The fires had burned out.
The dead had been buried.
The battle was over.
But the sky—
The sky had not changed.
A storm should break when the war ends.
That was what Aric had always known.
That was what was supposed to happen.
Yet the clouds had not moved.
The Rift still loomed above Eldermere, its pulsing glow painting the land in shades of deep blue.
Lightning did not strike.
Thunder did not roll.
The air did not clear.
It simply… lingered.
As if waiting.
"Why won't it leave?"
The question came from one of the villagers, a man standing at the edge of the square. His voice trembled.
People had gathered in the streets, staring up at the Rift with wide, uneasy eyes.
They had been waiting for the storm to pass.
For the world to return to normal.
But normal was gone.
And the Rift was still here.
Watching.
An old woman clutched a wooden carving of an old god, whispering a prayer.
A group of men, bloodied from the battle, stood gripping makeshift weapons—as if they could strike the sky itself.
A child hid behind his mother's skirts, peering up at Aric as if expecting him to say something.
To explain.
To fix this.
Aric felt their stares.
Felt their expectations.
But he had no answers.
Because deep down—
He knew.
The Rift had not left because it did not need to.
Because it had already won.
----
Aric's body felt wrong.
Heavy.
Tight.
Like his own skin was no longer his.
He had barely slept since the battle.
Every time his eyes closed, the Rift called to him.
And every time he ignored it, it grew louder.
By the time he finally collapsed into a restless half-sleep, the whispers had settled into a pulsing hum at the base of his skull.
Not words.
Not thoughts.
Just presence.
Waiting.
Watching.
When he awoke, his arms burned.
Not from battle wounds.
Not from exhaustion.
Something else.
Something worse.
He sat up sharply, his breath catching as he yanked back his sleeves.
And there—
Twisting across his forearms, spreading toward his wrists—
Were blackened veins.
Not bruises.
Not wounds.
A mark.
Crawling up his skin like ink spilled into water.
Dark, pulsing, almost alive.
He stared.
His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the Rift's glow outside.
He felt it.
The Rift was inside him now.
Or maybe—
It always had been.
A knock at the door.
Kael's voice.
"Aric. We have a problem."
----
Kael did not step inside immediately.
He stood at the doorway, his usual sharp gaze scanning Aric's face.
Looking for something.
Something wrong.
And when his eyes lowered to Aric's arms—
He went very still.
Aric could see it.
The moment Kael noticed the veins.
The moment he put the pieces together.
But he did not speak of it.
Not yet.
Instead, his voice was low. Steady. Controlled.
"The army hasn't moved."
Aric frowned.
"They haven't attacked?"
Kael shook his head.
"Not a step."
That made no sense.
The noble forces should have charged the moment they saw Eldermere's state.
They had the advantage.
They had the numbers.
So why—
Why weren't they moving?
Kael's jaw tightened.
"I don't like it," he said. "They're just... waiting."
Aric stood, pulling his cloak tighter around his arms, concealing the blackened veins.
He did not know why.
He just knew Kael could not see them.
Not yet.
Not until Aric understood what they meant.
Kael exhaled.
"There's more."
Aric turned to him.
Kael's eyes were sharp. Calculating.
"Some of the villagers want to leave," he said. "They're afraid this war isn't over."
He paused.
"They're afraid of you."
Aric tensed.
He had expected fear from his enemies.
He had not expected it from his own people.
But it made sense.
They had seen what he could do.
They had seen the Rift's touch on him.
They had seen what he was becoming.
For a long moment, Aric said nothing.
Just listened to the hum of the Rift.
To the sound of people whispering in the streets below.
To the weight of Kael's unspoken question.
And then, finally—
He spoke.
"Then let them be afraid."
----
The streets of Eldermere were restless.
Aric could hear it before he saw it.
The murmur of voices—low, uneasy, growing.
The battle was over.
But the fear had not left.
He stepped outside, Kael close behind.
And what he saw was not relief.
It was division.
A crowd had gathered near the center of the village, just outside the remnants of the ruined watchtower.
Two groups.
One angry, desperate, ready for answers.
The other was silent, watchful, afraid.
And at the center—
Lira.
Standing with her arms crossed, listening.
A man stepped forward—one of the older villagers, his face lined with age and grief.
His hands shook.
Not from weakness.
From rage.
"You need to listen to us," he growled.
Lira's eyes narrowed. "I am."
The man jabbed a finger toward the sky.
"That thing hasn't left. And neither have the monsters sitting outside our walls."
He turned, his voice rising.
"And we all know why."
The weight of their stares shifted.
Fell on Aric.
And suddenly—
The whispers in the crowd grew sharper.
"It's him."
"It wasn't like this before he came."
"The Rift is calling to him."
"Or he's calling to it."
Lira's face tightened.
"Enough," she said, stepping forward. "You're afraid, I understand that. But turning on each other isn't the answer."
The old man shook his head.
"This isn't about fear."
His eyes locked onto Aric's.
"This is about whether he is even still one of us."
The crowd shifted.
No one spoke.
Because no one knew the answer.
Not even Aric himself.
Kael's voice was quiet, but firm.
"If you want to leave, leave."
Some of the villagers looked away.
Because they had already considered it.
A woman stepped forward—younger, but just as angry.
"You ask if we want to leave?" she snapped. "Where would we even go? The nobles want us dead. The Riftmarked will kill us or worse. And the land beyond Eldermere is already rotting!"
She took a shaking breath.
"But if it comes down to it, I'd rather take my chances out there than wait here to see what happens to him."
Silence.
A choice had been made.
Not openly.
Not yet.
But Aric could feel it.
The Rift's presence pressed against his mind.
It was changing him.
And they all knew it.
----
The Rift had always whispered.
It had always been a murmur, a pull at the edges of his thoughts.
Something he could ignore.
Something he could resist.
But not tonight.
Tonight, it did not whisper.
Tonight, it did not pull.
Tonight—
It took.
It began with sound.
A low hum, deeper than thunder, vibrating through the ground, through his bones.
At first, he thought it was distant.
Then he realized—
It was inside him.
His vision blurred.
The village around him flickered.
And suddenly—
He was somewhere else.
A city.
A kingdom.
A palace of black stone and burning banners.
The air choked with incense, blood, and fire.
And at the center—
A throne.
Of bone.
Of ruin.
Of his.
"Aelthar."
The voice was not a whisper.
It was not a memory.
It was a name.
His name.
Aric staggered, clutching his head.
The village tilted around him, reality-warping at the edges.
He felt the weight of something pressing against his mind.
Not gently.
Not patiently.
But with force.
Kael's voice sounded distant.
"Aric!"
And then—
Everything snapped.
----
Pain ripped through him.
His vision fractured.
He fell to his knees.
And the last thing he heard before the darkness took him—
Was his own voice.
Speaking words he did not choose.
"You called. I have come."
The world vanished.
When he woke, it was not morning.
The storm had not moved.
Kael and Lira stood over him, tense, uncertain.
And when Aric tried to speak—
His voice was not his own.
His hands burned.
His veins pulsed with Rift-light.
And the Rift—
For the first time—
Was silent.
As if it had finally found what it was looking for.