The first warhorn shattered the silence as the sun dipped beneath the horizon.
A single, deep bellow, followed by another. Then another.
And then—
The first arrow struck.
A black shaft, its iron tip gleaming in the dying light—then dozens more, slicing through the air in a deadly arc.
The battle had begun.
Eldermere's walls trembled as House Valtor's forces charged.
Knights in gleaming armor surged forward, their banners whipping in the wind. The flames from the burning outskirts cast long, flickering shadows over the valley, painting their charge in war colors—gold, crimson, and death.
Their battle cries shattered the uneasy quiet, the sound of men fighting to hold onto what little control they had left.
Because they could not allow the Riftmarked to win.
Even if it meant razing Eldermere to the ground.
But the Riftmarked did not charge.
They did not roar.
They simply moved forward.
Silent. Relentless. Unstoppable.
Their tattered armor bore no sigils, no house banners. Just scarred steel and darkened cloth. Their weapons, rusted but wickedly sharp, met the gleaming blades of the noble knights with a sickening crunch of metal against bone.
And then, the first noble fell.
Aric saw it clearly—a knight, strong and armored, cut down in an instant. A Riftmarked blade pierced through the gaps in his plate, slipping into his flesh as easily as a whisper.
And the moment his body hit the ground—
The Rift reacted.
The land trembled beneath them.
A pulse, faint at first, but growing stronger.
As if the Rift was watching.
As if the Rift had been waiting.
Aric stood on the walls, staring down at the chaos, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword.
His forces—those who had survived the siege—were caught in between.
The nobles were dying.
The Riftmarked were waiting.
And the Rift—
It was calling him.
----
A single heartbeat.
Then another.
Faster. Louder.
The Rift was alive.
The storm above swirled, twisting upon itself.
Dark clouds stretched in unnatural patterns, curling like tendrils of smoke reaching toward the valley. The air grew thick, heavy with something unseen.
Something wrong.
And then—
The Rift pulsed.
The battlefield blurred.
For a moment, Aric saw another place entirely.
Not Eldermere.
Not the valley.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere older.
A great hall.
Blackened stone.
A throne of obsidian and bone.
Figures knelt before him, clad in ancient armor, their heads bowed.
And they did not whisper.
They chanted.
"Aelthar rises. Aelthar rises. Aelthar rises."
The vision shattered.
Aric stumbled back, his breath sharp, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
But the words—
The words did not leave him.
Because they had not come from the Rift.
They had come from inside him.
----
A scream.
Not from the Rift.
Not from the villagers.
From Kael.
Aric turned just in time to see Kael collapse.
His friend stood amidst the chaos, a sword buried deep in his side, blood spilling down his armor like ink.
Kael gritted his teeth, trying to stay upright, but Aric could see it—
He was fading.
Falling.
Dying.
And in that moment—
Aric knew.
He had a choice.
The Rift pulsed again.
It was waiting.
It was watching.
And if he stepped forward now—
If he let go of everything—
He would survive.
He would win.
But Kael would die.
The choice was in front of him.
And by dawn, he would have to make it.----
Lira moved on instinct.
A Riftmarked soldier lunged at her, its rusted blade singing through the air, but she was faster. Her sword flashed, slicing across its throat—a strike that should have killed it.
But the thing did not fall.
It barely reacted, staggering for only a moment before pressing forward, blade still swinging.
Lira cursed, ducking the next blow and driving her dagger deep into its chest. She twisted, yanked free—but there was no scream, no collapse.
The Riftmarked felt nothing.
They did not fear pain.
They did not stop.
She could barely see through the smoke and blood, but she knew Aric was still walking.
Still moving toward the Rift.
Her breath burned in her lungs as she cut down another warrior, stepping over the bodies of villagers and knights alike.
But it wasn't enough.
For every enemy she felled, three more stood in their place.
And Aric—
He was almost at the Rift's edge.
Lira gritted her teeth.
She would not lose him.
----
The Rift had never been silent.
Not truly.
But this—
This was different.
The air shook, vibrating with a force beyond sound, beyond thought. The storm above twisted, deep violet light flashing in jagged cracks across the sky.
And then—
The ground split open.
A tear ripped through the battlefield, growing wider, and deeper until it became something else.
Not a wound.
Not a void.
A door.
And beyond it—
Aric saw.
Not with his eyes.
Not with his mind.
With something deeper.
A great hall.
Blackened stone.
A throne of obsidian and bone.
And kneeling before it—
Figures clad in ancient armor, their heads bowed.
And they did not whisper.
They chanted.
"Aelthar rises. Aelthar rises. Aelthar rises."
Aric's pulse thundered in his ears.
Because he knew this place.
Because he had stood here before.
Because this was not a vision.
This was a memory.
----
Lira reached him too late.
She broke free from the Riftmarked, her hands bloodied, her breath ragged.
"Aric!" she screamed.
He didn't turn.
Didn't hesitate.
His feet touched the edge of the Rift.
And then—
He stepped forward.
The world vanished.
Eldermere collapsed into nothing.
The last thing Aric heard—
Was his voice.
"I am Aelthar."