The first Stalker crashed against the eastern barrier like a wave of liquid darkness. Tomas met it with flashes of crimson light from his palms, his face twisted in concentration. Nessa moved beside him, her crystalline blade humming with energy as she slashed at a second creature attempting to flank them.
From his vantage point, Orin counted five Stalkers—more than Kieran had anticipated. Two assaulted the eastern approach, one probed the western barrier where Kieran and Daren waited, and two more circled the perimeter, seeking weakness.
One of those patrolling Stalkers paused beneath Orin's position, its featureless head tilting as if scenting the air. Orin held his breath, remembering Kieran's words: Stalkers hunted those with the Protocol's mark. Without it, he might be invisible to their senses.
The theory proved incomplete as the Stalker's head snapped up, focusing directly on him.
"So much for being beneath notice," Orin muttered, readying his spear.
The creature's body rippled, joints repositioning as it prepared to climb. Before it could, a blast of shadow energy from Kieran's position drew its attention. The Stalker hesitated, then abandoned Orin in favor of the more potent power source.
Kieran had saved him—intentionally or not. But the distraction cost him focus on his own opponent. The Stalker at the western barrier seized the opportunity, breaching the defenses in a surge of impossible movement.
"Breach!" Daren shouted, swinging a heavy blade at the intruder. Despite his lack of Protocol powers, his skill was evident—the blade connected with the Stalker's form, leaving a gash that oozed dark matter.
The creature recoiled, making that terrible keening sound. But the damage only seemed to enrage it. It lunged at Daren, who barely managed to dodge.
Kieran summoned more shadow energy, tendrils of darkness wrapping around the Stalker, trying to restrain it. "Seal the breach!" he yelled to Daren, who scrambled to reinforce the damaged barrier.
At the eastern approach, Tomas and Nessa were being forced back step by step. The two Stalkers attacking them had coordinated their assault, one drawing fire while the other probed for weaknesses.
In the center of the camp, Marisa stood frozen, the mark on her arm glowing faintly. Fear paralyzed her, the new power within her untapped and useless.
Orin made a decision. He descended from his position, moving toward the eastern barrier where the pressure was most intense. If the Stalkers sensed the Protocol's power, perhaps he could use their disinterest in him to his advantage.
"Tomas!" he called, approaching. "Let me through!"
The young man glanced at him in confusion. "What?"
"The barrier—open it for a second. Trust me!"
Tomas hesitated, then placed his palm against a symbol etched into the stone. A narrow opening appeared.
Orin didn't think—he moved. Slipping through the gap, he emerged on the other side of the barrier, now face-to-face with the two Stalkers. His heart hammered against his ribs, every instinct screaming at him to run.
Instead, he charged.
The Stalkers paused, momentarily confused by this unmarked human rushing toward them rather than away. Orin used that hesitation, driving his spear into the nearest creature's midsection.
The weapon sank into its form like piercing thick oil. The Stalker shrieked, body contorting around the intrusion. Orin tried to withdraw the spear, but it was trapped in the creature's semi-solid mass.
The second Stalker recovered from its surprise, lunging toward Orin with terrible speed. He released the spear and dove aside, feeling the rush of air as the creature missed him by inches.
Now weaponless, Orin scrambled backward as both Stalkers focused on him. His diversion had given Tomas and Nessa a moment to recover, but at what cost?
"Orin!" Nessa shouted, her blade flashing as she struck at one of the Stalkers through the barrier. The crystal edge sliced through the creature's shoulder, drawing another shriek.
The injured Stalker turned away from Orin, focusing on the more immediate threat. It slammed against the barrier with renewed fury, the structure groaning under the assault.
The second Stalker, however, remained fixed on Orin. Its head split open, revealing that terrible drill-bit maw.
"Not good," Orin muttered, backing away. His foot struck a loose stone, sending it skittering across the ground.
The sound gave him an idea. He snatched up the stone, hurling it as far as he could away from the camp. The Stalker's head tracked the movement—just enough distraction for Orin to lunge for his embedded spear.
His fingers closed around the shaft, and he pulled with all his strength. The weapon came free with a sound like tearing fabric, dark matter clinging to the blade.
The Stalker rounded on him again, but Orin was ready. He held his ground until the creature charged, then stepped aside at the last possible moment, driving the spear upward through what might have been its throat.
The Stalker convulsed, its form rippling violently. Orin maintained his grip on the spear, forcing the blade deeper, twisting. With a final, terrible wail, the creature collapsed, its body dissolving into a puddle of oily darkness.
Orin had no time to process his victory. The second Stalker had breached Tomas and Nessa's barrier, forcing them into direct combat. Without thinking, Orin charged again, spear held low.
He caught the creature from behind, blade piercing what might have been its spine. The Stalker spun with unnatural speed, the movement wrenching the spear from Orin's hands. A limb lashed out, catching him across the chest, sending him flying backward.
He hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs. The Stalker loomed over him, ready to finish what it had started. But before it could strike, a blast of crimson energy from Tomas caught it in the side, staggering it.
Nessa followed, her crystal blade slicing clean through the creature's neck. The Stalker's head fell, dissolving before it hit the ground. Its body remained upright for a heartbeat, then collapsed.
Orin pushed himself to his feet, chest burning where the Stalker had struck him. "The others?" he gasped.
"Still fighting," Nessa replied, already turning toward the camp.
Inside, chaos reigned. The Stalker that had breached the western barrier was engaged in combat with Kieran, shadows and darkness clashing in a surreal battle. Daren had abandoned the barrier repair to face a second intruder, his heavy blade keeping the creature at bay through skill alone.
But it was the fifth Stalker that drew Orin's attention. It had somehow bypassed the defenses entirely and now advanced on Marisa, who stood paralyzed in the center of the camp.
"Marisa!" Orin shouted. "Use your power!"
Her eyes, wide with terror, met his. The mark on her arm flared brighter, but nothing happened. The Stalker sensed the Protocol's energy, its head splitting into that horrific maw as it approached.
Orin ran, but he knew he wouldn't reach her in time. None of them would.
"Focus!" he yelled. "The Protocol chose you! It saw something in you that it didn't see in me! Prove it right!"
Something in his words reached her. Marisa's expression shifted from terror to determination. She raised her marked arm, palm facing the advancing Stalker.
Nothing visible emerged, no energy or light. But the Stalker suddenly froze mid-step, its body shuddering. A high-pitched keening escaped its maw, different from before—this was a sound of fear.
The creature began to tear at its own form, limbs ripping into its torso, head twisting unnaturally. It was as if it were fighting some invisible enemy, or perhaps itself.
"Mind Weaving," Tomas breathed from beside Orin. "She's inside its head."
Marisa's face was a mask of concentration, blood trickling from her nose with the effort. The Stalker's form began to collapse inward, folding and twisting until nothing remained but a small puddle of darkness on the stone floor.
She lowered her arm, swaying on her feet. Orin rushed forward, catching her before she fell.
"I saw it," she whispered, eyes unfocused. "Inside its mind. It was... once human."
Before Orin could process that disturbing revelation, a shout from Kieran drew his attention. The Stalker he battled had gained the upper hand, its form enveloping Kieran's shadows, consuming them. Kieran fell back, his power seemingly neutralized.
The creature advanced for the kill.
Without Protocol powers or even a weapon, Orin had only one option. He lowered Marisa gently to the ground and charged, tackling the Stalker from behind.
It was like embracing liquid darkness—cold, slick, and writhing with unnatural life. The creature bucked, trying to dislodge him. Orin clung with desperate strength, his arms sinking into its form.
"Kieran! Now!" he shouted.
Understanding flashed across the scarred man's face. Kieran thrust his palm forward, a concentrated beam of shadow energy striking the Stalker directly where Orin had created an opening.
The creature's form destabilized, pieces of it dissolving into vapor. Orin released his hold, falling backward as the Stalker imploded with a sound like air rushing into a vacuum.
Silence fell across the camp. Daren stood over the dissolved remains of the last Stalker, his blade dripping with dark matter. Nessa and Tomas were reinforcing the breached barriers. And Marisa sat where Orin had left her, staring at her hands in wonder and horror.
Kieran approached Orin, extending a hand to help him up. "That," he said, "was either the bravest or the most foolish thing I've ever seen."
Orin accepted the help, wincing at new pains layered over old ones. "Is there a difference in the Rift?"
A grim smile crossed Kieran's face. "No, I suppose there isn't."
They gathered in the center of the camp, checking injuries, reinforcing defenses. Orin's chest bore new wounds where the Stalker had struck him, but nothing life-threatening.
"You killed one," Daren said to him, breaking his usual silence. "Without the Protocol. Without powers." There was newfound respect in his voice.
"Two, actually," Orin corrected, then shrugged. "Luck, mostly."
"No," Kieran said thoughtfully. "Not luck." He was studying Orin with new intensity. "Something else."
Marisa joined them, still pale but steady on her feet. "I felt it," she said. "When I was using the Mind Weaving. I could sense all of you—your thoughts, your emotions. But Orin..." She shook her head. "Orin was different. Like there's something in him the Rift can't read."
"Impossible," Tomas argued. "The Protocol sees everything. That's why it rejected him."
"Did it, though?" Nessa wondered. "What if it didn't reject him? What if it couldn't categorize him?"
Kieran's expression darkened. "There are stories... legends of anomalies in the Rift. Those who don't fit the Protocol's design." He stepped closer to Orin. "Roll up your sleeve."
Confused, Orin complied. His forearm bore no mark like the others, just old scars from a life of fighting.
Kieran examined the unmarked skin, then pressed his palm against it. Shadow energy flickered between them, and Orin flinched at a sudden burning sensation.
When Kieran removed his hand, there was still no visible mark. But to everyone's shock, the skin where he had touched seemed to absorb the ambient light, appearing slightly darker than the surrounding area.
"What does it mean?" Orin asked.
Kieran shook his head, troubled. "I don't know. But the Protocol didn't reject you, Orin Kael. It just didn't know what to do with you." He looked around at the others. "Which means neither do I."
The implication hung in the air, unspoken but clear. If Orin was an anomaly in the Rift's design, he was either useless—or very, very dangerous.
And in the Hollow Rift, dangerous things rarely survived for long.