stars.

The Veilkeepers' footsteps stopped, shadows jagged.

"There!" one shouted, and a cinder bolt crackled, spitting heat.

Veyra's shield flared, absorbing it, but she stumbled, eyes clouding—a memory haze.

My chest tightened. She'd warned me about losing her mentor, her home. Now it was happening again, for me.

"Veyra!" I stepped closer, voice sharp with worry. "You okay?"

She blinked, shaking her head, scar stark in the cinder-glow. "Fine," she said, voice wavering. "Lost… a smell, from my old Skyloft." She forced a grim smile, standing straighter. "Move, Kael. I'll hold them."

"No," I snapped. "We go together."

Her haze hit me like a blade—she was losing pieces, like Lyra, and I couldn't stand it. My immunity let me weave freely, but using it now would draw more eyes, make her sacrifice pointless.

Veyra's gaze met mine, searching, then softened. "Stubborn," she muttered, no bite in it. Her hands wove again, the shield pulsing, pushing back another bolt.

The trap dimmed, sparks fading.

"Now!" she shouted.

We dove through, heat grazing my shoulder, singeing my cloak. The tunnel sloped down, air cooler, shouts muffled.

We collapsed against a root, panting, dark wrapping us. Veyra's shield flickered out, her face pale, breath uneven.

My worry sharpened.

"You didn't have to weave," I said, voice low. "You could've—"

"Run?" She cut me off, eyes fierce despite fatigue. "I chose this, Kael. Your Spark's a chance to stop them. I won't let them take it." Her fingers tightened on her pouch, cinder dim.

Her words sank in, warm and heavy. She believed in me, when I barely understood my gift. Her scar, crossing her palm, caught my eye—a story I wanted to know, but couldn't ask. She'd risked her memories for me, a scavenger she barely knew. It stirred something, not like Lyra's warmth, but deeper, scarier.

"We're not safe," Veyra said, standing, brushing ash from her cloak. Her eyes lingered on mine, seeing my worry. "This path leads to Thornhollow's edge. We'll find a skiff to Skyloft Varn. Smugglers don't trust outsiders, so stay sharp."

"How'd you find this tunnel?" I asked, ducking a root. The passage narrowed, air thick.

She hesitated. "When I left the Skyweavers," she said, voice low, "I faked my death in a cinder explosion. This tunnel was my way out. Few know it." Her scar gleamed, maybe from that explosion.

I stopped, staring. "You faked your death?" She'd burned her life to ashes, for freedom. "That's… insane."

She smirked, eyes distant. "Had to. Skyweavers don't let defectors live. If they knew I was helping you…" She trailed off, hand on her pouch.

My chest tightened. Her losses mirrored mine—Lyra, my past—but she'd chosen to fight.

"I won't let them find you," I said, soft. "We'll get Lyra, stop the core. Together."

Veyra's eyes softened, a cinder's warmth. "You're trouble, Kael," she said, but it felt like trust.

The tunnel shrank, air charged.

A rustle broke the silence. I spun, hand on my pouch.

A scavenger, lean and scarred, stepped from the shadows, cinder knife glowing. His eyes locked on me.

"Kael, the weaver," he said. "I know where your sister is. You're gonna want to hear this."

Veyra wove a faint light, ready to strike. My heart pounded. Trap or lead? The knife gleamed, and Veilkeepers' hum echoed. Time was up.

The scavenger's knife cast shadows across the roots. My mind raced—how did he know my name, Lyra? Hemlock's betrayal brought Veilkeepers; this could be worse.

Veyra's light pulsed, her fatigue clear in her trembling hand. I stepped forward, shielding her.

"Who are you?" I demanded, voice steady despite fear clawing my chest. "How do you know Lyra?"

He smirked, twirling the knife. "Name's Toren," he said. "Heard about you, Kael. Word travels when a Driftkin weaves like you. Lyra's in Skyloft Varn, not just a prisoner. They're using her Spark for something big."

His eyes flicked to Veyra, narrowing. "And you, Skyweaver, shouldn't be here."

Veyra's light flared, scar stark. "Call me that again, and you'll eat ash," she snapped, voice shaky from haze. I glanced at her, worry spiking—she'd woven too much, and I couldn't let her lose more.

"Talk," I said, meeting Toren's gaze. "What's happening to Lyra?"

He leaned against a root, coiled. "Join me, and I'll tell you. Got a better way to Varn than her path." He nodded at Veyra, smirk widening. "Decide fast, Kael. Veilkeepers are close."

The Veilkeepers' hum grew louder, cinders glowing behind us. Veyra's eyes met mine, a silent question. Trust Toren, or run? My gift started this, and Lyra's life hung on my choice.

I swallowed hard, the tunnel's damp air heavy. Toren's knife gleamed, his words about Lyra's Spark echoing Lyra's memory—chained, drained for the Veil's core. He knew too much, but his smirk screamed trouble.

Veyra's light wavered, her fatigue a weight on my chest. She'd risked her memories for me, and now we faced another threat. I couldn't let her down, not when her belief in me was all I had besides Lyra.

"Prove it," I said to Toren, voice low. "Give me something real about Lyra, or we're gone."

Toren's eyes narrowed, but he didn't flinch. "She's got a scar, left cheek, from a cinder burn. Keeps a journal, red cord binding. That enough?"

My breath caught—he was right, details only someone close to Lyra would know. But trust in Thornhollow was a trap, and Veyra's warning gaze said the same.

The Veilkeepers' hum spiked, a cinder bolt sizzling past, scorching the root beside us. Veyra's light flared, deflecting it, but she swayed, haze deepening.

"Kael, we can't stay," she whispered, voice strained.

Her sacrifice, her trust—it stirred that spark again, a feeling I couldn't name but wouldn't lose.

"Fine," I said to Toren, heart pounding. "Lead the way. But try anything, and you're ash."

Toren grinned, sheathing his knife. "Smart choice, Kael."

He turned, but the Veilkeepers' glow brightened, and I knew—whatever Toren offered, we were walking into a deeper storm.