“Rift-spawn,” murmurs the shorter.
Moonlight dims as shadow swells behind tree line. Branches crack. A creature emerges—six-legged, scaled, flanks leaking black mist. Its head resembles a stag’s skull lined in obsidian, antlers oozing tar. Rift relic, birthed when magic and malice coalesce.
The stag-beast charges, mist shredding pine boughs. Scouts leap opposite directions, howling warnings. Time jerks; the beast appears closer without traversing space.
I pivot, drawing a chalk rune in air. Sigil flares violet. The beast slams into invisible barrier, skull gashing flickers of lavender light. Mist sprays.
“Hold it,” I shout to the scouts. “Flank!”
They hesitate, then obey instincts. One lunges left, claws raking scale. The other hits rear leg tendons. The creature bellows, antlers thrashing. Each strike leaves cracks in my barrier; the ridge’s time slippage weakens spell longevity. I reinforce with second sigil, weaving starlight into fracture lines.
Beast’s gaze locks on me—pits of ink swirling with molten sparks. It rears, braces, then disappears. Sudden. I glance around, senses straining.
“Above!” a scout cries.
The beast falls from tree canopy, accelerating too quick for gravity’s rules. I dive aside. Impact crater blooms where I stood, soil and needles shooting upward in reverse fountain before settling. My barrier shatters into shards of frozen light.
Pain flares down shoulder where a stray antler grazed. Blood beads, but crystal patch hums, cauterizing wound instantly. Still stings. I hiss, scramble upright.
Scouts attack again, slashing ribs, howling pack mantra to focus. Beast shrugs them off, tail whipping like spiked chain,flinging one scout into trunk with sickening crack. He drops, groaning.
I draw breath, pull the stars into throat.
“Constellations anchor.”
“Constellations burn.”
Words ignite around tongue, spark down arms. I slam palms to earth. Silver lines shoot outward, connecting to iron in deep veins. The earth answers—a tremor localized to a circle around the beast. Ground liquefies, swallowing hooves. Mist boils off as rift energy grounds out.
Beast thrashes, but legs sink past knees. I step closer, palm glowing. “Return to the rift that bore you,” I whisper. With final thrust, I press hand to skull. Crystal lattice in my ribs flares, channeling prophecy’s raw residue as conduit.
Flash—vision shards: a forest burning in reverse, flames leaping back into torches; wolves howling inside stone hearts; a man with ember stripes running through snow. Then blackness.
When sight clears, the stag-beast is gone, leaving only a pit of steaming loam. My knees fold. The remaining scout catches me under elbow. His hands tremble almost as badly as mine.
“Your brother?” I ask, nodding toward fallen scout.
“Cousin.” His voice cracks. He hurries to kneel by injured kin. The fallen one breathes, eyes fluttering. Ribs likely broken but lungs intact.
I stagger to a sit, chest heaving. Crystal lines retreat to steady glow—no spread this time, thank the heavens. But using prophecy as weapon always invites risk.
The uninjured scout returns, wary gratitude on his face. “You fought like pack.”
“Stone blood remembers old vows.” I push to feet. “Will you honor mine? Tell your alpha our meeting stands.”
He nods, pressing fist to sternum. “We will. Beware more shadows. The rift summons them.”
“I will.”
He hauls cousin onto shoulders, shifting mid-motion; fur ripples where skin stood. The wolf form bears weight effortlessly. One last glance before he bounds into forest: respect, tinged with puzzle. I offer slight bow.
Silence creeps back, interrupted only by distant snap of branches as scouts retreat. I turn toward shrine path. The crystal in pouch thrums, compass needle twitching, eager to guide.
Stars wheel overhead. The ridge breathes out its chaos, taking memories with it—yet leaving me heightened, connected. I feel Kylan’s aura again, pulse of iron and grief, stronger now, as if our threads converge. The thought no longer frightens me. If I am to survive, solitude cannot stand.
I brush soil from knees, adjust pack, and enter deeper forest, where time tunnels curl between trunks. Every step forward echoes with possibility: alliance, disaster, or both braided into the same rope. Yet rope binds and hoists in equal measure.
“Not alone anymore,” I murmur, letting the words settle like new snow on an old path. Ahead, the shrine’s location burns on my mind’s horizon—crimson beacon, immutable, waiting to reveal whether the future can still be rewritten.
