The storm had passed, but the cold remained.
Auren walked alone that night, past the tents of the Southern camp, past the guards, and into the edge of the old forest. The moonlight barely touched the ground here, and everything felt too quiet—like the world was holding its breath.
He didn't know why his feet led him there.
But something pulled him.
A shadow stood waiting under a twisted tree. The figure wore dark robes and a mask shaped like a bird's skull. It wasn't the first time Auren had seen them. He had glimpsed this stranger before—watching, waiting, never speaking.
But tonight, the stranger spoke.
"You've begun to hear it, haven't you?"
Auren froze. "Hear what?"
"The Shard beneath your skin. The one that doesn't hum like the others. The one that wants more."
He didn't answer—but the silence said enough.
The masked figure nodded. "You don't belong in their golden halls, boy. You belong to the ones the Crown erased. The ones who took power… without permission."
A cold wind passed through the trees.
The stranger stepped closer. In their hand was a small crystal—dark, broken, and pulsing faintly.
"This is not a gift," they said. "It's a trade. Power for truth. You take this, and you'll never be the same."
Auren's fingers hovered over it.
"What's the cost?" he asked.
The stranger chuckled. "Everything worth keeping."
Still, he took it.
And as the dark Shard touched his skin, a scream echoed in his mind—like a memory breaking open.