The Obsidian Vaults were never built.
They were folded into existence.
Kaelen stood before a sheer cliff, unremarkable at first glance. But the moment he extended his domain—a thin veil of thought pressing into the bones of the world—he felt the unnatural symmetry buried beneath layers of rock and misdirection.
It wasn't a fortress.
It was a locked pattern.
Aelira crouched beside him, her silver-blade resting loosely against her thigh. She ran a gloved hand along the dark stone. "This place is older than the city we just left."
Kaelen nodded, eye still burning faintly from the Spinner's imprint. "It was hidden more carefully. This wasn't made to be found."
"Yet the Loom showed you this path."
"I'm not sure if that was guidance…" He exhaled slowly. "Or a warning."
With a slow wave of his hand, the thread hidden in the wall shimmered into existence—a narrow, tight strand of golden Weave-light interlaced with symbols that resisted his comprehension.
This thread didn't hum with curiosity.
It judged.
Aelira tilted her head. "You sure you want to pull that?"
"No." He stepped closer. "But it's not really a choice."
He reached out—and plucked the thread.
The wall screamed.
Stone dissolved, peeling back like paper folding in reverse. The cliff face bent in unnatural angles, revealing a yawning black passage that inhaled light and sound alike. Cold air rushed outward, carrying the faint stench of rust, age, and burning silk.
Kaelen didn't hesitate.
He stepped inside.
Interior: Obsidian Vault Threshold
Darkness wasn't the absence of light here.
It was the presence of something else—denser than shadow, older than silence.
The passage narrowed as they walked, lit only by the soft, ghostly glow of Kaelen's Rift eye. The walls pulsed with runic patterns, flickering in recognition.
He began to feel them watching.
They passed murals made of vein-like obsidian threads—depictions of beings with no form, weaving and unweaving the fabric of worlds.
In the final mural, a single figure stood above all.
It wore Kaelen's face.
Aelira reached out but didn't touch. "These are timelines."
He nodded. "Variants. Each mural shows a failed version."
"And the last?"
"Still failing. Just slower."
The corridor ended in a circular vault.
No door.
Just a sphere of translucent energy spinning above a pedestal—a knot of Weavecode bound so tightly it groaned.
A familiar voice pulsed into Kaelen's mind.
"You again. Too soon."
Kaelen stiffened. "What are you?"
"An echo of a lock. A failed defense. A part of you."
The sphere pulsed.
"You were not meant to awaken yet."
Kaelen stepped forward. "And yet here I am."
"Then prove you're ready."
The Vault screamed.
Reality shifted.
Trial Space: Temporal Fold
Suddenly, they stood within a fractured version of the laboratory from the Spindle—the same walls, same binding lights.
Kaelen was back in the chains.
The pain rushed in like a flood. The cold. The bruises. The sound of scalpel against bone.
And he wasn't alone.
Three figures approached—distorted silhouettes of the scientists who once tore him apart.
But something was wrong.
Their faces… were his.
Aelira grunted beside him. "What—what is this?"
Kaelen closed his eyes. "Not illusion. Not memory."
"Then what?"
He looked down at the chains.
"They're asking me if I still fear what I came from."
One of the figures raised a surgical tool—except now, it resembled a mirror. When Kaelen looked into it, he saw himself—not now, but before. Weak. Bound. Begging.
He inhaled.
And exhaled.
The mirror cracked.
The figure hissed, fracturing into dust.
The chains broke without touch.
Kaelen stepped forward. "Not anymore."
Trial Shift 2: Ruined Throne
The scene changed again.
A throne room. Blackened. Shattered.
At its center—a throne built from failed threads, twisted memories, and bones of gods.
On it sat Kaelen.
Or a version of him.
Cold. Dead-eyed. Absolute. The kind of god that no world could survive.
"Is this what I become?" Kaelen asked aloud.
The echo-god sneered. "No. This is what you choose not to resist."
It stood, drawing a sword made of collapsed time.
Aelira moved to Kaelen's side. "Want help?"
He shook his head. "This one's mine."
They clashed—Kaelen's bare hands against a blade forged of entropy.
Every blow the echo landed hurt more than it should have. Not just pain. Doubt.
It was not a physical fight.
It was a test of certainty.
Kaelen bled.
But he never stopped.
"I'm not there yet," he hissed, ducking a final blow and slamming a fist into the echo's chest.
The false god shattered.
And with it, the trial.
They awoke back in the Vault.
The energy sphere had dimmed.
The pedestal cracked open, revealing a thread unlike the one in the Veil City. This one was jagged, sharp-edged—like a scar.
Kaelen picked it up.
The pain was instant—and welcomed.
It surged into him, binding to the Spinner's previous thread. The two merged, overlaying patterns inside his body.
He saw flashes of the next ruin—an altar overgrown with vines and blood.
A whisper followed.
"Three remain."
Back in the open Rift, Kaelen collapsed to his knees. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Aelira knelt beside him. "Kaelen—your veins—"
They glowed. Faint threads of Weavelight pulsed under his skin now.
"I'm becoming a Pattern," he whispered. "Not just a wielder. A part of the code."
"Is that good?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
They turned to face the distant jungle—the looming overgrowth of the next region, where the third ruin waited.
Behind them, the Vault sealed itself with a sigh.
The Weaver walked onward.
And reality, bit by bit, bent to him.