There was no warning.
No drum. No cry of summoning. No heralded clanging of iron against stone. Only the rasp of sliding locks and the thunder of boots on frost-bitten stone, echoing with a resonance older than men, older than Blackstone itself.
They came for her first.
Kaia did not resist.
Not immediately. Not yet. Her body moved on instinct, yes — but her mind had already read the room, had already weighed the distance, the weight, the angle of the walls, the pulse of the shadows in the corners. Her silver-white hair fell in loose strands around her eyes, catching the dim glyphlight and splitting it into shards of frost. Shoulders squared, claws curled loosely at her sides — a beastkin shaped by ice and fire, by hunger and survival.
The guards made no attempt at true restraint. No iron manacles, no rune-bound shackles. Just rope. Frayed, scratch-tied around her wrists. Enough to insult her, to remind her she was supposed to be caught, controlled, broken.
She let them. She let the farce play.
Because she knew the scent of trials. And she had learned the difference between trials and executions.
They led her not down — not toward the furnaces, not into the pit of iron and bone, not past the moaning vents of Blackstone's underbelly. They led her deeper. Past the chambers carved in old stone, older than mortal hands, halls grown by hunger and blood, marrow of the Keep where even the first Rift had whispered.
The runes that lined the walls were not Solheim-made. Not dwarven. Not elf-bound. They pulsed violet. They breathed. They watched.
She was taken to a chamber of ash and ruin.
Circular. Cracked. Silent, like the inside of a dead bell.
The guards shoved her forward and left. No slam, no lock. The walls themselves were enough to trap her. No man-made cage could compare.
Kaia stood at the center of the circle.
The floor was ringed with black burn-marks — not soot, not ash. Lines etched by things that moved faster than flame, that moved without flesh, that moved as if the air itself were sharpened. The walls bore scars from battles long forgotten — clawmarks, shrapnel grooves, teethed scratches that spoke of fights she had never seen.
And in the far center, half-shrouded in steam and shadow, it waited.
A Construct.
Massive. Wrong.
Its armor was not forged, but grown, plated in fractured bone and molten iron, spined with Riftglass. Where a helm should have been, a knot of runes pulsed faintly like a heartbeat, ancient and aware.
Kaia did not flinch. Her blood recognized the form. Frostfang stories whispered around dying hearthfires had taught her the names of things like this. The first War had birthed monsters that should never have survived. Things that should never have walked in daylight. Things that should have rotted beneath stone.
"How…" she murmured. Not to it. Not even to the Keep. She spoke to the nightmare that had been waiting to test her, waiting to measure her teeth against cold steel.
Then — the sound she had been waiting for.
Chains.
He was coming.
The far door hissed. Steam rolled over the floor. Boots echoed through the chamber. Two guards flanked him.
Rei.
He looked different. Not in body — still pale, still thin, still tethered to the shadow that clung to him like second skin — but the air around him pulsed subtly. The Rift moved with him. Around him. Like he had grown, even if only a fraction, beyond the boy he had been yesterday.
He saw her. Stopped. Their gazes locked across the chamber, and for a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Then the guards shackled him. Iron manacles, rune-burned deep, cutting lines of pain into wrists meant to hold nothing but obedience. The chains rattled, singing with the memory of control.
Kaia said nothing. She had no reason to. Her eyes, golden and sharp, followed him. He lifted his head, breath steadying, jaw clenched. No panic. No fear. Just presence. Centered. The name he claimed had rooted somewhere beneath the frost, beneath the scarred silence.
The guards withdrew.
And then — the Construct stirred.
A lurch of metal. A shriek of pistons. A weight of presence that pressed the air. Its first step was heavy, measured, deliberate — yet faster than the mind could track. Heat preceded the swing of its hammer-arm, wide as a man, raised to crush Kaia.
She moved.
The rope tore, not from strength, but from intent. Her claws shimmered with prelude blood, reflex incarnate. She rolled under the strike, knives drawn in a blur of silver arcs, breath misting in rhythm with motion.
Rei struggled against his bonds. The chains sang. But they held. Not enough. Not yet.
The Construct twisted, recalibrating. Helm knot flared. Runes shone. It saw, and it calculated.
Kaia vaulted onto its back. Knives drove into vents beneath the helm. Steam hissed. Sparks blossomed.
"Low! Always low!" she barked. "Under the joints, under the chest!"
Rei's body reacted. Instinct, memory, and something older than his comprehension. He grabbed a fallen spearhead. Hands moved like muscle memory he hadn't learned.
The Construct's attention swiveled, targeting him now. Glyphs glowed red.
"Kaia — !"
Too late.
It charged.
The mark flared.
A soundless whisper tore through the air between them. Rei blinked.
The chains mattered not. He stumbled, vanished, and reappeared five feet ahead, landing hard, knees bent, breath sharp and hissing.
Confusion flickered across the Construct. Misstep. Error.
Kaia didn't hesitate. She dropped, twisted a knife into a flank joint. Sparks, steam, smoke.
The mark pulsed.
Permission.
The Rift bent. Violet shimmer curled around Rei's fingers. Movement impossible to flesh became real. The spearhead struck with preternatural precision, piercing vent and joint.
Boom.
Pressure pulsed. Steam hissed. Sparks flew.
The Construct collapsed, broken, twitching, dying.
Silence returned. Only measured breaths. Only frost-mist and lingering heat from the dying monstrosity.
Rei stared at his hands. Violet shimmer gone. But the weight of presence remained.
And then the voice.
"Interesting…"
A door hissed. Two guards entered. Heads bowed. Silent. No chains. No accusation. Just gesture.
They were led not to cells, but to a chamber smaller, cleaner. Cot, water, bandages. A reprieve. Not freedom, but a pause.
Kaia wrapped her wrist with torn cloth, breathing slow. Rei leaned against the cot, back to the wall, tangled in thought, the mark still humming beneath his ribs.
"Back there," Kaia said, voice low. "You blinked."
"Yeah."
"You've done that before?"
"I don't even know what I did," he admitted.
Kaia studied him. Golden eyes sharp, calculating.
"You vanished. Rift-walking?"
"I didn't choose it," he said.
"That's worse," she said. "Means it chose you."
He said nothing. She folded arms, leaning against the wall.
"Next time — aim," she said finally.
A soft exhalation, half-laugh, half-sigh.
"…What was that thing?" he asked.
She named it. "Wyrmborn Golem. Rift-spawn flesh, first War, things that should have died a thousand deaths before this one. Things that should never have survived. Locked in a dungeon to prove they could."
Rei swallowed. "We passed."
Kaia's eyes narrowed. "No. We were measured. Observed. Not saved. Measured. They're watching. Waiting to see what you do next."
He looked down at the mark. "What if I don't want to play?"
"Then break it. But survive long enough to see what's left," she said.
And for the first time, Rei truly saw it: not chains, not blood, not ruin — the path. Thin, hidden, winding through ash and memory.
He didn't know where it led. But Kaia would walk it too.
And he was not alone anymore.