The days after the pact passed like mist.
Auren didn't sleep much. Not because he didn't try, but because the moment his eyes closed, the whispers returned—soft, broken voices echoing inside his head. He couldn't understand the words, but the feeling behind them chilled him deeper than the mountain snow ever had.
The shard he took still pulsed beneath his skin. Not like the warm glow of a normal Heart Shard. This was colder. He could feel it spreading—slowly, carefully—like it was waiting.
But he didn't tell anyone.
Not yet.
The camp in the Southern Marches had changed too.
The ground had cracked in places. The wind carried strange smells—burnt stone, old blood, wet ash. Some soldiers had started seeing things in the trees. Others claimed their Shards stopped humming for moments at a time.
Fear sat in the air, like dust no one could brush away.
Lys noticed first.
"You're quiet," she said, sitting beside Auren during a late patrol.
"I'm always quiet," he answered.
She didn't laugh.
"No," she said. "This is different."
He didn't deny it. But he didn't explain either.
Back at the command tent, Darien and Caelen stood over a map, their voices low.
"The Rift is spreading," Caelen said. "Faster than the reports suggested."
"And the Crown's envoys are days away," Darien muttered. "If we show weakness now, they'll strip command from Father and place it in their own hands."
"Then we don't show weakness," Caelen replied. "We strike first."
From the shadows, Auren listened.
Strike first?
The southern lands weren't just rocks and trees—they were home to people. Villages. Farmers. Bearers without noble names.
And now, they'd be caught in a war they didn't start.
Something inside him clenched.
That evening, word came: a village near the southern cliffs had gone silent. No birds, no firelight, no signs of life.
Lord Mareth ordered a team sent to investigate. Darien chose the squad.
Auren was not on the list.
He went anyway.
He followed quietly, hiding his steps, staying behind until the group moved deep into the trees. He kept his breath even, his eyes sharp. The wind howled as they neared the village.
But when they arrived—what they found wasn't silence.
It was screaming.
A soundless kind of scream. Everything was twisted. Houses melted into stone. Trees had grown upside down. The air shimmered like broken glass.
And at the center of it—
—a boy.
Small. Barely ten. Kneeling in the dirt with a black crystal bursting from his chest like a flower made of ash.
The soldiers drew blades. One of them whispered, "Voidborn."
Auren stepped forward before he could think. The boy turned toward him. His eyes weren't human anymore—but they weren't cruel either.
Just scared.
He held out a hand.
Auren did too.
Their fingers almost touched—
—and then, without warning, Caelen struck.
A burst of force sent the child flying backward into the stones.
"No!" Auren shouted.
The others didn't listen. The squad advanced, blades ready.
Auren stood between them.
"You'll kill him for what?" he said. "Being cursed? Or being different?"
Darien's voice rang out like steel. "Step aside."
"No."
It wasn't loud.
But it was clear.
Darien stared, silent. Then turned. "Return to camp."
Auren didn't move until the others left.
He stood alone in that warped village, staring at the empty space where the boy had been.
That night, Auren knelt in the dirt and drew a line with his finger.
It was shallow, simple. Just a mark in dust.
But to him, it meant something.
A choice.
A stand.
Not for the Crown. Not for House Rivenhart.
But for something he still didn't have a name for.
Something that felt like… truth.