The first fire started in the slums.
A single flickering light in the dark, almost unnoticeable against the backdrop of Velmiris's sprawling cityscape.
Then—another.
And another.
By the time the first screams rang out, the streets were already burning.
The Riftborn moved like shadows, slipping between alleyways, their hollow eyes glowing with unnatural light. They did not move with haste. They did not run, roar, or revel in the destruction.
They set fire to the city.
And watched it burn.
Aelthar stood at the highest balcony of the ruined citadel, his hands gripping the cold stone railing. His gaze swept over his city.
And his city was on fire.
The flames flickered like veins of Riftlight, consuming the wooden homes, the merchant stalls, and the old stone pathways that had existed long before his return.
The people—his people—were running.
Not fighting. Fleeing.
Because they knew.
This was not war.
This was something else.
Aelthar exhaled, his breath slow, controlled. His fingers flexed once, then tightened against the stone.
A voice stirred behind him.
Vaelthas.
"They have started without you," the warrior said. His tone was unreadable, his crimson cloak barely stirring in the heavy heat of the burning city.
Aelthar did not turn.
"They were never mine to command," he murmured.
Vaelthas was silent for a long moment.
Then, with quiet certainty—
"They were never here to serve."
Aelthar's grip on the stone tightened.
Because he already knew that.
But he had not wanted to admit it.
Until now.
----
Aelthar descended the tower alone.
The throne room had long since been abandoned, the shattered remains of a forgotten kingdom littering the steps as he strode toward the city gates.
Beyond the walls—the Riftborn waited.
Not attacking.
Not advancing.
Just watching.
Aelthar walked toward them.
The firelight danced across their armour, making them resemble spectres born from the Riff. Their weapons gleamed, untouched by the blood of war.
Because they had not come to fight.
Not yet.
Aelthar stopped a few paces away, the heat from the burning city pressing against his back.
"You kneel before me," he said, his voice steady. "And now you burn my city?"
One of the Riftborns stepped forward.
It was not the same one who had spoken to him before.
It was taller.
Broader.
And when it spoke,ite was not one voice—but many.
"We do not kneel in service."
The air shifted.
The Riftborn turned their heads, perfectly synchronized, their hollow eyes locked onto him.
"We kneel to wake you."
Aelthar felt the weight of something unseen pressing against his mind.
Not a memory.
Not a vision.
But recognition.
Like the Rift itself was staring back at him.
Like it had been waiting for this moment.
The Riftborn warrior took another step forward.
"You have been sleeping too long, Lost One."
The fire behind Aelthar roared.
And in that instant—he understood.
Velmiris was not a prize to be won.
It was not his kingdom.
It was a sacrifice.
And it had already been offered.
----
Aelthar moved first.
The air cracked as Riftlight surged through his veins, his blade already unsheathed before the Riftborn could react.
Steel met flesh—
Or at least, it should have.
But the Riftborn did not bleed.
Aelthar's sword struck the nearest warrior—and passed straight through.
No impact.
No resistance.
Like cutting through the air.
And then—
The Riftborn moved.
Faster than a man. Faster than a shadow.
Aelthar barely twisted in time to avoid the strike aimed at his throat. He countered, pivoting low, his blade slicing in a clean arc—
And again—nothing.
His sword did not touch them.
But their blades touched him.
The first strike landed against his ribs.
Not steel.
Something worse.
It was cold.
Like the moment before a storm.
It's like standing too close to the Rift.
Aelthar staggered back, his fingers brushing over the wound.
No blood.
Just a lingering ache deep in his bones.
The Riftborn did not press their attack.
They stood still, watching him, waiting.
Because this—this was not about killing him.
This was about something else.
The Rift had opened.
And Velmiris was already falling.
----
Kael moved through the burning streets, his boots slamming against the cracked stone as smoke curled in thick, suffocating waves around him.
Velmiris was gone.
Not in the way a city fell to siege. Not in the way men lost their homes.
This was different.
This was unmaking.
The Riftborn weren't slaughtering indiscriminately. They weren't even chasing the people who fled.
They were choosing.
Kael watched from an alley as a family stumbled out of a ruined home, coughing against the smoke, the mother clutching a child to her chest.
A Riftborn warrior turned toward them.
Kael tensed.
The creature stared.
For a moment, he thought it would kill them.
Instead—it stepped aside.
And the family ran.
Kael's stomach turned.
Because this was worse.
The Riftborn weren't here to conquer.
They were here for something else.
Something Kael didn't understand.
Lira ran.
She had fought in battles before. HI had seen men burn, hand and watched cities fall.
But this wasn't a battle.
It was a purge.
She darted through the narrow streets, her dagger clutched in one hand, the other gripping her side where she'd been slammed into a stone wall moments earlier.
The nobles had been fools.
They had come to kill Aelthar.
But the Riftborn had never been his army.
They had been waiting for something else.
And now—they had found it.
Lira skidded to a stop at the ruined city gates.
They were open.
The Riftborn weren't stopping anyone from leaving.
But as she turned, looking back over the burning skyline—
She hesitated.
Because something inside her told her she couldn't leave.
Not yet.
Not while she still didn't know what Aelthar was about to become.
----
The ground shifted beneath Aelthar's feet.
The Rift pulsed.
And this time—it did not stop.
The sky above Velmiris split.
A single, jagged crack tore through the clouds, a gaping wound in the heavens. From within, Riftlight poured like liquid gold, spilling over the city like a storm of light and shadow.
Aelthar felt it in his bones.
Felt it like a distant memory clawing its way back into his mind.
"You were always meant to wake."
The Riftborn had ceased their attack.
They stood still, weapons lowered, heads tilted toward the sky.
Waiting.
Aelthar's breath came slow. Measured.
Because he understood now.
This was never about him.
Never about Velmiris.
This was about the thing inside the Rift.
And now—it was coming back.
----
Kael reached the city square just in time to see the choice.
Aelthar stood at the heart of the flames, his expression unreadable as the Rift pulsed above them. The Riftborn did not move.
They were waiting for him to decide.
Kael's heart pounded.
Because Aelthar wasn't stopping this.
"Aelthar!" Kael's voice cut through the chaos.
Aelthar turned to face him.
And Kael saw it.
The moment the choice was made.
Aelthar raised a single hand.
And the Rift answered.
The sky roared.
The city cracked.
And Velmiris—Aelthar's grand prize, the throne he had taken, the kingdom he had reclaimed—
It began to collapse.
The Rift did not stop.
It swallowed the city whole.
And Aelthar let it.