The wind howled, a long, mournful cry that seemed to roll out from the bottom of the Rift. El'rian's boots scuffed against jagged rocks as he made his way deeper into the heart of the Rift-the very thing that took his father's soul. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight with the weight of his decision. There was no moonlight here, and the air held a weight as if time had stopped within the grip of the Rift.
Around him, the landscape was a twisted mockery of reality-fractured mountains, dark chasms, and rivers of liquid shadow writhing as serpents, their invisible hands tugging at his feet. He could feel the Rift's malignant weight, pressing down upon him, an unseen force whispering from the corners of his mind, Are you sure you are ready for this, Elrian?
The voices came again, quiet at first, like murmurs on the edge of his awareness.
You are nothing like them, Elrian. You're different. You're the only one who can end this madness. You've come this far. Why stop now?
Elrian gritted his teeth, ignoring the voices. The path was growing colder, darker. He could see the faint flicker of light in the distance. Something was waiting for him. Something—someone.
The closer he came to the source of the light, the more he found himself in front of a great altar, its surface etched with markings that pulsed with eerie unnatural luminescence. The altar itself was obsidian, almost humming with energy-ancient and forbidden. The air around it was crackling with tension. In front of this altar sat a figure completely in shadow-a figure who looked just like Kaelen. But it wasn't him. It was a distortion, a memory twisted by the Rift's power.
Elrian's heart clenched as he approached. The figure turned, its eyes glowing with the same intense blue as the Rift itself.
"Welcome, Elrian," the figure said, its voice a low, rumbling growl. "I've been waiting for you."
Elrian's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade, but he kept it sheathed, his body frozen in place.
"You're not my father," Elrian said, his voice thick with disbelief. "You're just a shadow of him."
The figure chuckled as it shifted, its features melting and flowing like wax until it was more and more like his father's. "I am the shadow of all that Kaelen was, of all that he tried to be." With a voice dripping from bitterness, further it went to say, "The spirit of the Rift. The King who once was a man. But Kaelen was always fated to fail, just as you are.
Elrian's breath was stuck in his throat. Those words were like a knife, burrowing into wounds long past their prime. "I'm nothing like him."
"You are," he whispered, leaning forward. "You will be. You are bound by his fate, his choices. The Rift is your birthright, Elrian. Since you were born, it has been calling to you. It's only waiting for you, too, to slip into its clutches.
Why?" Elrian demanded, voice breaking. "Why do you want me to be like him?"
The figure rose slowly, his form shifting between human and something darker, something monstrous. "Because, child," it said, "you are the heir to the Rift's legacy. You are the one who will finish what he has started. You shall tear the world apart. And in the chaos that follows, we shall be reborn.
"No," Elrian spat, retreating backward in one swift, graceful motion. "I won't do it, I won't be like you. I won't-"
An overwhelming wave of burning agony then boiled into his chest as if responding to an unseen, silent command, a dark churning tendril wrapped about him, contracting to a viselike firmness. Its voice reverberated within his skull.
You still think you can escape your fate? El'rian, you were never meant to be free. You were always meant to be the key to the Rift's destruction, and it is by your power that the world shall come to its knees. This is your real heritage.
Elrian's body quaked, his vision blurred as the energy of the Rift coursed through his frame. His mind shrieked, but the twisted, cold voice of the King filled it.
"You are the master of your fate, or you are the slave of your heritage. Decide, Elrian. Decide who you will become.
These words seemed to ring in his mind then, an accusing question that battered at his soul: was he the master of his fate or another victim falling to the insidious pull of the Rift?
With a great heave, Elrian tore himself from the tendrils of energy, stumbling back, his breath ragged. His trembling hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it, the figure spoke again.
"You can't fight me, Elrian; you can't fight what you are. But I can offer you power: the power to destroy the Rift, to reshape the world in your image. But let me make one thing clear: once you accept, you will never be the same again. You will be the force that tears it all apart."
The power of the Rift pressed in around El'rian's soul as the energy swirled; he felt its will. He wanted to resist, to say no. But it was so seductive. Might he actually do this thing that would stop all of this madness? Might he be the one who could change the world, who would make it better?
The darkness pulsed around him with anticipation.
What should I do?" Elrian had said, hoarseness threatening to take his desperate voice away.
The figure smiled, features melting from Kaelen's into something so much darker. "Accept the power, Elrian. Let it in, into your soul, and you will have the strength to do what needs to be done. But remember, every choice has its price. The more you take, the more you lose.
The hand of Elrian hovered over the altar, his heart racing as the power called to him-a dark promise of freedom and destruction. The choice was before him, and he knew there was no turning back.
But just as he reached forward, the voice of the figure cut through the air once more, his words dripping with eerie finality.
Remember, Elrian, the master of your fate is not yourself, but that of a greater force."
And with that said, Elrian's chest seemed to surge with power from the Rift-a flood of dark energy threatening to consume him. His body shook violently while corruption seeped into his being, managing to twist his mind and distort the view of reality.
His eyes fluttered, his breath shallow, and as the world around him dissolved into chaos, he realized the truth-the Rift was never just a force of destruction. It was a force of corruption, of control. And now it was a part of him.
The eyes of Elrian met with the spirit of the King, and he whispered, "What have I done?
The answer came in the form of an agonizing laugh that echoed through the Rift, drowning out everything else.
You've become us.
Elrian's body trembled as the power of the Rift surged through him. It wasn't a physical sensation—it was a flood of raw energy, invasive and consuming, like a thousand voices screaming in his head. The world splintered around him, and he couldn't tell anymore where the Rift stopped and he began. It was as if the essence of the Rift had become a part of him, infecting his thoughts and twisting his sense of self.
He dropped to his knees, gasping, but the air was thick with shadow, suffocating. The earth beneath him pulsed, beating like a heart, and with every throb, Elrian could feel the Rift's will surging stronger within him, pressing against his mind like a hammer on an anvil.
You are no longer Elrian; you are the Rift. It was the whisper of the voice of the King in his mind, but now more than a whisper, it has become a part of him. The thoughts were not his anymore. The voice of the King became an echo within every corner of his mind and seeped into his consciousness as if it had been a kind of disease.
His hand clutched desperately on the altar, his fingers slipping upon the obsidian surface as he fought for control, for remembering who he was. But the more he fought, the more the Rift shredded him with razor-sharp talons, demanding to be embraced.
The altar quaked beneath him, and the air around was suddenly filled with flash-visions: memories of Kaelen, his father's contorted face when he fell prey to the very same fate. Is this my lot? Is this the price of being alive in a land so riddled with these curses?
His vision blurred, and before he could catch his breath, the ground beneath him yawned open in a chasm that seemed to lead into an endless void. The Rift was no longer just a place; it was a force that lived within him, a relentless hunger, pulling him deeper into its grip.
El'rian's vision shifted, and within the darkness, another form took shape. The twisted King stood before him now, no longer a shadow, but a real manifestation. The face, once Kaelen's, had become a grotesque mask of corruption, its eyes burning with that cold blue light now glowing in his own pupils.
"You cannot escape," the King said, his voice husky with malice. "The power of the Rift is in your blood now. You are mine. You always were."
Elrian's heart was racing, his pulse pounding in his ears. He fought hard against the overwhelming urge to fall to his knees before the King-to accept the gift the Rift offered-but deep down, a voice-his own voice-screamed out in defiance.
"No. I won't be like you," Elrian managed, his voice raw, but resolute. "I won't let you control me."
The King's smile was cold, cruel. "You have no choice, Elrian. The Rift is everything now. It controls everything. You were always meant to be the vessel.
But Elrian shook his head wildly, his mind teetering on the edge of madness as he fought to gather what was left of his will. "I am not a vessel for your power. I won't let it consume me."
The King was laughing, and it ripped through the Rift like the cacophony of a scream, the sound so loud that it was as if the air itself tore asunder. "Foolish child," the King spat, "you still don't understand. The Rift doesn't ask for permission. It takes. It devours. And it always wins.
Elrian's chest constricted, and for a moment, he thought he would lose himself completely to the Rift's overwhelming presence. Fingers sank into the ground, and his fingernails clawed at the jagged rocks beneath him as he struggled for his feet. His vision flickered: flashes of his father's tortured expression, of Kaelen's voice calling to him from beyond the Rift.
Then, a spark of clarity pierced through the darkness. A memory, faint and distant, of his father's final words before his death: "Find your own path, Elrian. Don't let the Rift control you.
Something in Elrian seemed to break at the thought, even as something strong yet within him wrestled with the closing-in darkness. He tried forcing the King's voice out of his head and focusing on what humanity was left in him, on that part of himself which could still nurture the belief that he could decide upon his future.
For a brief moment, the Rift seemed to tremble, as if it, too, recognized the resistance. Elrian rose to his feet, his sword now in hand, its blade glowing with a faint, pale light that pushed back against the overwhelming darkness.
"You want to control me?" Elrian's voice was quieter now, but it held a steely resolve. "Then you'll have to kill me first."
The King's form shifted, its grotesque features twisting into something more monstrous, its body growing larger, its presence suffocating. "You're weak, Elrian," it hissed. "You'll never escape the Rift's grip."
But by now, Elrian wasn't listening anymore. He let out a defiant cry and swung his sword through the air; the blade cut through the darkness like a knife through cloth. It was an anguished howl of protest from the Rift as the power recoiled against the force of his resistance. For a moment, Elrian felt free-like he had won. Deep inside, though, he knew this was far from over.
Yet it lay within him still, and the harder he fought against it, the harder it would fight back.
But as the power of the Rift shrieked in its agony, so did Elrian vow to himself. I will not be its slave. He would resist. He would survive. Even if it meant facing his own demise.
The King's figure in the distance started to stagger, his form sputtering between the shadows. "You may believe you have triumphed, Elrian," he snarled, "but this is only the start. The Rift always reclaims what belongs to it."
Elrian stood firm, his sword held aloft, eyes blazing with determination. "Then let it come. I will not fall.
But beneath, as the Rift pulsed on around him, there formed in his heart a chill, cold dread. The Rift wasn't simply some enemy-the damned thing had a bit of him, too, and he fought this fact in full knowledge that resistance was pointless.
The Rift could not be outlived.