The Ghost Road
On the fourth night, she reached the ruins of an old waystation — a place once built by pilgrims who believed touching a shard would grant absolution. The station was abandoned now, half-buried in glass and dust.
She made a fire, small and hidden, and studied the shard under moonlight.
Its surface rippled like water. When she looked too long, she saw faces — not her own, but others: men, women, children — all marked by crystal veins like hers.
They are calling you, a voice said.
It wasn't quite in her head. It was like hearing an echo from a dream she hadn't had yet.
She whispered back, "What are you?"
We are what remains.
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The Hunter
At dawn, she woke to find her fire cold — and boot prints in the ash.
An arrow hissed past her ear. She spun, ducking behind a fallen wall, clutching the shard.
A voice called out, rough and amused.
"Didn't expect you to dodge that. Most heretics just freeze."
The speaker stepped into view — a tall man in worn armor, carrying a bow carved from crystalwood. His eyes glowed faintly gold — another Shardborn.
He lowered his weapon, tilting his head. "You're leaking light, girl. Either hide it or you'll have every Inquisitor this side of the coast sniffing your trail."
Aerin stayed silent.
He smirked. "Name's Kael. Emberline. You?"
"…Aerin."
"Veilshard," he said immediately. "I can smell it — that shimmer around you. Dangerous kind of power."
He offered his hand. She didn't take it.