Rain hammered the window like it had a grudge, each drop a little jab at Evan Calder's skull.
He sat cross-legged on his lumpy bed, knees aching, the dog-eared copy of [Saga of the Riftborn] splayed open in his lap.
The pages were yellowed, corners bent, but they were his—his tether since the world went to shit two years back. Since the crash.
Since Jamie's laugh got swapped for silence and a gravestone he couldn't bear to visit. He'd been too slow that night, too damn useless, and now this book was all he had left to drown it out.
"Rhydian Torren swung his blade, the Ember Guide blazing like it owned the night…" Evan mumbled, voice barely scraping past the storm's growl.
His fingers brushed the words, smudged from too many reads.
Rhydian—goddamn Rhydian—had it all: guts, a fancy relic, a reason to keep swinging.
Evan? He had a shitty apartment and a head full of regrets. If he'd been half that brave, maybe Jamie'd still be here, ribbing him about his stupid hair instead of rotting somewhere he couldn't reach.
Thunder cracked, loud enough to rattle his teeth, and he jolted, soda sloshing over the book. "Aw, hell—" He lunged for a rag, but the lights flickered—once, twice—then quit.
Lightning split the dark, a white-hot claw slashing through the window. Glass sprayed, the soda hissed, and pain hit like a freight train—sharp, electric, tearing him apart. The book slipped, pages flapping like dying birds, and everything went black.
---
He came to with dirt under his nails and a ache in his chest, sprawled on damp ground that stank of rot and straw.
No rain, no bed—just a broom clutched in hands that weren't his. Smaller, softer, knuckles smooth like they'd never thrown a punch. He blinked, head throbbing, and caught a glimpse in a puddle nearby.
Shaggy black hair, gray eyes too big for the pinched face staring back.
Not Evan. Someone else.
"Zane! Water, now, you lazy ghost!" a voice barked, rough as gravel, from somewhere past a rickety fence. Evan's gut twisted.
Zane Veyris—he knew that name. The nobody errand boy from Clan Veyris, gutted by a riftspawn in chapter four. A line in the dirt, forgotten by page five.
"No… no way," he croaked, voice high and wrong, cracking like it couldn't decide who it belonged to.
Something tugged at his neck. He fumbled with his ragged tunic, fingers snagging on a cord.
There—a flat, black disc, runes scratched into it, glowing faint purple like a dying ember. It buzzed against his skin, warm and pissed off, and a whisper slid into his head: "Move."
A roar ripped through the air—deep, wet, like something choking on its own hate.
Evan stumbled up, peering through the fence slats. A riftspawn—lanky, all claws and teeth—charged the village edge, guards scrambling like ants.
His heart slammed against his ribs. This was it—Zane's end, right on cue. Except he wasn't Zane, not really, and he wasn't ready to die again.
The talisman flared, a cold jolt racing through him. Shadows twitched at his feet, curling like spilled ink. He didn't think—just bolted, not back but 'sideways'. The world smeared, and he blinked, suddenly ten feet left, broom still in hand.
The riftspawn's claws gouged the dirt where he'd been, and a shaky laugh slipped out. "Not yet," he rasped, gripping the talisman till his knuckles ached.
Whatever this was, he'd deal. He had to.