Zane trudged through Veyrsgard's dark, the cold biting at his knuckles, the muck under his boots sucking with every step.
The citadel loomed behind him, a gray blur spitting faint light from cracked windows, but out here, the night was thick—black and heavy, swallowing the village in a haze of smoke and silence.
The riftspawn's stink clung to him, sour and metallic, stuck in his nose like a bad memory. He should've stayed inside, crashed on that bench with Tessa hovering, but the hall felt like a trap—too many eyes, too many questions, the talisman's thrum gnawing at him like a tick he couldn't flick off.
Squelch!
His boots sank, a wet, stubborn pull.
He veered off the main path, cutting through an alley—narrow, damp, littered with broken barrels and rotting straw.
The wind hissed through, sharp and cold, tugging at his tunic, and he hunched against it, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
His fingers brushed the talisman, warm and buzzing, and he grit his teeth. It wouldn't shut up—not since the fight, not since it dragged him into that mess with the riftspawn.
He'd lived, yeah, but now what? Stay a ghost with a trick up his sleeve, or chase whatever the hell Riftspire promised?
Hiss!
The wind whipped past, a thin, biting rush.
He stopped near a busted wall, leaning against it, the stone rough and damp under his shoulder. His breath puffed out, white and quick, disappearing into the dark.
The village was quiet—too quiet after the raid—just the faint creak of shutters and the distant yelp of a dog. He closed his eyes, trying to think, but Evan's voice scratched up instead—you didn't move then, you're moving now—and Jamie's face followed, slack and pale, blood on the dashboard.
Zane kicked the wall, hard, pain jolting up his leg. "Shut up," he muttered, to Evan, to the memory, to whatever.
Thwack!
His boot slammed the stone, a sharp, dull crack.
The talisman pulsed, harder, like it was pissed he was stalling.
"Go," it whispered, low and rough, cutting through the quiet.
Zane yanked it out from under his tunic, glaring at it—a black disc, runes glowing faint purple, warm as a coal against his palm.
"Go where?" he snapped, voice low, half-expecting it to answer. It didn't—just thrummed, smug and steady, like it knew more than he did.
He let it drop, the cord snagging his neck, and pushed off the wall, pacing the alley.
Thrum!
The talisman buzzed, a slow, taunting hum.
He couldn't stay here. That much was clear.
Tessa's eyes—sharp, scared—kept clawing at him, and the guards weren't much better, watching him like he'd sprout claws next.
Riftspire was the only lead—the scarred guard's words rattling in his head, get it sorted or it'll sort you.
The academy meant answers—maybe power, maybe a way to stop tripping over this thing around his neck. But it also meant stepping into Rhydian's world—heroes, Wardens, shit he didn't belong in.
Zane wasn't that guy. Wasn't supposed to be.
Creak!
A shutter swayed, a soft groan in the wind.
He stopped pacing, breath hitching, and glanced up. A shadow moved—quick, small—darting across a rooftop, gone before he could blink. His gut twisted, hand dropping to the talisman, shadows twitching at his feet.
Another raid? No—too quiet, no roars, no rift hum. Just some thief, maybe, or his head screwing with him.
He let out a shaky breath, cursing under it.
"Get a grip," he muttered, rubbing his face, the cold stinging his fingers.
Swoosh!
The shadow flickered, a faint rustle on the tiles.
He turned back toward the citadel, boots dragging, the alley spitting him out near the stables.
The horses were quiet, snuffling in the dark, the air thick with hay and manure. He slipped inside, ducking under a low beam, and slumped against a stall, the wood creaking under his weight.
The talisman thrummed again, softer now, and he glared at it, tugging the cord tight.
"You want Riftspire?" he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. "Fine. But I'm not your damn puppet."
Snuffle!
A horse huffed, a low, warm puff.
He sat there, knees up, staring at the dark.
The fight replayed—riftspawn's claws, Tessa's scream, the shadows slamming out of him like they owned him. He'd lived, tipped the scales, but it didn't feel like winning. Felt like borrowing time.
Riftspire was a gamble—leave Veyrsgard, chase the mana angle, figure this talisman out before it figured him out. But it meant walking away from Tessa, from the ghost he'd been, and that stuck in his throat like rust.
Creak!
The stall groaned, wood settling under him.
Footsteps crunched outside—slow, heavy—and Zane tensed, hand gripping the talisman. A figure loomed in the doorway—big, hunched, spear glinting faint in the moonlight. Beard guy.
"Ghost," he grunted, voice thick with fatigue, "what're you doin' out here? Night's cold enough to freeze your ass off."
"Couldn't sleep," Zane said, flat, easing his grip. "You?"
Crunch!
Beard guy's boots ground the dirt, a rough step closer.
"Checkin' the wall," he said, leaning on his spear, leg still wrapped in that bloody rag.
"You're jumpy. That fight still rattlin' you?" His eyes narrowed, glinting, like he saw more than Zane wanted him to.
"Maybe," Zane muttered, looking away, fingers tapping the talisman. "Doesn't matter."
"Does if you're plannin' somethin' stupid," Beard guy said, low. "Heard Scar talkin'—Riftspire. You thinkin' it?"
Tap!
His fingers hit the talisman, a faint, restless knock.
Zane's jaw tightened, breath fogging in the cold. "Yeah," he said, quieter than he meant. "Gotta figure this"—he tugged the talisman out, letting it dangle—"before it figures me."
Beard guy grunted, nodding slow. "Smart. Dangerous, but smart. Academy'll chew you up if you're not ready—ghost or not." He turned, limping back into the dark, spear tapping the ground. "Get some rest. Road's long."
Thud!
The spear hit the dirt, a dull, steady beat fading out.
Zane sat there, alone again, the stable's quiet pressing in. Rest sounded good—hell, it sounded great—but his head wouldn't stop spinning. Riftspire wasn't just a road; it was a cliff, and he was already teetering.
Tessa'd hate it—hate him leaving—but staying meant choking on the same old nothing, waiting for the next rift to gut him.
He stood, slow, the stall creaking, and slipped out, boots hitting the muck again.
Squelch!
The mud sucked at his boots, a wet, greedy pull.
The night stretched ahead, black and endless, and he started walking—away from the stables, the citadel, toward the edge of Veyrsgard. Riftspire was east, a day's trek, maybe two. He didn't have a plan, just the talisman's thrum and a gut telling him to move.
Evan's voice whispered—'you didn't save him, save this'—and Zane grit his teeth, shoving it down. This wasn't about saving anything. It was about living long enough to figure out why he hadn't died yet.
Thrum!
The talisman pulsed, a low, restless hum.