Zane dragged the last plank to the pile, arms trembling like they'd snap off if he pushed any harder.
The courtyard was a graveyard now—riftspawn corpses stinking up the dark, ichor pooling black and sticky. Guards slumped against walls or hauled off the last of the busted junk.
Dusk had choked out the final scraps of orange sky, leaving a gray haze that clung to everything, heavy with smoke and the tang of blood.
His boots stuck in the muck, each step a wet suck. He wiped his hands on his tunic, smearing more filth than he cleaned off. The talisman thrummed faintly against his chest, like a heartbeat he couldn't shake.
Thump!
The plank hit the dirt with a tired thud.
Zane straightened, back creaking, and sucked in a sharp, shallow breath that tasted like ash and rust.
The guards weren't yelling anymore—just low grumbles, a few dragging the wounded inside, their groans cutting through the quiet. Beard guy leaned on his spear near the breach, barking at some kid to patch it faster, while the scarred guard—still watching him, damn it—huddled with another, muttering.
Zane turned away quickly, before her eye pinned him again.
Riftspire.
The word stuck in his skull like a splinter, itching. He wasn't supposed to go there—wasn't supposed to be anything but a ghost.
Suck!
His boot tore free of the mud with a reluctant pop.
"Zane!" Tessa's voice rang out from behind, rough but softer than before.
He flinched, half-turning as she trudged up, abandoning a crate. Her apron was a mess of dirt and flour. Her gray eyes were still sharp, still digging, but the fire in them had dulled—worn out, maybe.
"You're done here, yeah? Come inside. You look like shit."
He snorted, a dry huff.
"Feel like it too."
His voice came out hoarse, scraped raw from shouting and the stink clogging his throat.
He didn't argue, though—just followed her toward the hall, boots dragging, the talisman's thrum a nagging itch under his skin.
Scuff!
His boots scraped the stone, a slow, uneven drag.
Inside, the hall was a different kind of mess—tables shoved aside, servants darting with rags and buckets, the air thick with wax and sweat.
A girl with a braid swabbed blood off the floor, cursing under her breath, while an old man hauled a tray of bread, muttering about rations.
Tessa led him to a corner near the kitchens and shoved him onto a bench, like she thought he'd fall over if she didn't.
"Sit," she ordered, sharp, then grabbed a damp rag from a bucket and tossed it at him.
Plop!
The rag landed in his lap with a cold, heavy slap.
Zane caught it, wiping his face slowly—ichor and dirt streaking the cloth black and brown.
"Thanks," he muttered, not looking up.
She didn't say anything, just stood there, arms crossed, watching him like he might bolt if she blinked. The silence stretched, heavy and stiff, and he hated it—hated her staring, hated the talisman's smug pulse, hated how every damn thing felt off.
"You gonna talk?" she asked finally, voice low, cracking at the edges. "Or just sit there like a lump 'til I drag it outta you?"
Zane's jaw tightened, the rag pausing mid-swipe.
"Nothin' to say," he grunted, tossing it back into the bucket. "Fought. Won. That's it."
A lie, mostly—he didn't know what the shadows were, what the talisman wanted, but spilling that to Tessa felt like handing her a knife to twist.
Splash!
The rag hit the water with a quick, messy slosh.
She stepped closer, looming over him, her shadow cutting across the bench.
"Don't gimme that, Zane. You're my cousin—been my cousin since we were kids—and you don't pull shit like that outta nowhere. Shadows? Fightin' a riftspawn? That's not you."
Her voice shook, not loud but raw, like she was clawing for something solid.
He looked up then, meeting her eyes—gray and hard, but wet at the corners.
Evan's guilt twitched deep down—she's scared, she's here—but he shoved it aside.
"Maybe it is now," he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. "Things change, Tessa. I changed. Deal with it."
Creak!
The bench groaned as he shifted, wood protesting under his weight.
Her mouth opened, then shut, lips pressing tight. She turned away fast, grabbing a loaf from the old man's tray as he passed.
"Fine," she muttered, shoving it at him. "Eat somethin' 'fore you keel over. But this ain't done."
She stalked off, disappearing into the kitchen's steam, leaving him with the bread and a knot in his gut.
Zane tore a chunk off, chewing slow. The bread was dry and stale, sticking to his teeth. The hall buzzed around him, quieter now, folks settling into the aftershock.
He didn't belong here—not in this body, not in this fight—but the talisman wouldn't let him slip back into nothing. Riftspire. That guard's words gnawed at him, sharp and relentless.
Academy meant answers, maybe—meant facing what he was turning into. But it also meant eyes, expectations, shit he'd never wanted.
Rip!
The bread tore in his hands, a soft, ragged split.
Footsteps thudded up—heavy, uneven—and he tensed, head snapping up.
Beard guy stood there, sweat streaking his face, spear still propped like a lifeline.
"Ghost," he grunted, nodding toward the breach outside. "Wall's holdin' for now. You did good out there—damn weird, but good. Don't let it go to your head."
Zane smirked faintly, crooked.
"Too late," he said dryly, and took another bite.
The guard snorted, limping off, and Zane leaned back, bench creaking again.
Weird. That's what they all saw—some freak with shadows, not the errand boy they knew. Not Evan, either, stuck in a kid's skin with a past he couldn't outrun.
Thud!
The guard's spear tapped the floor, a dull echo as he walked away.
A shadow fell over him, smaller this time, and he glanced up—scarred guard, her good eye glinting in the dim.
"Meant what I said," she rasped, voice low.
"Riftspire. You've got somethin'—mana, whatever it is. Get it sorted, or it'll sort you."
She didn't wait for an answer, just turned and hobbled toward the doors, leaving him cold.
Shuffle!
Her boots scraped the stone, a rough drag fading out.
Zane stared at the bread, appetite gone, the talisman's thrum picking up—faint, insistent, like it was laughing at him.
Riftspire wasn't just answers—it was a cage, a place for people like Rhydian, not ghosts like him. But staying here, playing errand boy with this thing around his neck, wasn't working either.
He'd fought. He'd lived. That changed the game, whether he liked it or not.
Thrum!
The talisman pulsed, a low, taunting hum.
He stood slowly, tossing the half-eaten loaf onto the bench. The hall felt tighter now, walls pressing in, the stink of blood and wax choking him.
Tessa was right—he wasn't the same. Neither was she, not after today.
He headed for the doors, boots heavy, not sure where he was going—just away. The night outside was black and cold. He stepped into it, the talisman warm against the chill.
Squelch!
His boots sank into the muck again, a wet, stubborn suck.