He stood within the hollowed cathedral of stone and shadow, listening to the world breathe.
The rift was not open—not fully—but it pulsed like a wound that refused to heal, thin seams of voidlight threading through the ancient rock beneath his boots. The valley had been sealed after the war, warded and buried beneath layers of magic and bone-deep warnings.
Warnings were for the fearful.
He knelt.
The sigil carved into the floor ignited at his touch, responding not to blood—but to intention. The runes twisted, reshaping themselves, old language folding into something newer, crueler.
Satisfied, he rose.
“She’s close,” he said calmly.
From the shadows, something moved.
Not stepped. Not walked.
It unfurled.
A presence slid forward, towering yet formless, its edges blurring like smoke
