The moment Aric's palm pressed against the cold obsidian surface of the throne, the world shattered.
The Rift roared.
A pulse of energy exploded outward from the throne, slamming into the walls of the ruined chamber. The stone beneath them shuddered like a living thing, the veins of Rift-light burning brighter, hotter, wilder.
Then—
The sky split apart.
A crack ripped open above the ruined city, stretching across the heavens like a wound, its edges dripping with shifting, unnatural light. The Rift was no longer just a presence beneath the earth—it was above them, around them, devouring the sky itself.
Aric's vision blurred.
His breath came ragged. His pulse slammed against his ribs.
And then—the whispers turned to voices.
"At last."
"He has returned."
"Aelthar rises once more."
The words were not in his mind.
They echoed through the ruins.
Through the Rift itself.
And Aric could feel them.
Not like thoughts. Not like whispers. Like a thousand unseen hands pulling at his skin, clawing into his veins, pressing him deeper into something he had no name for.
His fingers twitched against the throne.
The Rift pulsed again.
And suddenly—Aric was not standing in the present anymore.
----
The noble army had been watching.
They had seen the Rift pulse. They had seen the storm rise over the dead city, the sky breaking apart like fractured glass.
And now—they moved.
Hundreds of soldiers marched forward, their banners whipping violently in the howling winds of the Riftstorm. Their armor gleamed under the unnatural glow, but their faces were grim—they knew they were marching toward something far worse than a battlefield.
At the front of the formation, a figure sat astride a black warhorse.
Lord Darius Valcroix.
One of the last noble lords still standing after the wars. He had not joined the first battles against Aric, choosing instead to watch, wait, and study.
Now, he had seen enough.
"Move forward," Valcroix commanded, his voice cold, even over the roaring wind.
One of his officers hesitated. "My lord, this… this is not natural. We should wait. We should—"
Valcroix turned his head slightly.
The officer fell silent.
"We ride," Valcroix repeated, his fingers tightening on the reins. "Now."
The Riftstorm howled.
And the noble army charged toward the ruins.
----
Aric wasn't moving.
His body was rigid, his palm still pressed against the throne, his breath coming in slow, uneven gasps. The Rift pulsed around him, its whispers thick and suffocating, like smoke curling around his throat.
Kael cursed sharply. "Aric! Get away from it!"
No response.
Kael moved.
In one sharp motion, he grabbed Aric by the arm and yanked him backward.
The moment their skin touched—
Kael gasped.
For a fraction of a second—he saw it.
Not just the Rift.
Not just the throne.
The war.
The empire that once was.
The world as it had been under Aelthar's rule.
And then—Kael was back.
The vision snapped away, leaving him breathless, his knees nearly buckling.
"What the fuck," Kael rasped.
His hands were shaking. His stomach twisted violently, bile rising in his throat.
He turned to Aric—who was staring at him now.
But it wasn't just Aric's eyes.
It was someone else's gaze looking through them.
Kael's chest clenched.
No.
No, this wasn't happening.
"You're not him," Kael said, voice raw. "You're not."
Aric blinked slowly. "Kael—"
"Don't," Kael snarled. His sword slid free from its sheath. "I swear to the gods, Aric, don't you fucking say my name like that."
Lira moved between them.
"Enough," she snapped, voice sharp as steel. "This isn't the time."
Kael let out a harsh breath, his grip still tight on his sword. His stance was rigid, muscles locked, like he was trying to stop himself from making a decision he couldn't take back.
"Not the time?" Kael echoed, his voice low, furious. His gaze locked onto Lira's. "You saw what just happened. You felt it. You think we can just keep pretending this is fine?"
Lira didn't answer.
Because Kael was right.
She had seen it too. She had felt it.
Aric wasn't just changing.
He was becoming something else.
And the Rift wasn't letting him go.
Aric exhaled slowly. "Lira. Kael. I need you to trust me."
Kael's grip on his sword didn't loosen.
And Lira's hand was still on her dagger.
Trust was no longer something they had the luxury of.
And for the first time—Aric felt the weight of that loss.
The Rift pulsed.
And outside the ruined hall—the noble army arrived.
----
The Rift pulsed.
The air split apart, thick with the pressure of something unseen, something vast. Aric felt it clawing inside his skull, digging into the memories that weren't just visions anymore—they were him.
He staggered, breath unsteady.
The Rift whispered again.
"You have always belonged to us."
He flinched. The words were not in his mind.
They were inside him.
The weight of them pressed against his ribs, wrapping around his heart, curling through his bones like unseen chains tightening.
It wasn't just the Rift whispering now.
It was something else.
Something older.
"Aelthar."
The name scraped through the chamber like a blade dragging across the stone. The Riftmarked warriors bowed lower, their heads touching the floor.
Vaelthas turned his gaze to the throne, his voice barely above a murmur.
"It has begun."
Kael's grip on his sword tightened.
Lira's fingers hovered over the hilt of her dagger.
Because they felt it too.
Something was watching.
And it wasn't human.
----
The first explosion shook the ruins.
The noble army had arrived.
Outside the throne hall, the ground trembled as catapults launched fire-laced projectiles into the broken streets of Velmiris.
The walls of the ancient city cracked, centuries-old stone shattering under the impact. Soldiers in gleaming armor poured through the ruined gates, weapons drawn, their banners whipping wildly in the Riftstorm's violent winds.
And then—
The Rift responded.
A shockwave rippled through the earth, a deep inhuman wail echoing from beneath the city.
And suddenly—
The dead began to rise.
At first, it was a handful.
Then dozens.
Then hundreds.
Fallen warriors—bodies long since rotted, armor rusted and broken—dragged themselves from the wreckage of their graves.
The noble soldiers stumbled back, eyes wide with horror.
They had come to fight a man.
They had come to stop a warlord.
They had not come prepared for this.
The Rift's voice curled through the wind.
"They thought they could erase you."
Aric's pulse thundered.
"Show them their mistake."
----
Aric felt it now.
The Rift was not offering him power.
It was demanding him.
The nobles had come to stop what they feared.
But they were too late.
Because this—this was always going to happen.
The Rift had never been a curse.
It had never been a burden.
It was his.
It had always been his.
And now—
It was waiting for him to accept it.
Vaelthas stepped forward, gaze steady.
"Command them," he said softly.
Aric exhaled slowly.
Behind him—
Kael and Lira stood rigid.
Silent.
Waiting.
Because they knew—this was it.
This was the moment everything would change.
The Rift whispered again.
"They will follow you."
"They will fear you."
"They will kneel."
The Riftmarked watched him.
The risen dead awaited his word.
And Aric—
Raised his hand.
The Rift roared.
The city trembled.
And the last fragments of who he had been—shattered.