The stars were veiled in ash that night.
Above the ruined tower and the slumbering breath of the freed, the sky seemed choked—like even the heavens dared not witness what was awakening in the marrow of the world. No moonlight touched the stones. No owls called. Only wind moved, brushing through the tall dead grass and over cracked stone as if remembering the blood once spilled there.
Kaia sat alone atop the crumbled ramparts of the watchtower.
Her silver-white hair, matted with soot and sweat, was stirred by that wind. Each strand caught like threads of memory, pulled loose from places she thought sealed shut. She sat cross-legged on the stone, her knives laid at either side like sleeping wolves. Her hands rested on her knees, clawed fingers still stained with violet ichor from Rift Spawns slain days ago.
She stared toward the horizon.
Blackstone burned there, distant and silent now—its scream long faded, though the ache of it lingered like smoke in the lungs.
She didn't speak.
Didn't breathe too loud.
Didn't let herself feel.
Because if she did—
The memories would come.
And they did.
A grove blanketed in snow.
Not dead snow, not bitter. But alive—like petals of frost falling in a dance too ancient for mortals to name. The stars above were not veiled there. They shone bright and wide, like watchful spirits carved in silver.
Wolves padded silently beneath trees thicker than towers, their fur white as cloudstuff, eyes golden and kind. Lanterns of moss-light swayed gently in the wind, hung from branches that whispered songs only children could hear.
Kaia had once been that child.
She remembered the clang of wooden spears. Laughter echoing under the branches. Her mother, Nal'Thara, voice deep as the wind and arms marked with the ink of the matron line, laughing as she corrected Kaia's stance. Her father, Nhal'Tara—broad-shouldered, a mane like obsidian and eyes fierce with love—gripping her shoulder after a training match, his fang-lined grin breaking the world with pride.
"Kaia," he had said, resting his heavy paw on her. "Your heart burns hotter than the stormwinds. That's good. Just make sure it burns for your kin… not your pride."
She had believed him.
She had burned.
Chosen to be Huntmistress when eighteen winters came. Her clan's spearhead. A daughter of legacy. A leaf sprung from root.
Until—
The fire.
Not the kind born of war.
But of peace.
Not of dragons, but of men in robes.
They came not with blades, but with questions.
And promises.
"Will you serve something greater?"
"What is blood, when destiny calls?"
"The Rift has chosen. The Tree only delays what must be."
They offered alliance.
They demanded sacrifice.
The "Leaf," they said, must be offered.
Her.
Her mother refused.
Her father stood in her place.
The Order smiled—and left.
Then came the night.
Silent. Wrong.
Flames danced through the snow like blasphemy. Screams cracked the frozen air. Wolves died without howling. The ancient roots of the Grove cracked beneath the boots of scholars and soldiers alike.
And Kaia—
She ran.
She saw the white-cloaked mages. She saw the mark glowing in the high mage's palm as he carved it into her back. She remembered his words.
"You will bloom, little leaf. Even if we must tear the bark to feed the roots."
That mark had never glowed since.
But the pain had never left.
Kaia's claws curled into stone.
Rei bore a mark too.
Not the same. But close. Kindred.
That was no accident.
The Order did not leave things to chance.
They were moving again. She could feel it—like tremors beneath calm snow. The Rift had opened. And now, they would come to collect what they had seeded.
She turned her gaze down the tower.
Below, Rei twisted in his sleep. Breath shallow. His hands clenched in the dirt, jaw twitching. Even unconscious, he looked like a man wrestling a shadow.
Kaia watched him.
The man with no past.
No name when they met.
Just a number. Just a whisper in a cell.
But he had awakened.
She saw the power now. How it clung to him like the smell of lightning before a storm. How the void bled through him not like a curse—but like a memory.
He had erased the Rift Spawns.
He had blinked through space, bent time around his blade, fought like someone who had learned through simulation and summoned it into reality.
Rei was not a weapon.
He was a question.
And she didn't know if she wanted to protect him…
…or use him.
The thought made her laugh.
Low. Bitter.
Sharp as a bone freshly snapped.
Far to the west, in the still-burning husk of Blackstone Keep, another figure moved.
He walked the upper halls without hurry, ash flaking off his boots like salt shaken from an old table. His cloak was white—too white, untouched by soot or blood. Its edges trailed like pages from an unwritten book. Gold thread traced gentle sigils along the hem—runes of observation. Of purity. Of purpose.
A mask hung at his hip, mirrored and cracked, reflecting only what the world wanted to forget.
But his face was covered by another mask now—smooth, featureless, gleaming. Its eyeholes showed nothing.
Above him, crows circled.
He walked until he reached the northern rampart, where Blackstone's spine overlooked the valley.
He raised his head.
And sniffed the air.
Once.
Twice.
A long exhale followed.
He turned toward the northeast. Toward Druvadir. Toward the old forest where wolves still remembered the ancient paths.
His voice was barely audible.
But the crows heard.
And the air did too.
"I smell you," he said.
"Riftborn."
Back at the ruined watchtower, Rei stirred once more.
His eyes fluttered open.
Kaia was still above him, silhouetted against a sky without stars.
He saw her watching.
And for a moment, he thought she looked not like a rescuer. Not like a comrade.
But like a wolf.
Old. Alone.
And waiting.