The mist rolled in thick that night.
It did not creep in slowly from the forests.
It did not rise gently from the rivers.
It poured in like smoke from a dying fire.
And the people of Eldermere felt it.
The doors were locked early.
Shutters bolted tight.
Even the torches lining the village streets burned lower, their flames flickering unnaturally.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
Because something was listening.
Aric stood at the center of it all.
Watching.
Waiting.
Feeling the unease settle deep in his chest.
He had seen fear before.
He had led men into war, seen soldiers tremble before battle, and seen the dying whisper prayers to gods that would not answer.
But this?
This was something else.
This was a fear that did not speak.
A fear that hid behind locked doors and whispered through cracks in the wood.
A fear that did not come from war.
But from the Rift.
He walked slowly through the streets.
The mist clung to his skin.
His footsteps made no sound.
And all around him, the village watched through cracks in their doors.
Not with respect.
Not with loyalty.
But with uncertainty.
With doubt.
With fear.
A voice cut through the silence.
Low. Unsteady.
"People are disappearing."
Aric turned.
A woman stood at the edge of the torchlight.
Her hands clutched a thick wool shawl around her shoulders.
Her eyes—hollow, dark, sunken with exhaustion.
Behind her, more villagers stepped forward.
Faces filled with quiet terror.
And then another voice—
A man, older, his voice shaking.
"It started three nights ago."
He swallowed hard.
"First it was the hunters. Then the farmers. Then the smith's apprentice."
A pause.
Then—
"They were here. And then they weren't."
The mist tightened around them.
A cold, unseen presence settled over the village.
And in that moment—
Aric realized something.
This fear was not just theirs.
It was his, too.
----
Kael found the first mark at dawn.
It was etched into the wood of an abandoned home.
A symbol—not quite writing, not quite a rune.
But something older.
Something wrong.
Kael knelt beside it, tracing his gloved fingers over the markings.
The wood beneath it was rotting.
Not with age.
Not with damp.
But with something else.
Something that crawled beneath the surface, spreading decay from the inside out.
"This isn't natural."
His voice was low, grim.
Lira stood behind him, arms crossed, her expression sharp.
"What does it mean?"
Kael exhaled slowly.
"I don't know."
He straightened, scanning the surrounding buildings.
"But this isn't the only one."
They found more before the sun had fully risen.
Scratched into door frames.
Carved into the beams of barns.
Drawn in the dirt behind homes.
Each one is identical.
Each one radiates something unseen.
Something watching.
By the time they returned to Aric, Kael's expression had darkened.
"This isn't random."
He met Aric's gaze.
"Someone is preparing for something."
Aric's fingers tightened.
Because deep down—
He already knew.
The Rift was spreading.
And the worst had yet to come.
----
That night, the Riftmarked warriors did not sleep.
They stood in the valley beyond the village walls.
Still.
Silent.
Watching the mist as it thickened.
Aric found them at the edge of the village.
"What do you see?"
His voice was quiet, steady.
But they did not answer immediately.
Instead, the oldest among them turned.
A warrior with silver-streaked in his hair, his armor worn but unbroken.
And when he spoke—
It was not just to Aric.
It was to the Rift itself.
"We have seen this before."
His voice was solemn.
"We have seen the mist rise, and we have seen what walks within it."
Aric's breath slowed.
"What is it?"
The warrior's glowing eyes met his.
And when he answered—
His voice was almost reverent.
"Shadows."
A pause.
"The ones who walk before the king."
A silence settled between them.
One heavy with meaning.
Heavy with a warning.
Because Aric understood.
These were not just spirits.
Not just shapeless figures lurking in the Rift's wake.
They were what came before.
Before Aelthar.
Before war.
Before history itself.
And now—
They had come for him.
----
The first dead animal was found at dawn.
It was a horse from the eastern stables, its body twisted, drained, and left in the dirt like a hollowed husk.
The second was a goat.
The third—
A man.
Lira was the first to see it.
She had been patrolling near the outskirts, watching the mist for movement.
She had seen the broken fence, the scattered hay, and the blood streaked across the ground.
And when she followed the trail—
She found what was left of the stable hand.
His body had been torn open.
Not by blades.
Not by wolves.
But by something else.
Something that fed.
Something that had drained him dry.
Lira's breath hitched.
Her hand went to her sword.
But the moment she took a step forward—
Something moved in the mist.
It was not human.
It crouched over the corpse, its limbs long, twisted, shifting between shapes.
Its skin pulsed—dark, shifting between bone and shadow.
Its head snapped up.
It had no eyes.
But Lira knew it was looking at her.
She moved.
Fast.
Her blade flashed, cutting through the air.
But the thing—
The Riftborn creature—
Did not bleed.
It shrieked.
Not a sound, but a pressure in the air, a vibration against the bones.
It blurred into the mist, vanishing, leaving only the hollowed body behind.
And Lira stood there, sword in hand, heart pounding, knowing—
It was still watching.
Waiting.
And it was not alone.
----
Night fell heavy.
The mist did not fade.
It thickened.
It breathed.
And then—
The first shadow stepped into the torchlight.
Aric stood at the village gate.
Kael was beside him, gripping his sword.
Lira was tense, eyes locked on the figures emerging from the fog.
The Riftmarked stood behind them—silent, watching.
They were not men.
They were not warriors.
They were something else.
Tall.
Thin.
Bodies wrapped in what looked like cloth, but moved like mist.
No faces.
No armor.
Only a single symbol is carved into their foreheads.
The same mark Kael had found on the houses.
They did not move closer.
Did not speak.
They simply stood there.
Waiting.
Watching.
Silent.
Aric's pulse hammered.
He stepped forward.
The Rift hummed.
And the figures moved in unison.
A slow bow.
A single whisper rippled through the air.
"He watches."
Lira swore under her breath.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword.
The Riftmarked warriors stiffened.
And Aric—
Aric felt the words in his bones.
Because he knew who 'he' was.
----
Sleep did not come easily that night.
And when it did—
It was not rest.
It was the Rift.
He was standing on a stone.
The sky above him swirled black and blue, Rift energy crackling through the air.
Ahead, a throne stood at the top of a long set of stairs—
A throne made of bone and shadow.
A throne he had seen before.
Aric took a step forward.
His footsteps echoed.
The closer he got, the heavier the air became.
And then—
He saw him.
Someone was sitting on the throne.
He could not see his face.
Only his shape.
Only his presence.
Only his voice.
"Do you remember?"
Aric's breath hitched.
Because the voice—
The voice was his own.
"Do you remember the day you built this place?"
The figure leaned forward.
His features blurred, shifting, forming—
And for the first time, Aric saw himself staring back at him.
But it was not him.
It was Aelthar.
Smiling.
Waiting.
And the Rift whispered in his ears.
"It is time to come home."
Aric woke up gasping.
The mist outside had thickened.
And the whispers had not stopped.