The Weaver of Noon moved with a terrifying, fluid grace that made the jagged floor of the tunnel seem like a ballroom floor. Every tap of his sun-glass cane sent a ripple of artificial heat through the damp air, causing the frost Alicia had painstakingly built to hiss and evaporate. Behind the polished gold mask, his eyes were invisible, but the malice radiating from him was as sharp as a glass shard.
Alicia stepped in front of the stone slab, her blade held low. Her blue aura was flickering, strained by the presence of a man who seemed to swallow the light around him. You aren't taking him, she spat, her voice echoing off the damp walls. He's already paid the price for your Queen's greed.
Paid? The Weaver chuckled, the sound muffled and metallic behind his mask. My dear, he hasn't even begun to settle the debt. That core he swallowed is the heart of the capital's grid. It is the thread that holds the Queen's empire together. He hasn't saved the north; he has simply stolen the sun.
He raised his cane, and the sun-glass orb at the top began to spin. Instead of a blast of fire, dozens of glowing, golden wires erupted from the orb, lashing out like the legs of a spider. They didn't strike Alicia; they bypassed her, weaving themselves into the stone walls and ceiling, effectively sealing the exit with a web of incandescent heat.
Nelluru tried to conjure a lime-green barrier, but the heat from the golden wires was so intense it charred her mana before it could manifest. It's a cage! she cried, shielding her eyes. He's sewing us in!
Clevatess stirred on the slab, his fingers twitching against the granite. The silver thread Alicia had woven into his skin began to pulse in rhythm with the golden web above. The collision of Absolute Zero and the Weaver's solar lace created a localized storm of steam and sparks. The King's eyes snapped open—the swirling silver within them now sharpening into a cold, focused point.
He tried to push himself up, his midnight-black tunic falling away in burnt ribbons. His movements were slow, burdened by the weight of the star in his soul, but his gaze was locked on the Weaver.
You... Clevatess rasped, the violet light returning to his throat. You talk of debt... while standing in a tomb built by your mistress.
The Weaver stopped his advance, his golden mask tilting to the side. Ah, the King returns to the fitting room. Tell me, Clevatess, how does it feel to wear a garment made of fire? Does it itch? Or does it simply burn away the pretension of your 'royal' blood?
Clevatess didn't answer with words. He reached out and grabbed one of the golden wires with his bare hand. The sound of burning flesh was immediate, but he didn't let go. Instead, the silver thread from his own chest began to bleed into the gold, turning the Weaver's lace into a brittle, violet frost.
The pace of the winter has changed, Clevatess whispered, his zeal flaring like a dying star. And your thread is about to snap.