South Pass, Border Outpost
I never liked ruins.
They remind you how easy it is for permanence to be a lie.
Cracked stone pillars, half-swallowed by moss. Broken rooftops that let the wind whistle through like a ghost's breath. And silence—deep and cold. Not peaceful. Just... hollow.
This one used to be a chapel. Not much left now but some scorched pews, shattered stained glass, and the altar stone. That had held.
Of course it had.
It was marked.
I ran my fingers along the edge of it, brushing off soot and ash. The old symbol of the Oathbound was still there—half-faded, but unmistakable. A sword plunged through a sun.
Fitting, now.
"Still warm," I muttered.
My voice didn't echo. The air was too thick with smoke.
I stood up straight, letting my coat fall back over my shoulder. The wind cut through the broken arch behind me, brushing cold fingers over my skin. The Rift was near. I could feel it humming. Closer than before.
My boots crunched on broken glass as I turned away from the altar.
Three bodies lay in the center of the chapel.
Fresh.
Still armored.
Still breathing, barely.
One of them coughed, blood bubbling at the edge of his mouth. He looked up.
His eyes widened. Recognition settled in like frost.
"You…"
I didn't answer.
He struggled to speak again, something like disbelief trying to crawl out from his throat. "You were dead…"
"I was," I said simply.
I crouched beside him.
This one, I remembered. Ser Fenric Doral. One of the youngest knights in my unit. Too proud. Too eager. The kind who'd smile as he swung the blade.
He had spat at my feet the day they cast me down the Rift.
"Why?" he rasped.
"Why did I survive?" I asked, tilting my head. "Or why am I here now?"
He didn't answer.
So I stood up and left him bleeding.
There were bigger questions to answer.
I stepped out through the broken front door into the ruins of what used to be a village. Most of the homes were nothing but bones now—timber frames, stone walls, fire-blackened and cracked.
And the people?
Gone.
Or worse.
The Umbravine didn't kill cleanly.
I pulled my hood over my head as the wind howled again. A black bird passed overhead. Just one.
A raven.
They always came after.
I started walking. Away from the ruins. Away from the chapel.
Towards the Rift.
Toward the thing they were all still trying to hide.
***
It wasn't long before I reached the cliff.
There it was.
The Rift split the land like a raw, open wound—jagged, endless, and defying all sense of geometry. Thick with dark mist that shimmered faintly in unnatural colors. Like oil over blood.
I stared into it.
Ten years ago, I was cast into that abyss. My hands bound. My oath severed. Branded a traitor by the very people I bled for.
No trial. No words. Just silence.
They thought it would be the end of me.
They were wrong.
I don't know how I survived. Not exactly. The Rift doesn't have rules. It has... hunger. And memory. And something else. Something old.
It whispered to me in the dark. It showed me things. Not lies.
Truths.
It stripped away my fear.
It gave me back my name.
Now I stood at its edge again. Not as a prisoner. Not as a knight.
As something else.
I dropped to one knee and placed my hand on the earth. Felt the tremble.
Mana here was thick. Wrong, but alive.
The Rift was stirring.
That meant they'd noticed.
They'd start sending their pets soon.
Oathbound Inquisitors.
Enforcers of silence.
I stood.
Let them come.
I had waited long enough.
It was time the world remembered who they buried.
***
Elsewhere
The capital city of Lysendor still gleamed.
It was always gold.
Gold roofs. Gold towers. Gold trim on every statue, every spire, every damn button on the knight uniforms.
But gold meant nothing to Elira Maren anymore.
She stood still on the terrace of the High Citadel, overlooking the main square where the banners of the Oathbound hung in the wind. Her armor gleamed white and silver—polished until it caught the morning light just right.
To the people below, she probably looked like a statue. Untouched. Untouchable.
She hated it.
Behind her, the great hall buzzed with nobles and commanders barking orders and sipping wine like the world wasn't unraveling at the seams.
Elira stayed silent.
She had received word this morning.
A chapel near the eastern perimeter had gone dark.
No word. No survivors. Just a smoldering crater and a witness babbling about shadows in armor and a man with a voice like thunder.
She knew who it was.
She had known the moment the Rift stirred two days ago.
Kalen was back.
Elira's grip tightened on the railing.
Ten years.
Ten years since they cast him down.
And ten years since she'd watched it happen and said nothing.
She closed her eyes.
He had trusted her more than anyone. And when the moment came, when her voice might've changed something—she had stayed silent.
Coward.
The word burned behind her teeth.
A voice behind her interrupted the thought.
"Lady Maren," came the clipped, formal tone. "The Grand Knight requests your presence."
She didn't turn.
"Tell him I'm preparing for departure."
"Departure? But—"
"I'm going to the border."
The soldier paused.
Then bowed.
"Yes, my lady."
She waited until she was alone again.
Then opened her eyes.
The banners fluttered in the wind.
The sun reflected off the gold and silver below.
It all looked so perfect.
But the world was cracking.
And Elira Maren was going to meet the man she left behind.
Whether to save him or stop him—she didn't yet know.