His coat strains over thick shoulders, and his hands—when he lifts one—are broad and scarred.
He points, not at me, but at the crack.
“This is not your world’s doing,” he says. “These fractures run deeper. They connect to mine.”
I stare at him.
Then, at the crack.
Then, back at him.
“Right,” I say slowly. “So. You’re an out-of-state geologist? Because that’s not how tectonics work, buddy.”
He’s not offended.
If anything, he looks amused.
Or maybe impressed.
It’s hard to tell under all that intense.
“You are Alina Fawcett,” he says.
A cold rush skims down my spine.
“How do you know my name?”
“I have felt you—or rather the place where you are missed—for a lifetime,” he replies simply. “Dreaming beside fault lines that are not truly yours. Walking atop fractures that answer only to me. But also, you are wearing a nametag.”
“What? Oh! Geez, you had me going,” I mutter, embarrassment burning my cheeks.
“Finally, I have found you,” he whispers, inching closer. “I am Dagan.”
He says it like a title, not a name. Then he continues.
“Lord of Earth. Warden of the Rooted Marches. Winged Demon of stone and storm.”
I take a slow step back.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “So you’re one of those LARP guys, right? Wrong convention, dude. Newark Comic Con is that way.”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink.
“I come from Nightfall,” he continues, like I didn’t say anything. “My world is bleeding into yours. The SoulTakers gnaw at the seams. The tremors you feel are echoes of a war you cannot see. Yet.”
The wind gusts, rattling a loose sheet of Tyvek, flipping a plastic bucket on its side.
My seismometer on the tripod beside me ticks—three sharp jumps—then goes still again.
My heart is pounding now.
Not from fear.
From something else entirely. Recognition? Attraction?
“Nightfall,” I repeat softly.
