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Threads of the Fallen
Chapter 12 : Arcon Vespera

Chapter 12 : Arcon Vespera

As Solin made his way through the Sanctum of Aether's dim corridors, his thoughts were heavy. The weight of the meeting lingered in his mind, but the conversation with Captain Arcon had barely scratched the surface of the conflict they were about to face. The Weave was unraveling, and he could sense the ripple of its collapse beneath his skin. The rogue Weavers, whatever their intentions, were a growing threat—and Solin knew all too well what havoc they could wreak.

His boots clicked against the stone, the only sound in the otherwise silent halls. He had nearly reached his quarters when a hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him to a halt.

"Solin."

The voice was sharp, cutting through his thoughts with a challenge. Benedict Voss stood behind him, his tall frame casting a long shadow on the walls. His piercing blue eyes glinted with barely contained energy, and there was no mistaking the challenge in his posture. Benedict's grin stretched across his face, wide and dangerous.

"You said we would fight," Benedict growled, his voice filled with anticipation. "I've been waiting long enough."

Solin's lips twitched into a slight smirk, but there was no humor in it. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword, Solin's weapon of choice—one that could become anything the wielder imagined. He was already aware of the danger Benedict presented, a highly skilled warrior of the Order, a man who thrived on combat, yet there was something more today—an undercurrent of restless aggression.

"Not now, Benedict," Solin replied coolly, his voice betraying none of the tension building between them. "There are bigger things to worry about."

But Benedict wasn't the type to let anything go that easily. With a swift movement, he pulled his sword free, the blade catching the faint light from the torches along the corridor. The steel sang as it sliced through the air, aiming for Solin in a practiced arc.

Solin stepped back just as the blade came crashing down where he had been standing. In a single fluid motion, he drew his own sword, the hilt practically melding with his hand as the blade transformed, shifting from its usual sleek form into a long, serrated whip that cracked through the air like a whip of pure energy. He blocked Benedict's blow effortlessly, their swords clashing with a resounding strike that echoed through the corridor.

"You really want this, don't you?" Solin asked, his voice calm, though there was a glimmer of something darker in his eyes.

Benedict's grin only widened, his eyes burning with intensity. "Always. You've got your way with the Weave, Threadbane, but I want to see if you can handle me, too."

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They circled each other, blades flashing in the dim light. Solin could feel the power of Benedict's strike, the raw force behind every movement, a reflection of the warrior's unyielding drive for dominance. Yet, for all his power, Solin remained as calm as ever, letting his weapon twist and flow in response to each attack, his movements almost languid compared to the aggression Benedict displayed.

Just as Benedict lunged again, with the force of a wild storm, Solin twisted his sword into a jagged, spiked form, attempting to trap Benedict's blade with a quick, calculated motion.

But before either could press further, a sudden presence filled the space. A commanding, almost tangible pressure made itself known, one that neither Solin nor Benedict could ignore.

"Enough."

The voice was soft but firm, echoing with an authority that sent a chill down both men's spines. Captain Arcon stood at the far end of the hall, her silver hair cascading down her back, glowing faintly in the dim light. Her eyes were steady, focused not on Solin or Benedict, but on the destructive potential of their clash.

The air seemed to thrum around her, the Weave itself responding to her presence as her gaze swept over the two men. Time itself seemed to slow, the very atmosphere shifting as if bending to her will.

Solin felt the pull of the Weave, the Threads around him tangling and tightening in the presence of Arcon's power. He knew the feeling too well—the subtle manipulation of reality at her command. It wasn't just the pressure of authority; it was a demonstration of what Arcon could do. The Weave folded under her touch, responding to her command without hesitation.

"Do you both realize the stakes?" Arcon's voice was calm but carried an undeniable weight. "The Weave is unraveling. We cannot afford to waste time with petty squabbles."

Benedict's sword hung loosely at his side, but the tension in his frame remained. He met Arcon's gaze with something resembling respect but also a slight edge of defiance. "We needed to settle something," Benedict muttered under his breath.

Arcon's eyes flicked to him, her expression unreadable. Without speaking further, she raised her hand slightly, and the very air around them rippled as the Weave reacted to her command. Time itself seemed to stretch for a brief moment, elongating the seconds as if the world held its breath. The sensation was overwhelming, a brief taste of her true power. Then, with a sharp motion, she released her hold, and the world snapped back into its usual flow.

Solin felt it—a slight dizziness, a fracture in his sense of time. Benedict's eyes widened in realization. He knew the price of such manipulation, and he wasn't foolish enough to challenge it.

"Next time," Benedict said with a gruff chuckle, sheathing his sword. "We do this when the world isn't falling apart."

Arcon nodded, her gaze flicking to both men. "When the Weave is truly at risk, we fight for the right reasons. Not for our pride."

Solin said nothing but offered a nod of acknowledgment, his mind already racing back to the task at hand. There was no room for personal grudges in this war. The Weave was unraveling, and it would take more than pride to fix it.

As the tension in the corridor subsided, Arcon turned to leave, her steps echoing in the silence, her every movement resonating with the authority of someone who understood the delicate balance of the Weave all too well.

Solin's thoughts remained heavy. The stakes were higher than ever, and time—whether manipulated or not—was running out.