The thought alone made my fingers twitch.
The dagger sat there, quiet, unassuming, yet my eyes kept drifting back to it no matter how hard I tried to look away. The warmth I felt earlier had not faded. If anything, it grew stronger, pulsing faintly, like a second heartbeat layered over my own.
I swallowed.
If I touched it… would the statues move?
The idea rooted itself in my mind, vivid and horrifying. Stone grinding against stone. Chains tightening. Eyes opening where eyes should not open. I imagined the headless knight rising, armor scraping against the floor, imagined the armless woman turning her chained gaze toward me, imagined the suspended figure's mouth widening as the red gems flared alive.
My corruption gauge remained steady.
One percent.
That alone terrified me more than if it had spiked. It felt as if the temple was holding its breath, waiting to see what choice I would make.
I took a cautious step closer.
Nothing moved.
The air thickened, heavy enough that each breath felt deliberate. The glass roof above creaked softly as the crimson sky shifted, casting veins of red light that slid across the statues' faces. For a moment, I could have sworn one of the snake gems blinked.
I froze.
My hand hovered inches above the dagger.
The fear was not sharp. It was deep and suffocating, the kind that crawled into my bones and whispered that some lines, once crossed, could never be uncrossed. This was not a weapon meant to be drawn in desperation. This was a choice. An invitation.
I glanced back at the entrance.
The ashen ward lay beyond, filled with things that wanted me dead. My supplies were limited. My ember was still dormant. Sooner or later, I would have to face something far worse than a living statue.
Slowly, painfully aware of every movement, I extended my fingers.
The instant my skin brushed the dagger's handle, the warmth surged.
The snakes carved into the grip tightened beneath my palm, not moving, but feeling as if they might. A low hum vibrated through the stone floor, subtle but unmistakable. Dust trickled down from the ceiling. Somewhere behind me, chains rattled once, softly, like a breath drawn too close to the ear.
The statues did not move.
Not yet.
But I knew, with a certainty that chilled my spine, that they were no longer merely statues.
And whatever this temple was, it had acknowledged me.
I tightened my grip.
The moment my fingers closed fully around the ceremonial dagger, the temple answered.
The floor trembled, not violently, but with a slow, deliberate rhythm, like a heart awakening beneath stone. The warmth in the dagger surged into my palm and climbed up my arm, threading through my veins until my breath caught in my throat.
Stone scraped.
I turned.
The headless knight moved first.
Its kneeling form shifted, armor grinding softly as it rose, joints bending with impossible smoothness. The hollow where its head should have been tilted slightly, as if it were listening. Red light seeped from the seams of its armor, pulsing in time with the dagger's heat.
Chains rattled.
The armless woman followed.
Her feet slid across the floor in a slow, graceful arc, her bound eyes still lifted toward the crimson sky. The chains around her face tightened, then loosened, swaying like ribbons caught in an unseen wind. Her movement was not threatening. It was ritualistic. Reverent.
The suspended figure twitched.
Its chains pulled taut, lifting it higher before lowering it again, over and over, like a grotesque marionette. The red gems embedded in its mouth glowed brighter, casting long, warped shadows that crawled across the walls. A low sound escaped it, not a scream, not a voice, but a vibration that sank into my chest and rattled my ribs.
I stumbled back, heart pounding.
Then they began to circle.
The statues moved around me in widening arcs, their steps perfectly timed, stone feet brushing ash and dust into slow spirals that rose into the air. The bowman dragged itself along the floor, half a body leaving a trail of powdered stone, its remaining arm lifting as if drawing an invisible string.
They were not attacking.
They were dancing.
The dagger throbbed in my hand, each pulse stronger than the last. The snakes carved into the grip burned hot against my skin, their gem eyes blazing like embers. I felt something tug at my chest, deep within, as if the dagger were knocking against the door of my ember.
The crimson light from the glass roof intensified, bathing the temple in blood red hues. Shadows twisted and overlapped, statues blurring into motion, their forms no longer rigid but fluid, almost alive.
I could hear my own breathing, ragged and loud, layered with the sound of stone sliding, chains swaying, and a deep, rhythmic hum that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Then, all at once, they stopped.
The statues froze mid motion, arms lifted, bodies angled toward me.
Silence crashed down, heavy and absolute.
The dagger grew cool in my grip.
My corruption gauge remained steady at one percent, glowing faintly, as if approving.
I stood at the center of the temple, surrounded by unmoving figures, pulse racing, sweat cooling against my skin.
Whatever ritual this place demanded, it had begun.
And I was no longer just a visitor.
I was part of the dance.
The vibration did not fade.
It climbed.
At first it was only a tremor in my fingers, a faint buzzing beneath the skin, but it spread with purpose, threading through my wrists, my arms, my spine. Each pulse was heavier than the last, as if something deep within me was knocking, not impatient, but certain it would be answered.
The dagger hummed in my hand.
My breath hitched as the center of my body began to heat up. Not a surface warmth, but something deeper, coiling beneath my ribs. It felt like pressure building behind a sealed door, swelling, tightening, demanding space. My muscles tensed instinctively, as if bracing against an internal impact.
I staggered, planting my feet.
The air around me warped, shimmering faintly. The crimson light filtering through the glass roof bent toward my chest, drawn in slow, deliberate streams. I could feel it now, unmistakably.
My ember.
It was there, burning, no longer dormant.
The heat spread outward in waves, rolling through my abdomen and chest, curling around my heart. Each pulse sent a sharp ache through my veins, followed by a rush of clarity that made my vision sharpen until every crack in the stone floor, every grain of ash, stood out in painful detail.
The statues responded.
Stone ground against stone as they leaned inward, their frozen faces angled toward me. The red gems embedded in eyes and mouths flared brighter, echoing the glow building beneath my skin. The chains rattled once more, not violently, but in affirmation.
I clenched my jaw as the pressure intensified.
It felt like something was unfolding inside me, stretching against limits I did not know I had. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, syncing with the vibrations that now coursed through my entire body. Each thud pulled more heat from my core, gathering it, shaping it.
A voice brushed the edge of my thoughts.
Not words.
An intent.
A weight.
Gravis.
The sensation crushed down on me, heavy and immense, as if the world itself had decided to lean on my shoulders. My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself, one hand slamming against the cold stone floor.
I gasped, breath shaking.
The dagger burned again, this time searing, as if answering the call from within me. The snakes on its grip seemed to tighten, the gem eyes blazing in unison with the heat in my chest.
This was it.
The calling was no longer distant.
It was inside me now, swelling, shaping, awakening.
And whatever emerged when it finally broke free would define what kind of Riftborn I would become.
My legs finally gave way.
I collapsed onto the stone, the impact dull and distant, as if my body no longer fully belonged to me. The dagger slipped from my fingers and clattered beside my hand, yet the heat did not fade. If anything, it intensified, pressing down on my chest until every breath felt stolen.
Then the voices rose.
Not one.
Not many.
Hundreds.
They emerged from everywhere at once, from the altar, from the statues, from the walls, from inside my own skull. They layered over one another in a slow, terrible harmony, neither male nor female, neither young nor old. Their sound was not loud, but it was absolute, filling every space where silence could exist.
They were singing.
A low chant at first, heavy and dragging, each note sinking into me like wet stone. The melody carried weight, not sorrow alone, but responsibility, inevitability. Every voice pulled in the same direction, converging on a single truth.
This was the song of burden.
With every verse, the pressure inside my body grew unbearable. My ember burned hotter, compressing inward instead of bursting out, as if it were being forged rather than unleashed. My muscles spasmed, my fingers clawing at the floor, nails scraping uselessly against ancient stone.
I tried to scream.
Only a broken breath escaped.
Images flooded my mind.
Figures kneeling beneath impossible loads. Backs bent, spines breaking, yet still rising. Hands grasping weapons too heavy to lift, dragging them forward inch by inch. Lands held together not by hope, but by those who refused to let go, even as they were crushed by what they carried.
The singing deepened.
Each voice became clearer, more defined, until I could feel them pressing their weight into me, stacking burden upon burden onto my soul. My chest felt as though it would cave in, ribs creaking under the invisible mass.
I understood then.
This ember was not mercy.
It was not salvation.
It was endurance.
The heat surged violently, erupting from my core in a wave that knocked the air from my lungs. Veins along my arms darkened, spreading like fractures filled with ink. My heartbeat slowed, each thud deliberate and crushing, as if time itself had thickened around me.
The statues bowed.
The chains fell silent.
The song reached its final note, long and resonant, sinking into my bones.
And in that moment, buried beneath the weight of countless voices and unbearable pressure, my ember ignited.
Not in flame.
But in gravity.
The voice spoke again, closer now, no longer layered into hundreds but compressed into a single presence that carried the same crushing weight.
"Gravis. The Ember of Burden. It will be for you."
The words settled into me like a verdict.
My corruption gauge shrilled, sharp and urgent, the sound cutting through the fading echoes of the song. I forced my eyes open just enough to see it.
Forty percent.
My breath hitched.
This fast?
Panic crept in despite the heaviness anchoring my limbs. I had read about ignition. I had studied the records. Ember ignition was supposed to stabilize the body, reinforce the soul, grant resistance. At least for a moment.
I tried to steady myself, but the pressure did not lift. It grew denser, sinking deeper into my muscles and bones. My limbs felt as if iron weights had been fused into them. Even my thoughts felt slower, dragged down by something unseen.
Am I not immune when I am undergoing ember ignition?
The question echoed uselessly in my mind.
The answer came not as words, but as sensation.
Gravis did not repel corruption.
It invited it.
The heat inside me was not cleansing. It was compressing, forcing everything inward, including the corruption that seeped through the veil, through the air, through the ground beneath me. Where other embers burned it away, this one endured it, absorbed it, carried it.
My veins throbbed, the blackened lines pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Every pulse felt heavier than the last, as if my heart itself was learning what it meant to bear weight.
This ember was not protection.
It was responsibility.
The corruption gauge slowed its rise, hovering, trembling, as if restrained by something stronger than resistance. Not immunity, but control. A brutal balance, where the burden did not vanish, only settled onto my shoulders.
I clenched my teeth as my body finally stopped shaking.
If I carried too much, it would crush me.