Snow fell in slow spirals, glowing faintly under the fractured moonlight. Kaelen staggered into the wilderness, the cold biting into his skin like glass shards. His feet were bare, the runes on his arms still smoldering from the remnants of the containment magic. Each breath came out in sharp plumes of steam, mingling with the distant howl of the wind.
Behind him, the hidden facility lay in ruins—warped corridors collapsed upon themselves, spatial fields twisted beyond comprehension. The scream of tearing matter and the hum of failing magical engines had echoed long into the night before silence reclaimed the mountain range.
He didn't look back. There was nothing left behind but ghosts and scars.
His steps were unsteady. Power still pulsed beneath his skin, erratic and raw. The Tri-Fabric within him—Space, Time, Matter—strained against his every movement, as if unwilling to rest. Like a beast newly uncaged, it hungered.
Kaelen grit his teeth. Control would come. It had to.
He found a narrow trail through jagged rock, a forgotten hunting path perhaps. The land beyond was desolate—shattered trees, snow-slick boulders, and jagged cliffs. Far in the distance, he could see the faint orange glow of a village or outpost tucked at the edge of the valley. Civilization.
He didn't trust it.
Still, he had to shelter. To recover.
Hours passed. His legs burned. He moved through the cold like a ghost, his body swaying but never falling. Eventually, he reached the outskirts of what looked like an abandoned outpost—a half-collapsed watchtower, stone walls eroded by time, frost creeping over broken windows.
He entered cautiously. The place was dead.
Inside, he found a rusted brazier, some half-burnt timber, and a shattered crate of old rations. Most were spoiled, but a few packs of dried roots and preserved meat had survived the cold. He ate with slow, deliberate movements, forcing his body to obey.
Then he collapsed by the firepit.
He didn't sleep. Not truly.
The dreams returned.
Not his own.
The Rift stirred within his mind again—that place between realities, where logic faltered and monsters dreamed in alien geometries. He saw glimpses of creatures that should not exist, voices speaking in echoes that vibrated through his bones.
"Awaken, Weaver. Threads unravel. Realms drift."
Kaelen's body twitched in his sleep. The runes on his arm flared, reacting to the pull of the Rift.
He sat up, drenched in sweat. The fire had long since died. The cold gnawed at him again, but he felt more stable. The pressure within him had lessened, as if the Rift's whispers fed and calmed the chaos inside.
He needed answers.
But first, he needed allies. Tools. Information.
By morning, he had scavenged a thick cloak from an old storeroom, fashioned crude boots from torn leather, and wrapped his wounds. He looked like a vagabond—no different from the countless wanderers who roamed the ruins of fallen empires.
The village he'd seen the night before was closer than he thought. A small, scattered settlement nestled between the cliffs and a frozen river, protected by half-formed wards and wooden palisades. Smoke drifted from chimneys, and the smell of roasted meat cut through the frost.
Kaelen approached slowly, hood drawn, eyes scanning.
The villagers were poor. No formal soldiers. A few hunters. Some women tending fires. Children running in the snow. They gave him wary glances but didn't question him.
Not yet.
A man in a patched fur cloak approached. Broad-shouldered, bearded, with a limp in his left leg. He carried a handaxe at his belt and the eyes of someone who'd seen too many winters.
"Stranger," the man said, not unkindly. "You look like death."
"Death didn't want me," Kaelen replied.
The man laughed once, short and grim. "Name's Jorik. This place is called Frostmere. You sick? Infected?"
Kaelen shook his head.
"Then come. We don't have much, but you can warm yourself in the hall."
Frostmere was as forgotten as the world around it. Built on old stone and buried secrets. Jorik led Kaelen to a longhouse near the village's center, where an old fire pit crackled and a handful of villagers ate stewed roots and salt meat.
They gave Kaelen space. Eyes lingered, but no one spoke.
He listened. Learned.
They spoke of the Adamant Dominion's taxes. Of missing hunters. Of creatures seen in the snow—black silhouettes with too many limbs, eyes that glowed faint violet.
Kaelen went still at that.
Riftborn.
One child mentioned something about the "Cracked Council." Jorik silenced her quickly.
Kaelen tucked that phrase away.
Later that night, while pretending to sleep by the hearth, he overheard Jorik speaking with another.
"He's not just some traveler. Those eyes... silver with amethyst sheen. I've seen that before. In the old scrolls. The ones hidden below the chapel."
"Should we tell the Herald?"
"No. Not yet. If he's what I think... we might have a weapon the Council won't see coming."
The next day, Kaelen explored cautiously. He kept his powers dormant, but the runes on his arms tingled in proximity to the old chapel at the village's edge.
It was ancient. Older than the village itself. Built atop stone far too smooth, too precise. Something buried beneath.
That night, Kaelen broke into it.
He found a passage hidden beneath the altar. Stairs descending into frozen darkness. What lay below wasn't just stone. It was... something else.
Relics. Symbols. And a mural painted in blood and starlight—depicting the Rift, the collapse of the First World, and a figure with glowing silver-purple eyes standing amidst the wreckage.
Kaelen stared at it for a long time.
He didn't know if it was prophecy.
Or memory.
But he did know this:
The world feared what they didn't understand.
And he was becoming something they couldn't comprehend.
He left the chapel quietly, fire blooming behind his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would begin his path in earnest.
And the world would tremble.