The fires still burned in the distance.
Even from Eldermere's walls, Aric could see the glow of the noble war camp smoldering under the night sky. The black smoke curled upward, swallowed by the storm that still churned over the Rift.
The raid had been a success.
And yet, it hadn't.
The supply wagons were destroyed. The nobles' resources crippled.
But the knights…
They hadn't died like men.
Some hadn't stayed dead at all.
And something—something huge—had begun to rise from the Rift as they fled.
Aric still felt the whispers clinging to his skin.
Not words.
Not voices.
Just a presence, pressing against the edges of his mind.
Something had seen him.
And it knew him.
The warriors limped back into Eldermere, exhaustion heavy in their every movement.
They had lost two men in the escape, cut down by the knights before they could reach the trees.
Yet the silence of the returning fighters was not just grief.
It was unspoken fear.
Fear of what they had seen.
Fear of what they had fought.
No one spoke of the way the knights had moved in unison, like puppets on invisible strings.
No one whispered about the corpses that had stood up again.
But Aric saw it in their tight jaws, their shifting glances.
They knew something wasn't right.
And so did he.
Aric barely made it to his chamber before the pain hit.
A dull ache at first, just behind his ribs.
Then—
A deep, twisting sensation, like something was pressing into his bones.
He staggered, gripping the edge of the wooden table for support.
His vision blurred. The candlelight flickered, stretching long and unnatural against the walls.
Then—
A flash.
He was not in Eldermere.
He was somewhere else.
Somewhere high, towering. A throne room—but not like any he had ever seen.
Not stone.
Not wood.
Bone.
A massive throne of carved, bleached bone, its jagged edges twisting into the air like reaching fingers.
And on that throne—
A man sat.
Or—was it him?
He could not see the man's face.
But he knew.
He knew it was him.
And then, in the distance—a shadow moved.
A figure, stepping forward.
A voice—deep, hollow. Familiar.
"You are remembering."
A sharp knock on the door yanked him back.
The vision snapped away like a thread cut too soon.
Aric inhaled, blinking rapidly. His hands were shaking.
His breathing was unsteady.
He turned his palm over, expecting to see blackened veins, Rift-marked skin.
Nothing.
Just a scarred hand. His hand.
Another knock.
"Aric?" Lira's voice, steady but edged with concern.
He exhaled slowly, pushing down the lingering dizziness.
"Come in."
Lira stepped through the door, eyes sharp, immediately noticing his unsteadiness.
Her brows furrowed. "You look like hell."
Aric let out a slow breath. "We just burned a war camp. I'd be concerned if I looked fresh."
She didn't laugh.
Instead, her gaze drifted downward.
Aric followed her eyes—
To the gash on his arm.
It had been deep earlier.
The kind of wound that would take weeks to properly heal.
But now?
The skin was almost smooth. The cut still there—but barely.
Lira's expression darkened.
"That wasn't like that this morning."
Aric's fingers twitched.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Lira stepped forward, voice lower now.
"What's happening to you?"
Aric had no answer.
Because he didn't know.
----
Lira didn't move.
She just stared at the wound that shouldn't have healed.
Aric pulled his sleeve down, covering it, but the damage was done.
She had seen.
She had noticed.
And now, she wouldn't let it go.
"That's not normal," she muttered, crossing her arms. "And don't tell me it's nothing."
Aric exhaled slowly. "It's nothing that concerns you."
Lira's jaw tightened. "The hell it doesn't."
She stepped forward. "First the Rift. Then the knights who wouldn't stay dead. And now you're healing like this?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"You think that's a coincidence?"
Aric said nothing.
Because deep down, he knew.
It wasn't a coincidence.
It was the Rift.
And it was changing him.
That night, Aric couldn't sleep.
He lay in his chamber, staring at the ceiling, the whispers still coiling around his thoughts.
And then, at some point—
He got up.
His feet moved before his mind fully understood where he was going.
Through the halls.
Past the sleeping villagers.
Past the guards.
Toward the Rift.
The Rift had always been a wound in the land.
But tonight—
It was alive.
The storm above twisted and pulsed. The edges of the Rift glowed faintly, as if breathing.
And Aric felt it reaching for him.
He stepped closer.
The air grew heavier, thicker.
And then—his vision blurred.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to see something standing at the other side.
A figure. Cloaked in shadow.
Watching.
Waiting.
For him.
And for the first time, Aric felt the truth settle in his bones.
The Rift knew him.
Because it had known him before.
And then—
The figure lifted its hand.
Not as a threat.
Not as an attack.
As a greeting.
As if it were saying, "Welcome back."
Aric staggered back, heart hammering.
And the vision snapped away.
The Rift's glow faded.
The wind died.
But Aric knew.
This wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
He returned to the manor before dawn.
But he wasn't alone.
Kael stood waiting in the hall.
His usual smirk was gone.
His eyes flicked to Aric's arm—the wound that should have been there but wasn't.
Then to Aric himself.
And for the first time, Aric saw something new in Kael's expression.
Not loyalty.
Not amusement.
Doubt.