The storm had teeth tonight.
Shards of lightning clawed across the sky, slicing through the endless fog that smothered the ruins of Old Ardent—a dead city swallowed by vines and silence. Metal skeletons of skyscrapers jutted from the ground like the bones of forgotten gods, their hollow windows staring into nothing. Riven Kaelith moved through the rubble without a sound.
He'd been tracking the relic for three days—following faint readings on his wrist scanner, slipping from shadow to shadow like a ghost. His cloak was torn, his boots caked with black dust, but his steps never faltered. He looked half-myth, half-machine: human skin stretched over quiet purpose.
Crouching beside a broken archway, he brushed dust from a patch of stone. Symbols pulsed faintly beneath—old runic tech, predating even the Rift War.
"Got you," he murmured, voice low and rough.
A small drone lifted from his pack, its amber light blinking in the dark. "Scan it," Riven ordered. The drone hummed, projecting a lattice of blue light that traced the contours of the ancient carvings.
Then, the pendant at his neck stirred.
At first, only warmth—a whisper beneath his skin—then a heartbeat that wasn't his. The half-moon crystal at its center shimmered, veins of crimson threading through the stone like living blood.
Riven froze. His fingers brushed the pendant, and the warmth grew stronger. The air thickened around him, vibrating with an almost inaudible hum—something ancient, something alive.
He'd felt it before. Every time he drew near to relics tied to the old dimensional wall, the pendant reacted. Like it recognized them.
"Don't start that again," he muttered. "I'm just here for the core shard."
The pendant pulsed once—like a heartbeat in reply.
Then the ground cracked.
A tremor split the ruin, and a rift tore open in the air—a black wound lined with violet fire. The drone shrieked in digital panic before bursting into sparks.
Riven swore, rolling backward as a clawed hand pushed through the tear. The thing that crawled out wasn't entirely solid—its form flickered between flesh and smoke, eyes burning like coals in the dark.
A rift demon. Drawn by the pendant's energy.
"Guess you heard me," Riven muttered.
He drew a slender blade from his hip—metal etched with blue circuits that flared to life at his touch. The weapon thrummed, hungry for motion.
The demon lunged. Riven sidestepped, driving the blade through its chest in one clean motion. The impact burst with violet light, the creature dissolving into static mist.
Then another clawed shape emerged. And another.
"Always more," he growled.
He moved like lightning and water—spinning, slashing, using debris as cover. Sparks from his blade lit the rain, every swing a blur of precision. His expression never changed; it was all rhythm, instinct, and control.
When the final demon fell, the rift collapsed on itself with a dying roar. Silence returned—except for the hiss of rain on metal.
Riven stood still, chest rising and falling, the pendant glowing faintly. He looked down at it, eyes unreadable.
"…You always know when trouble's coming, don't you?" he whispered.
The pendant pulsed softly. Almost answering.
He sighed, sliding the sword back into its sheath. Kneeling beside the cracked ground, he pried loose a core shard, faintly humming with residual energy—the kind that could power a small city… or open a door between worlds.
He turned it over in his hand, rain dripping down his face.
"Another piece of the past," he muttered. "Another reason to keep running."
Behind him, thunder rolled across the ruins like a warning.
Riven slipped the shard into his coat, pulled up his hood, and started walking again—alone beneath the broken sky, guided only by the faint red glow at his chest and the quiet promise it seemed to whisper:
Get me