The final tunnel was deceptive in its simplicity. Unlike the chambers of trials, this passage seemed almost normal—rough stone walls, gradual upward slope, the distant promise of light ahead. But Orin knew better than to trust appearances in the Rift. He moved cautiously, Axiom crystal held ready in his palm, senses alert for any sign of danger.
Hours passed in monotonous climbing. The air grew steadily cooler, the distinctive metallic tang of the First Layer strengthening with each step. When he finally emerged from the tunnel, the transition was so abrupt it left him momentarily disoriented.
One moment he was in the enclosed passage, the next standing on an open platform of weathered stone, the vast twilight void of the Rift spreading before him. Floating islands dotted the nothingness, some connected by bridges, others isolated in the endless expanse.
The First Layer. The Wailing Grounds.
Orin consulted the crude map the twins had provided. According to their directions, the Spire—his primary landmark—should be visible to the north. He scanned the horizon, finally spotting the twisted column of black stone jutting from a distant island. From there, he could navigate to Kieran's camp... assuming it still existed.
The platform where he stood connected to a larger island via a narrow stone bridge. Beyond that, he could see a chain of landmasses stretching toward the Spire. The path wouldn't be direct, but it was navigable.
As he crossed the first bridge, Orin noted subtle differences in the First Layer since his descent. The ambient light seemed dimmer, the void between islands darker and more turbulent. The atmosphere felt charged, as if a storm were brewing in a place where weather shouldn't exist.
The Rift was changing. Evolving. Responding to something.
To him?
Halfway across the second island—a barren expanse of pale stone—Orin sensed movement behind him. He turned, the Axiom crystal warm in his hand, to find himself facing a Stalker.
Unlike the creatures that had attacked Kieran's camp, this one moved with deliberate precision. It studied him from its featureless face, head tilting slightly as if curious. It made no hostile movements, keeping a careful distance.
"Interesting," Orin murmured. "You're not here to attack me, are you?"
The Stalker's body rippled in what might have been acknowledgment. Unlike the mindless predators he'd encountered before, this one seemed to possess a level of intelligence, of purpose.
On impulse, Orin held up the Axiom crystal. The Stalker reacted immediately, its form trembling as if in recognition or alarm. It backed away several paces before stabilizing.
"You know what this is," Orin realized. "You know what I am."
The creature made that distinctive keening sound, but modulated, almost communicative. It gestured with a too-long limb toward the horizon, in the direction of the Spire.
"You want me to go there?" Orin guessed.
The Stalker made no further sound, simply watching him with that eyeless gaze. After a moment, it began to fade, its form dissolving into the twilight atmosphere until nothing remained.
A warning? A guide? Impossible to tell. But the encounter left Orin unsettled. If the Hollowborn were evolving beyond mindless predators, becoming capable of purpose and communication, what did that mean for the Rift's structure? For the System the Architects had designed?
He continued his journey with renewed caution, alert now not just for threats but for signs of the changes spreading through the Wailing Grounds. The islands he traversed showed subtle evidence of transformation—crystal formations growing where none had been before, vegetation taking on strange new patterns, even the stone itself shifting in texture and resonance.
By the time he reached the third island in the chain, Orin spotted a more concrete sign of change. In the distance, a massive structure floated impossibly in the void—not an island, but what appeared to be a fragment of a modern building. Glass and steel suspended in nothingness, its edges blurred as if still materializing into the Rift.
New arrivals. Fresh tears in reality, bringing more fragments of the world above into this fractured dimension.
The Cycle was accelerating.
As he neared the Spire, Orin began encountering other survivors—small groups of three or four, heavily armed and wary, who gave him a wide berth. Most bore visible Protocol marks, their powers manifesting in brief displays meant to warn rather than attack. None approached him directly, but he felt their eyes tracking his progress, noting the silver patterns visible on his skin.
Word of the Axiom-bearer had spread, it seemed.
From the base of the Spire, Orin could finally see his destination. Three islands to the west, the distinctive stone structure of Kieran's camp stood intact—at least from this distance. Relief washed through him, tempered immediately by caution. Appearances could be deceiving, especially in the Rift.
The journey to the camp took another full day of careful navigation. The connecting bridges were in worse repair than he remembered, some reduced to little more than floating debris requiring precarious jumps to traverse. Twice he encountered Hollowborn—not Stalkers but smaller entities that scattered at his approach, as if his presence itself were a threat.
As he neared the final approach to the camp, Orin slowed his pace. Something felt wrong. The defensive barriers that had surrounded the settlement were intact, but there was no movement visible, no signs of the vigilant watch Kieran always maintained.
Drawing the crystal dagger, Orin approached the main entrance cautiously. The door stood partially open—another warning sign. Kieran was too careful to leave such an obvious vulnerability.
"Hello?" he called, voice carrying in the unnatural stillness. "Kieran? Nessa? Anyone?"
No response.
Steeling himself for what he might find, Orin pushed the door fully open and stepped inside.
The camp had been attacked—that much was immediately clear. Overturned furniture, scattered supplies, scorch marks on the walls where energy weapons had discharged. But there were no bodies, no blood, none of the typical aftermath of a Hollowborn assault.
This had been something else. Methodical. Precise. A raid rather than a slaughter.
"The Coil," Orin muttered, recognizing the pattern from what he'd learned in Haven.
He moved through the camp, searching for any clue to what had happened or where the survivors might have gone—if there were any survivors. Kieran's quarters yielded nothing useful. Nessa's area was similarly ransacked, her medical supplies missing. Tomas's workshop had been stripped of anything valuable.
It was in Daren's space—the taciturn man had kept to himself, occupying a small alcove away from the others—that Orin found the first real clue. Scratched into the stone wall, partially hidden behind a fallen shelf, was a message:
"EAST. SANCTUARY. M ALIVE."
The handwriting was jagged, hurried, but the meaning clear enough. East—away from the Spire, deeper into the Wailing Grounds. Sanctuary—some predetermined fallback position Kieran's group had established. And M alive—Marisa had survived.
Relief washed through Orin, so intense it left him momentarily lightheaded. She was alive. Despite what the illusion in the Lure had suggested, despite the warnings about Mind Weavers burning out their life force, Marisa had survived the effort of reaching across the void to save him.
But the message raised as many questions as it answered. How long ago had the attack occurred? Where exactly was this "Sanctuary"? And how many of Kieran's people had escaped?
Continuing his search, Orin found Marisa's area largely untouched. Unlike the others, her few possessions remained in place, as if the raiders had avoided this section entirely. On her simple cot lay a small object that made Orin pause—a crude figurine carved from pale wood, vaguely resembling a human form with spiral patterns etched into its surface.
A message? A marker? He pocketed it, sensing its importance without understanding its purpose.
As night fell—or what passed for night in the Rift's constant twilight—Orin made a difficult decision. Remaining in the camp was dangerous. The Coil might return, or Hollowborn might be drawn to the lingering energy of the attack. But setting out blindly toward the east, with only the vague promise of "Sanctuary," carried its own risks.
In the end, it wasn't reason but instinct that decided him. The Axiom crystal pulsed warmly in his hand, responding to his uncertainty with what felt almost like reassurance. He would go east, following Daren's clue, trusting that the Axiom would guide him as Cass had suggested.
Orin gathered what supplies remained—food, water, a more substantial weapon in the form of a spear similar to the one he'd wielded before—and prepared to depart. As he was about to leave, a subtle movement in the shadows caught his attention.
"Who's there?" he demanded, spear raised defensively.
For a moment, nothing. Then a small form detached itself from the darkness—not human, not Hollowborn, but something between. It stood barely three feet tall, its body translucent like clouded glass, inside which swirled patterns of light that mimicked the Protocol marks he'd seen on survivors.
"What are you?" Orin asked, lowering his spear slightly.
The creature made no sound, but approached with careful, deliberate movements. As it drew closer, Orin realized what he was seeing—a Rift-born entity, something native to this dimension rather than pulled in from outside. He'd heard Kieran mention such beings, rare and usually hostile, yet this one showed no aggression.
It stopped arm's length away, reaching out with a limb that solidified as it extended, becoming almost human in appearance. On its palm lay a small object—a piece of crystal identical to the one Cass had given him, but darker, the patterns within it shifting with greater intensity.
"You... want me to take this?" Orin asked uncertainly.
The creature nodded, the motion uncannily human despite its alien form. When Orin hesitated, it pushed its hand closer, insistent.
Cautiously, he accepted the offered crystal. The moment it touched his skin, it reacted with the one he already carried—both flaring with sudden light, patterns within them synchronizing briefly before settling into a complementary rhythm.
The creature seemed satisfied by this reaction. It backed away, form already beginning to dissolve back into the shadows.
"Wait," Orin called. "Are you trying to help me? Do you know where I can find the others?"
The entity paused, its form resolidifying slightly. It pointed eastward, then made a spiral gesture with its hand—matching the pattern carved into the wooden figurine Orin had found on Marisa's cot.
"The wooden figure? It's a map? A key?" Orin pulled out the carving, holding it where the creature could see it.
The entity nodded emphatically, pointing again to the east. Then, with a final flicker of the light patterns within its body, it disappeared completely, leaving Orin alone with his new acquisition and even more questions.
He examined the second crystal, feeling its resonance with the first. Together, they emitted a soft, pulsing glow that seemed to strengthen when he pointed them eastward. Like compass needles, drawing him toward something.
Or someone.
Daybreak—such as it was in the Rift—found Orin already miles from the abandoned camp, traversing islands he'd never seen before. The eastern territories of the Wailing Grounds were different from the western regions where Kieran had established his settlement. The floating landmasses here were larger, more densely packed, many connected by natural formations rather than constructed bridges.
The vegetation, too, was distinctive—crystalline growths that chimed softly in the artificial breeze, pools of luminescent liquid that rippled with color when approached. This was older territory, more established, as if the Rift had settled more fully into its existence here.
The twin crystals guided him, their resonance strengthening as he followed what appeared to be a deliberate path—markers left at key junctions, patterns scratched into stone that matched the spirals on the wooden figurine. Someone had prepared for evacuation, establishing a trail that only allies would recognize.
By midday, Orin encountered the first true obstacle in his journey—a massive chasm separating two islands, far too wide to jump. No bridge spanned the gap, no obvious path forward presented itself. Yet the crystals pulsed strongly, indicating his destination lay directly ahead.
He studied the chasm carefully, noting a series of small floating rocks suspended in the void between islands. Too small to land on, too distant from each other to use as stepping stones.
As he contemplated the problem, Orin became aware of a familiar sensation—the Axiom stirring within him, responding to the challenge. The silver patterns across his skin began to glow faintly, and with them, an intuitive understanding bloomed in his mind.
The floating rocks weren't random debris. They were anchors—points in the void where reality was slightly more stable. With the right catalyst, they could be used to generate a temporary bridge.
Acting on instinct, Orin held the twin crystals toward the nearest floating rock. The effect was immediate—a beam of silver-blue energy shot from the crystals to the rock, which flared with responsive light. From there, the energy arced to the next anchor point, then the next, creating a chain of connected light across the chasm.
Where the energy connected, the void itself seemed to solidify—not into stone or any material Orin recognized, but into something traversable. A bridge of pure energy, spanning the seemingly impassable gap.
"Convenient," Orin muttered, though he understood this was no coincidence. The path had been designed for someone with Axiom energy—or at least, Protocol energy of significant strength. Another security measure, ensuring only the right people could follow the trail to Sanctuary.
The energy bridge held firm beneath his feet as he crossed, dissipating behind him step by step. By the time he reached the far island, the void had reclaimed the path entirely, leaving no evidence for potential pursuers.
Three more islands, two more energy bridges, and countless marker symbols later, Orin finally spotted what could only be his destination. Unlike the exposed stone fortress of Kieran's original camp, this structure was built into the landscape itself—a series of interconnected caverns and chambers carved into a massive island of dark blue crystal.
From a distance, it was nearly invisible, the entrances camouflaged to blend with the natural formations. Only up close would one notice the deliberate nature of the design, the defensive positions established at key points, the subtle glow of Protocol energy reinforcing vulnerable areas.
Sanctuary.
As Orin approached the main entrance—a narrow fissure in the crystal face that widened into a passage just large enough for a single person—he was met by the business end of a familiar weapon.
"One more step and I fry what's left of your brain," Nessa's voice carried from the shadows, her crystalline blade glowing with gathered energy.
Orin raised his hands slowly, the twin crystals still clutched in his right palm. "It's me, Nessa. Orin."
A moment of tense silence, then: "Prove it."
"You treated my wounds after the Stalker attack. You said I was lucky the residue was minimal, that you'd seen it eat through a man's chest to the bone."
The blade lowered slightly, Nessa's face becoming visible in its glow. She looked haggard, dark circles under her eyes, a fresh scar running along her jawline. "Orin," she acknowledged, recognition and disbelief warring in her expression. "We thought you were dead."
"Nearly was," he replied. "Several times. Can I lower my hands now?"
She nodded, though her grip on the weapon remained tight. "How did you find us? This place is—"
"Hidden. I know. Daren left a message at the camp. And I had help." He indicated the wooden figurine visible in his pocket. "This, and a... guide of sorts."
Nessa's gaze locked on the twin crystals in his hand, eyes widening slightly. "Where did you get those?"
"Long story. Is Kieran here? Marisa?" The second name came out with more urgency than he'd intended.
Something flickered across Nessa's face—relief? Concern? "They're here. Come on."
She led him through the narrow passage into Sanctuary proper. The interior was more impressive than the exterior suggested—a vast network of crystal chambers, naturally formed but enhanced by human ingenuity. Protocol energy had been used to smooth walls, reinforce ceilings, even create basic amenities like light sources and water collection systems.
As they progressed deeper, Orin noted signs of a larger population than he'd expected—at least twenty people moving through the chambers, many faces he didn't recognize.
"You've expanded," he observed.
"Necessity," Nessa replied tersely. "The Coil's attacks have intensified throughout the Wailing Grounds. Small camps like ours can't survive alone anymore. We've been consolidating, gathering survivors from across the First Layer."
She led him to a large central chamber that appeared to serve as both meeting area and command center. A rough map of the Wailing Grounds had been carved into one crystal wall, various points marked with symbols Orin didn't recognize. Around a central table stood several figures in intense discussion.
Kieran was among them, his scarred face more weathered than Orin remembered, his Protocol shadows writhing with agitation as he debated some point with a tall woman Orin didn't know. Daren stood nearby, silent as always, but his gaze was the first to spot Orin's arrival.
The taciturn man stiffened, his hand moving instinctively to his blade before recognition dawned. "The dead return," he said, voice carrying enough to silence the ongoing conversation.
Kieran turned, disbelief etched across his features. "Orin?"
Before Orin could respond, movement from another chamber entrance caught his attention. Marisa appeared, drawn by the commotion, her expression shifting from curiosity to shock to something Orin couldn't quite name.
She had changed in the time he'd been gone. Her Protocol mark had expanded, blue patterns now extending up her neck and along her jawline. Her eyes held a depth that hadn't been there before, as if she'd seen things that had fundamentally altered her perception.
But she was alive. Whole. Standing before him when last he'd seen her was through the fractured lens of a possessed Stalker.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Marisa stepped forward, closing the distance between them with deliberate steps. She stopped just short of touching him, studying the silver patterns visible on his skin with an intensity that suggested she was seeing more than just their physical manifestation.
"The Axiom evolved," she said finally, voice soft but steady. "You found your path."
"And you survived reaching across the void," he replied, the relief in his voice unmistakable.
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Barely. But yes."
Kieran broke the moment, approaching with cautious steps. "Where have you been, Orin? What happened after you fell?"
The question opened a floodgate. Orin found himself surrounded, the other survivors pressing closer, eager to hear his story—and perhaps more importantly, what he'd learned about the Rift's true nature.
"It's a long tale," Orin said, looking from face to face, seeing the mixture of hope and wariness in their expressions. "And not all of it pleasant."
"Few tales in the Rift are," Kieran acknowledged. He gestured to the table. "But we need to hear it. All of it. Because something is changing in the Hollow Rift, something fundamental." His gaze fixed on the twin crystals Orin still held. "And I suspect you're at the center of it."
As Orin joined the group at the table, preparing to share what he'd learned about the Architects, the Cycle, and the true purpose of the Hollow Rift, he felt the weight of destiny settling more firmly onto his shoulders. The Axiom had chosen him for a reason—and that reason was becoming clearer with each step he took.
The Rift was a prison. The Cycle, a feeding mechanism for something beyond comprehension. And he, Orin Kael, bearer of the Axiom of Endurance, represented a deviation that threatened the entire system.
The war had already begun. Now it was time to choose sides.