Archmage Raelendra watched as the essence filled the center of the circle, sinking into the blood weave and strengthening it. Pure weave, pure magic flexed for a moment in the middle of the ritual. Raelendra and the rest of the Archmagi reached with all of their skill and all the power they had strived for so long to attain, they reached into the very weave of the world and tried to knot the new weave into the old. Knot an artificial weave into the very fabric of the world.

She strained, her long blond hair waving in an unnatural wind, sweat dripping down her forehead and stinging her fierce green eyes, strained to even knot a single thread to the wild weave that bordered the Outlands.

If any beings in the world had any hope of repairing the wild weave, it was the Empire of Azmael. Their spellweavers were second to none, at least none in living memory. Raelendra finally let go of one thread and grabbed another. The Emperor demanded the wild weave be repaired, demanded the Outlands be reclaimed, in the name of his Empire and his subjects would move the very world itself to give him his every desire.

One of the Archmagi slipped, his grip on the magical weave failing suddenly. There was a sound like flesh ripping and a blast of brilliant light. Raelendra lost her grip on the weave as the magics they had woven in the ritual were unleashed.

Incomplete.