The air in Elmhollow reeked of burnt pine and iron. Kael stood at the edge of the village square, his fingers curling around the hilt of his dagger as the sky above split open. A jagged tear, wider than a carriage, bled black light into the afternoon. The wind howled through it, carrying whispers in a language that scraped against his bones. Children screamed. Horses reared. Then came the shapes—tall, sinewy things with too many joints, their limbs ending in claws that clicked against the cobblestones.
Kael didn’t move. His pulse thrummed in his ears, a steady drumbeat that drowned out the chaos. The villagers scattered, but he remained, transfixed by the rift’s glow. It pulsed like a heartbeat, syncing with the ache in his ribs. He’d felt this before—years ago, when the world had fractured beneath his feet. Back then, he’d been a boy, fleeing through burning forests as shadows bled from the sky. Now, the same void stared back at him, its edges fraying like torn cloth.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Kael spun, dagger raised, and froze. The woman across from him wore a cloak of midnight blue, her hair streaked with silver. Her eyes—sharp, dark, and too knowing—locked onto his. “You feel it, don’t you?” she said, her voice low. “The pull.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “They’re coming for you.”
The ground shuddered. The rift widened. Something massive surged through it, its form shifting like smoke. Kael’s vision blurred, the world tilting as a wave of heat slammed into him. He heard the woman’s scream, then the snap of a branch behind him. A boy, no older than ten, lay sprawled in the dirt, his face pale as bone. The creature’s claws raked the air, missing the child by a breath. Kael acted without thinking. He lunged, slamming his dagger into the creature’s leg. It let out a sound like grinding stone, recoiling as black ichor spurted from the wound.
The woman yanked the boy to his feet. “Run!” she barked. Kael hesitated, then followed, his boots crunching over broken glass and twisted metal. The village behind them erupted in flames, the fire licking at the sky in erratic patterns. The rift pulsed again, and Kael felt it—not just in his ears, but deep in his chest, as if the void had reached inside him and twisted something loose.
They didn’t stop until the trees swallowed them whole. The woman pressed a hand to Kael’s chest, her fingers cool against his skin. “You’re not like them,” she said. “But you’re not safe here.” She pulled a small vial from her belt, its contents swirling like trapped stars. “Drink this. It’ll keep the hunger at bay.” Kael took it without question, the liquid burning his throat. A sharp pain lanced through his skull, and for a moment, he saw her—not as a woman, but as a creature of light and shadow, her form flickering between shapes. Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the forest with the boy, who clutched a broken toy soldier to his chest.
The next days blurred into a haze of survival. Kael and the boy, named Jarek, traveled north through tangled woodlands and ruined cities. Jarek spoke little, his eyes darting at every shadow. Kael kept his distance, though he couldn’t explain why the boy’s presence unsettled him. The hunger from the vial gnawed at his gut, a constant ache that made his thoughts sharp and his reflexes quick. He killed a wolf with his bare hands once, its blood black as ink. Jarek watched, wide-eyed, but didn’t ask questions.
They reached the mountains on the third week. The air thinned, and the sky turned an unnatural shade of violet. Kael felt the pull stronger now, a thread tugging at his insides. At the summit, they found the ruins—a labyrinth of stone pillars, each etched with symbols that shimmered like liquid glass. Jarek froze at the entrance, his breath shallow. “This place… it’s wrong,” he whispered.
Kael stepped inside. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the air thickened, and the symbols flared to life. A voice echoed in his mind, not spoken but felt: *You have returned.* He staggered, clutching his head as memories surged—flashes of a world he’d never known, of a throne room bathed in blue light, of a child being torn from their mother’s arms. The voice grew louder, demanding, and Kael fell to his knees, gasping.
Jarek’s hand found his shoulder. “You’re hurting,” the boy said, his voice uncharacteristically steady. “I can see it.” Kael met his eyes and saw something there—fear, yes, but also understanding. He reached into his pack and pulled out the vial, empty now. “I don’t know what I am,” he admitted. “But I can’t let them take you.”
The ruins trembled. The symbols pulsed in time with Kael’s heartbeat. Somewhere in the distance, a horn blared—a sound that sent shivers down his spine. Jarek’s grip tightened. “They’re here,” he said. “We have to go.” But Kael didn’t move. The voice was still there, weaving through his thoughts, and he realized the truth: this place wasn’t a ruin. It was a prison.
And he was the key.
