The sky tore open over the cliffs of Ythri.
Not a storm. Not fire. It was silence, split wide. A seam of shimmering black light rippled above the sea, hanging in the air like a wound that refused to bleed.
Kaelthar had come.
Rye, soaked in sweat and blood that wasn't hers, stood at the cliff's edge with her sword drawn and her heart punching at her ribs. Behind her, the battle raged. Steel screamed. Flesh split. But she stared at the rift.
"It's too early," she muttered. "It wasn't supposed to open yet."
A boy stumbled behind her—no older than twelve, his tunic torn, his face streaked with soot. "They're coming through."
"Who?"
"The beasts."
Rye turned just as the first one emerged from the light.
It didn't walk. It unfolded. Muscle slithered over shifting bones, fur flickering to feathers, feathers to scales. Its eyes glowed like suns through water. It looked at her—not past her, not around her. At her.
Veyruun.
But this one was different.
She stepped between it and the boy. "Not today."
The beast sniffed the air—and spoke.
"You reek of Kaelthar, half-blood. Step aside."
Rye didn't. "I'm the only one who knows both worlds. And I say your war ends here."
The creature smiled, too many teeth. "Then you will die in both."
It lunged.
quicker than any creature its size had a right to be.
Rye didn't dodge. She couldn't. The boy was behind her. She braced, sword up, but the Veyruun hit like a collapsing mountain. Her blade struck flesh—then vanished in a blur of wings and smoke.
Illusion? No—
The thing reformed mid-air, slamming her into the ground with a roar that vibrated her bones. She rolled, coughing blood, and came up swinging. Her sword hissed through feathers, fur, air.
The beast grinned. "You fight like both your fathers. Poorly."
"I only had one," Rye spat. "And he taught me how to kill monsters."
She feinted low, then drove the blade upward. This time, it bit. The creature howled, stumbling back, dark ichor steaming from its side. It lashed out—claws raking the ground where she'd been a moment before.
The boy was gone.
No—there. Clambering up a rocky path, eyes wide in terror. Smart kid.
Rye kicked dust in the beast's face and bolted.
Not retreat—tactics.
She darted toward the cliff's edge, the beast roaring behind her. One chance. One stupid, insane chance. She skidded to a stop at the rim, wind tearing at her cloak.
"Come on, then," she called.
The Veyruun charged.
At the last second, she stepped aside.
The beast realized too late—momentum carried it over the edge. It snarled mid-air, shape already shifting, wings unfurling—but not fast enough. It hit the rocks below with a bone-splintering crunch.
Silence.
Rye dropped to her knees, gasping.
Her sword trembled in her grip. Not from fear. From memory.
That thing had spoken her name.
Half-blood.
She looked at her hands. Human. Callused. Real.
But the blood running hot in her veins said otherwise.
A flicker of light pulled her gaze back to the sky. The rift was still there—wider now. Stable.
Which meant more were coming.
She stood, barely. "No more running."
From below, the beast groaned.
She winced. "You've got to be kidding me."
The beast was still alive.
Rye could hear it groaning down in the rocks. Bones broken. Wings ruined. But it wasn't dead.
She limped back from the edge, breathing hard. The ground under her boots was slick with blood—hers and its. The rift above her still glowed, pulsing like a heartbeat. That tear in the sky wasn't closing. If anything, it looked wider.
The boy had vanished again. Good. He was smart enough to run.
Rye wiped her sword on her sleeve. The blade was shaking in her hand. Or maybe she was.
You reek of Kaelthar, half-blood.
The words wouldn't leave her head. That thing had known what she was. What she had tried to forget.
She turned her back to the cliff. Time to move. More would come through the rift soon, and she wouldn't win a second fight like that. Not alone.
The woods behind her were thick with shadow. Every leaf seemed to whisper. The trees bent close like they were listening. Rye hated this place. It always felt like it was watching.
But she knew the path. Knew where it led.
She forced her legs to move.
Half an hour passed—maybe more. Her limbs burned. Her ribs ached from the fall. Her face was slick with sweat. Still, she pushed on.
Then the sound came.
Not a growl. Not claws.
Footsteps.
Human ones.
Rye crouched low, sword ready. She waited, holding her breath.
Three shapes moved through the trees—two in armor, one in a long gray cloak. The cloaked one carried a tall staff and moved like he wasn't afraid of anything.
Hunters.
The soldiers flanked him with sharp eyes and sharper blades. They hadn't seen her yet.
She stepped into the open, sword raised. "Don't shoot."
All three stopped.
One of the soldiers pointed. "That's her. The half-blood."
Rye grimaced. "Nice to see my reputation's still garbage."
The man with the staff stepped forward. He was older than she'd expected—white beard, dark eyes that seemed to see everything. "You fought the Veyruun on the cliff?"
"I dropped it off the edge," she said. "Didn't kill it."
"Then you slowed it down. That's more than anyone else has done today."
She lowered her sword a little. "What do you want?"
"We came to find you."
Rye took a step back. "Wrong day for a reunion."
"Wrong world," he said. "The rift is spreading. Kaelthar is leaking through. You're the only one who's crossed both sides and lived. We need you."
"No," she said flatly. "I don't do this anymore."
"Tell that to the boy you saved. Or the beast you fought."
She looked away.
A howl split the trees behind them—low, broken, angry.
It was coming. Even injured, the Veyruun wasn't done yet.
The cloaked man stepped closer. "You can run. Or you can come with us."
Rye looked toward the sound. The forest shivered with it. The air was colder now.
She hated choices like this.
But she hated dying more.
"…Fine," she muttered. "But I'm not making friends."
The old man smiled. "Good. We already have too many of those."
They turned and ran as the howl rose behind them, louder, closer, filled with rage.
The hunt had only just begun.