THE LAST STARWEAVER : THE SUNDERING
Chapter 9: The Weeping Stone
The Betrayer kept his word.
He did not fight. He did not hinder. He walked ahead of them, silent and still, the Hounds trailing behind like loyal dogs. The shadows parted before him. The darkness welcomed him.
Zephyra walked behind him, Theron leaning on her shoulder, his breath shallow, his face pale. The wound on his chest was dark—not bleeding, but festering, the shadow of the Betrayer’s magic still clinging to his skin.
“He’s taking us to the Weeping Stone,” Theron said.
“Can we trust him?”
Theron was silent for a long moment.
“No. But we need him.”
The mountain grew steeper.
The air grew colder.
The whispers grew louder.
Starweaver, they hissed. Starweaver. Starweaver. Starweaver.
Zephyra’s legs ached. Her lungs burned. Her eyes stung.
But she kept climbing.
She could not stop.
The Weeping Stone was calling her.
Come, it whispered. Come and weep. Come and grieve. Come and let go.
The Betrayer stopped at the entrance to a cave.
The opening was narrow, barely wide enough for a person, its walls black and smooth. From within, a light glowed—pale and silver, like the light of the Broken Star.
“The Weeping Stone is inside,” he said.
“What do I have to do?”
The Betrayer looked at her.
“You have to face your grief. Your loss. Your pain. You have to let it go.”
“How?”
The Betrayer was silent for a long moment.
“You have to weep.”
Zephyra stepped into the cave.
The darkness swallowed her.
The light grew brighter.
And then—
She was standing in a room.
Not a cave. A room.
A bedroom.
Small and simple, with a bed and a window and a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The walls were painted pale blue, the color of the sky before a storm. The window looked out onto a field—the same field where she had played as a child.
She knew this room.
It was her mother’s room.
The room where her mother had died.
A woman lay on the bed.
Her face was pale, her eyes were closed, her hands were folded on her chest. She was wearing a white dress, simple and clean, and her dark hair was spread across the pillow like a river of night.
She was beautiful.
She was dead.
She was Zephyra’s mother.
“Mom?” Zephyra whispered.
The woman’s eyes opened.
They were brown. Warm. Human.
“Hello, my daughter,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Zephyra walked to the bed.
Her legs were shaking.
“You’re not real.”
“I’m as real as your memory. As real as your grief. As real as your love.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I know. I’ve missed you too.”
“Why did you leave me?”
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t leave you. I was taken. The darkness took me. The same darkness that is hunting you.”
“How do I stop it?”
Her mother reached out.
Her hand was cold.
“You close the door. The door that the Betrayer opened. The door that Seraphina tried to seal.”
“How?”
Her mother smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“You weep. You grieve. You let go.”
Zephyra took her mother’s hand.
Her skin was cold.
“I don’t know how to let go.”
“Yes, you do. You’ve been letting go your whole life. Of me. Of your childhood. Of the village that rejected you.”
“That wasn’t letting go. That was surviving.”
“Same thing.”
“No. Surviving is holding on. Letting go is releasing.”
Her mother squeezed her hand.
“Then release me.”
Zephyra’s tears fell onto their joined hands.
“I can’t.”
“You can. You must.”
“What if I forget you?”
Her mother smiled.
It was a real smile, warm and bright and full of love.
“You won’t forget me. I’ll be with you. In your heart. In your memories. In the love you carry.”
“But it hurts.”
“I know. Grief is love with nowhere to go. But you have somewhere to go now. You have a door to close. A world to save. A future to build.”
Zephyra looked at her mother.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, my daughter. Always.”
The room began to fade.
The walls crumbled. The bed dissolved. The light dimmed.
“Wait,” Zephyra said. “I’m not ready.”
“You’re never ready. No one is.”
“Will I see you again?”
Her mother smiled.
“Every time you dream. Every time you hope. Every time you love. I’ll be there. Watching. Waiting. Loving you.”
She reached out and touched Zephyra’s face.
“Now go. The world needs you.”
Zephyra opened her eyes.
She was in the cave.
The Weeping Stone was before her.
It was a crystal—small and jagged, pulsing with pale light. It floated in the center of the cave, suspended by nothing, waiting.
Tears streamed down her face.
She reached out.
She touched the stone.
The light exploded.
Not the cold light of the Broken Star. Not the warm light of the sun.
A different light.
A light that was grief.
It filled her. Flooded her. Consumed her.
She felt her heart crack and heal. Her soul break and mend. Her mind shatter and reform.
She saw her mother’s face. Her smile. Her tears. Her love.
She saw the day she died. The day the darkness took her. The day Zephyra became alone.
She wept.
She grieved.
She let go.
And then—
Silence.
She opened her eyes.
The crystal was gone.
The light was gone.
The cave was dark.
But she was different.
Lighter.
Freer.
Less afraid.
Theron stood at the entrance of the cave.
His gray eyes were wet.
“You did it,” he said.
“I did it.”
“How do you feel?”
Zephyra looked at her hands.
They were clean.
“I feel like I can breathe again.”