The corridor into which Tarsis led him was unlike anything Haraza had seen—even by the impossible standards of the Sanctum. Gone were the open vaults of floating brass, the wide views of spinning celestial machines. This place was narrow, almost intimate, a corridor shaped like the inside of a keyhole, with mirrored walls and floor made of pale glass veined with glowing amber threads.
And the sound—it changed.
Not the symphonic hum of gears, but something quieter. Whispers. Dozens of them, speaking in languages Haraza couldn't place. Some clear. Others like the hush of wind in stone. All distant. All present.
("This is the Passage of Murmurs,") said Tarsis as they walked. ("Here, the Rift sings to itself.")
("Are they memories?") Haraza asked, eyes flicking across the mirrored surfaces, where sometimes faces flickered—people, places, laughter and screams that were gone a second later.
("Not quite. These are discarded paths. Possibilities the Rift chose not to birth. But it never forgets them. It stores them. Like blueprints in an architect's mind.")
Haraza frowned.("Why bring me here?")
Tarsis paused before a circular door. It bore no handles, no hinges. Just an imprint: the same glyph that pulsed on Haraza's palm.
("You are no longer who you were before the Rift,") Tarsis said.("You felt it, didn't you? In the Vault. In the Core. Your body obeys laws that no longer apply.")
("I've changed,") Haraza admitted. ("But I don't know how.")
("That is why we train.")
He gestured to the door.
Haraza stepped forward and raised his hand.
The glyph on the door flared—matching the one on his skin.
With a sigh like breaking time, the door folded open.
Beyond it was a circular chamber, vast and hollow. Platforms of varying heights floated in a slow orbit around a central void of light, like planets caught in suspension. Glowing rings rotated around the space, each etched with countless runes and numbers ticking by faster than thought.
This was no arena.
It was a forge.
("The Forge of Echoes,") Tarsis said, stepping onto a hovering platform that drifted inward. ("Here, the Sanctum hammers the will of Riftmarked into form. It teaches what cannot be spoken.")
Haraza stepped onto a platform beside him. ("Then teach me.")
Tarsis raised a hand.
Suddenly, Haraza's platform dropped—plummeting toward the glowing core.
He didn't have time to think.
Instinct surged.
The glyphs on his skin blazed.
And the platform stopped mid-air, inches above the light.
Hovering.
Controlled.
Haraza gasped, heart hammering.
Tarsis' voice echoed from above: ("The Rift is not power. It is potential. Unshaped. Unstable. You must learn to shape it.")
A pulse of force launched Haraza upward—another platform catching him at a higher ring. But now the space changed. Shadows peeled from the walls. Shapes formed—echoes of beasts he had never seen. One resembled a panther made of molten glass. Another a mantis with blades longer than spears.
None were real.
But all were lethal.
They struck at once.
Haraza moved.
He didn't plan. He reacted. The glaive slid into his hand with fluid precision, responding not to thought, but instinct. He ducked low, spinning to deflect the first swipe. A second beast leapt. He twisted, using its momentum to throw it off the platform. The third shrieked and rushed him from behind—
He pivoted and drove the glaive backward.
Contact.
The echo burst into shards of sound.
Then silence.
Tarsis descended slowly, nodding once.
("Not perfect,") he said. ("But reactive. Fluid. You're beginning to listen.")
("Listen to what?") Haraza panted, sweat on his brow, though the air was cool.
("To yourself," )Tarsis replied. "(The Rift didn't give you new power—it awoke something ancient in your spirit. All Riftmarked are forged differently. Some command flame. Others, memory. You…") He trailed off, studying Haraza carefully. ("You are more fluid. Adaptive. You change as the world does.")
("Jack of all trades,") Haraza murmured.
("A title of humility,") Tarsis replied. ("But perhaps... prophecy.")
He turned and gestured once more.
("Come. There is more.")
They moved deeper into the Forge, past training hollows and illusion chambers. Tarsis spoke of ancient Riftmarked warriors—some who became gods, others who forgot they were ever mortal. He showed Haraza tomes that sang when opened, and weapons that chose their wielder by tasting the air around them.
But what haunted Haraza most wasn't the training.
It was the faces.
In the corners of his vision, flickering in the reflection of mirrored glass or polished gears—he saw people. Always fleeting. Sometimes familiar.
Once, he saw himself.
Older.
Alone.
Bleeding.
Staring at a broken world.
But when he turned, there was nothing.
Tarsis noticed his expression. ("The Rift shows paths. All possible. All unreal—until you choose.")
("I don't want to choose that one,") Haraza muttered.
Tarsis placed a hand on his shoulder.
("Then fight for another.")
That night—if such a time could be measured in the Sanctum—Haraza sat alone near the Core of Remembering.
The Seed pulsed softly in his chest.
He touched it—and didn't flinch this time.
He felt it now. Not as a burden, but as a part of him. A potential waiting for shape.
He remembered the Vault. The Echo Lord. The face in the battlefield vision.
And he whispered to the Rift:
("I'm not your weapon. I'm not your pawn. But if there's something coming… I'll face it.")
From somewhere deep in the gears, a click echoed.
Like a choice made.
Like a clock beginning to count down.