The ruined watchtower groaned under the weight of the wind, its blackened beams scraping against each other like dry bones. Ash drifted lazily through the shattered windows, coating my hands, face, and clothes. I sank to the floor, hugging my knees, my satchel with Lunaris pressed against my chest. The artifact throbbed faintly, almost alive, as if it could sense my fear.
Sleep was impossible. Every attempt to close my eyes ended with flashes of the Rift, the faces of the scavengers I'd killed, and Scarface's cruel, twisted grin. I swallowed hard. My body survived, but my mind was fraying. What did I become?
A whisper, soft but sharp, threaded through my skull:
"You are weak. Weakness is death."
Vaelor. Full sentences this time, no teasing, no half-formed thoughts—just cold, precise judgment. My hands tightened around the satchel. I'm not weak, I told myself. I survived. I am still alive.
The artifact pulsed again, insistently, almost demanding attention. My chest throbbed with a strange warmth. Then came the flashes.
Flashes of me—me, but different. Leaner, faster, more lethal. I was twisting through the air, daggers slicing with perfect precision. I was firing a bow with inhuman accuracy, landing blows I had only read about in history books. I saw myself in the stances of warriors I'd only heard of, legends brought to life. And all of it—every movement, every strike—felt like it was mine, though I had never done it before.
My breath caught. It's showing me… what I could be.
Then the hallucinations began. Shadows moved in the corner of my vision. Figures. Scarface, the scavengers I'd killed, rising from the ash, stalking me through the mist. I recoiled, swinging my dagger blindly. The dagger cut nothing but air—and my own wrist grazed. Pain flared, hot and sharp.
Vaelor's voice echoed, sharp and mocking:
"Pathetic. You hesitate. That hesitation will kill you."
I forced myself to my feet, fingers trembling, mind racing. I reached for Lunaris, desperate, willing it to act, to save me—but it was silent. No glow. No pulse beyond the faint thrum against my chest. Nothing.
Powerless.
The wind carried a faint rustle, then the soft crunch of claws on broken stone. My heart skipped. A predatory creature—small, fast, and hungry—emerged from the shadows. Its eyes gleamed, fangs glinting in the dim light.
I reacted too slowly. My dagger fumbled in my hands. The animal lunged, and I barely twisted out of the way. Claws scraped my shoulder, tearing my tunic. Pain shot through me, but the instinct to survive took over. I swung the dagger again, and this time it struck true—but just barely. The creature yelped and slunk back into the shadows, wounded but not gone.
Vaelor's voice hissed in my mind, harsh and biting:
"Still weak. Still hesitant. Still mortal. Do you understand?"
"I… I'm trying!" I gasped aloud, panic rising. My hands shook as I clutched the satchel, wishing it would do something, anything.
And then—the world went silent.
No wind. No rustle. No heartbeat in my ears except my own.
A new voice cut through the stillness. Deep. Authoritative. Nothing like Vaelor.
"You are not ready… but you are coming anyway."
I froze. The words vibrated in my chest. My eyes darted around the ruined tower, scanning the shadows, searching for the source. Nothing. Just ash drifting lazily in a beam of moonlight.
But the feeling was real—someone, or something, was watching me.
I hugged Lunaris tighter, chest pounding. The artifact pulsed once, sharply, almost in acknowledgment. My stomach twisted. I had survived the Rift. I had fought, flailed, and almost died again. And yet, something bigger, older, hung over me—waiting.
I am not ready, I whispered to myself, voice shaking. But I can't run anymore.
And the whispers inside Lunaris echoed back, insistent, teasing, alive:
"Soon, bearer. Soon, you will see. And then… you will fight."