The first corpse I ever looted was still warm. I remember because it grabbed my wrist.
Not hard. Not enough to stop me. Just enough to remind me of something important:
Nothing in the Crimson Rift stays dead.
The Crimson Rift kills you in three ways:
The air chokes you.
The ground cuts you.
And if those fail—
The people finish the job.
But here I was, crouched behind a jagged, rusting spear, sifting through the filth. Because the living don't get much of a choice when they're desperate.
I brushed away centuries of dust with gloved fingers, squinting at the faint glint of metal beneath. My heart quickened. A shard of something jagged and silver peeked out, its edges worn but intact. Relic-grade, if I was lucky. Enough to keep me fed for a week, maybe two. Enough to keep the Empire's bounty hunters off my back for a little while longer.
The rumors said this wasteland was a graveyard for the Forgotten War, littered with treasures no scavenger had dared to claim. I wasn't picky about treasure. If it was shiny, valuable, and didn't stab me first, I'd call it mine. But as my fingers brushed against a glint of metal beneath the ash, I felt the first tendrils of regret creeping in.
This wasn't my usual gig. Too risky. Too quiet. But desperation has a way of making you brave—or stupid. Probably both.
The metal beneath my fingers was cold, unnaturally so, even through my gloves. I dug deeper, my heart thudding against my ribs. Whatever this was, it had better be worth it. I'd skipped three meals and risked my neck for a lead on this place. The last thing I needed was to go home empty-handed.
"Just a little more," I muttered under my breath. Talking to myself had become a habit in the silence, a poor substitute for company. My brother used to tease me for it. Not that I'd heard his voice in years. Not since the Empire took him.
My fingers hit something solid—a curved edge, smooth and unmarred by time. I scraped away more ash, revealing the faint outline of a small disk. It shimmered faintly, a sickly green glow that pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
"Finally," I whispered, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips.
Then I heard it: The sound of crunching bones snapped me out of my momentary triumph. My head whipped around, eyes narrowing as I scanned the fog. I wasn't alone.
A faint crunch, like a boot on bone.
I froze, my pulse spiking. Slowly, I slid my dagger from its sheath, the familiar weight steadying my shaking hand. The Rift wasn't just dangerous because of what lurked in its shadows. It was dangerous because of the people desperate enough to scavenge here—like me. People who wouldn't hesitate to spill blood if it meant leaving with a bigger haul.
I leaned forward just enough to see through the mist. My breath caught. There they were: five figures, moving in a loose formation between the wreckage. Their outlines blurred in the fog, but I could make out the leader—a towering brute with a scar slashed diagonally across his face. He barked orders to the others, his voice carrying through the oppressive silence.
"Spread out! If that light's real, we're not leaving without it."
I swore under my breath. Scavengers. And not the amateur kind, either. These guys moved with purpose. They were looking for something, and judging by the way Scarface gestured toward the ground, they were close.
I tightened my grip on the dagger. If they were here for the same thing I was… No. They didn't look like they were digging for scraps. They looked like they had a map. Or a lead.
Which meant whatever they were after was big. Too big to pass up.
I inched backward, keeping low. My pack bumped against the edge of a broken sword, sending a metallic clang echoing through the quiet. Scarface's head snapped up.
"Who's there?"
Damn it.
The bones beneath my boots crunched as I bolted, cursing my luck. The fog swallowed me whole, each step kicking up ash that clung to my lungs. Behind me, I heard Scarface barking orders again. Footsteps thundered in pursuit.
"Find her! She can't have gone far!"
They didn't know who I was or what I had—yet. But if they caught me, it wouldn't matter. Scavengers like them didn't ask questions before they slit throats.
I veered left, sliding down a shallow crater, and pressed my back against the scorched earth. My breaths came fast and shallow, my chest burning. From here, I could see the edge of the Rift—a jagged cliff dropping into nothingness. It always looked like the world had been torn apart by some furious god, the ground shattered and blackened. But that wasn't the Rift's worst feature. No, that would be the whispers.
I could hear them now, faint and teasing at the edge of my mind. The Rift spoke to anyone who lingered too long, promising things it had no right to promise. Power. Riches. Redemption. Lies, every one of them.
The footsteps grew louder, closer. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to focus. I couldn't run forever. But I couldn't fight, either—not against five of them. My only option was to make them want something else more than me.
Then I saw it.
A faint glow, just barely visible through the mist, at the bottom of a deeper crater. It pulsed, rhythmic and soft, like a heartbeat. My own pulse quickened in response.
I didn't know what it was. But I knew one thing: whatever they were looking for, this had to be it.
The descent into the crater felt like stepping into a dream—or a nightmare. The air grew colder, each breath stabbing at my lungs like shards of glass. The ground beneath my boots was slick, scorched, and uneven, forcing me to move slow. The glow grew brighter with every step, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
At the center of the crater was a pedestal, half-buried in the dirt. And on that pedestal was an orb.
It wasn't large—no bigger than a clenched fist—but it shone like liquid moonlight, its surface rippling with silvery light. It looked alive, like it was breathing.
My instincts screamed at me to leave. To run and never look back. But something else held me there. Curiosity. Or maybe it was the Rift whispering again, tugging at my thoughts.
I stepped closer, my hand trembling as I reached out. The moment my fingers brushed the surface the surface of the orb
I remembered dying.
But it wasn't my death.
Someone else's.
A blade through the throat.
Blood in the lungs. I felt myself chocking on it, pissing myself the pain, I almost pissed myself
Hands clawing at nothing.
I screamed and tore her hand back—"What the hell—"
But the memory didn't stop.
Bearer, something whispered.
You will carry us.
The glow flared, and I staggered, shielding my eyes. The air around me felt charged, alive. The presence in my mind didn't leave. It lingered, heavy and expectant.
"Bearer," it repeated, softer this time. "You must choose."
"Choose what?" My voice cracked, and I hated how small it sounded. "What are you?"
There was no answer. Just a flicker of warmth, like a distant memory, and the sound of footsteps closing in.
"Over here!" one of the scavengers shouted.
I spun, the orb clutched tightly in my hand. The light dimmed as if trying to hide itself. My heart pounded as I scrambled for a plan, any plan. The crater walls were too steep to climb quickly, and the scavengers would reach me before I could find another way out.
"Stay back!" I called, though my voice wavered. The dagger in my free hand felt pitifully small.
Scarface appeared at the edge of the crater, his scar twisting into a cruel smile. "Well, well. What do we have here?"
His men fanned out around him, weapons glinting through the ash-thick air. I saw it instantly—the shift in their eyes.
Not curiosity.
Greed.
One of them, an ugly ginger, stepped forward, wiry, crooked grin stretching too wide across his face.
"Hand it over, girlie," he said. "And maybe we let you live."
A snort came from behind him.
"Not before we have some fun," another voice added.
I tightened my grip on the dagger. My palms were slick.
"You think I'm stupid enough to believe that?"
Scarface chuckled, low and ugly. "You've got guts. I like that."
His smile lingered too long."Makes it more interesting."
He moved without warning.
A boot slammed into my chest.
The air vanished from my lungs as I hit the ground hard, ash bursting around me. My fingers lost their grip—the orb slipped free, skidding across the dirt.
It stopped just out of reach.
No.
I dragged myself forward, coughing, vision swimming.
A hand seized my collar and yanked me back.
"Easy," the wiry man laughed. "We'll get to you."
The orb pulsed faintly in the dirt.
Then—
Come.
The word wasn't sound.
It was inside my head.
Sharp. Cold.
Commanding.
My breath hitched.
"Boss… it's glowing," someone said, stepping closer.
COME.
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
My fingers dug into the ash as something чуж—no—something else pressed against my thoughts.
Watching.
Waiting.
I didn't think.
I moved.
I twisted out of the man's grip—too fast, too precise. His fingers slipped like he'd never held me at all.
I lunged.
My hand closed around the orb.
—
The world shattered.
—
Not darkness.
Not light.
Memory.
A blade sliding between ribs.A body collapsing.Breath slowing. Stopping.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I gasped, but the breath wasn't mine.
A voice followed.
Cold. Certain.
"Too slow."
My vision snapped back.
A scavenger rushed me, weapon raised.
I stepped forward.
Not away.
Forward.
My body turned—perfect, effortless—and my dagger slipped under his ribs in one clean motion.
He choked.
I froze.
Because I hadn't done that.
My hand pulled the blade free anyway.
Blood sprayed warm across my fingers.
"What the hell—?!" someone shouted.
They came at me all at once.
Too slow.
All of them.
Everything sharpened—angles, movement, breath, weakness.
My body moved again.
A sidestep.A cut across a throat.A twist. A stab between armor plates.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
I was inside their guard before they realized I'd moved.
Inside their lives.
Ending them.
"Stop—!" I tried to say.
"Watch."
The voice again.
Vaelor.
Scarface roared and charged, swinging wide.
I was already moving.
I slipped past the blow, my dagger flashing—
Too shallow.
He grabbed me, lifting me off the ground, fingers crushing my throat.
"Little—witch—" he rasped.
My vision darkened.
Then—
Stillness.
Absolute.
My arm moved.
Precise.
Unavoidable.
The dagger drove into his eye.
Once.
Twice.
He dropped.
—
Silence.
—
Bodies hit the ash.
One by one.
I stood in the center of it.
Breathing hard.
Hands shaking.
The orb pulsed in my palm.
No.
Not in my palm.
In me.
"What… did I just do…?"
A pause.
Then—
"You survived."
My stomach twisted.
"That wasn't me."
Silence stretched.
Then, softer—
"Not yet."
The light dimmed.
The world rushed back.
Pain. Smoke. Blood.
My blood.
Their blood.
The orb pulsed again.
"They are coming."
Boots.
Distant.
Organized.
My head snapped up.
Imperials.
I shoved the orb into my satchel, my hands trembling now—no longer steady, no longer controlled.
I turned and ran.
But the silence in my head didn't feel empty anymore.
It felt… occupied.