A Name Spoken in Fear
Zyra's heart pounded. The old man stood frozen, staring at Kieran like he was a monster.
His hands trembled as he pointed. "Rift-touched."
Kieran didn't move. Didn't blink.
His jaw was locked, his silver eyes burning with something unreadable.
Zyra took a step toward him, instinctively reaching for his hand. His fingers were cold.
She swallowed. "What does that mean?"
The old man recoiled at the question. "You don't know?" His gaze flicked between her and Riven, then back to Kieran. His lips parted, but no words came. Only fear.
"Explain," Riven ordered, stepping forward.
The man hesitated, then—he ran.
Zyra barely had time to react before Kieran moved.
Too fast.
One second, he was beside her. The next—he was behind the old man, blocking his path.
Zyra's breath caught.
Even Riven stiffened. "That… wasn't normal."
The old man fell to his knees, panting, too terrified to scream.
Kieran looked down at him, his expression blank. "I'm not going to hurt you." His voice was calm. Too calm.
The old man shook his head. "I don't believe that."
Zyra stepped between them, pressing her palm against Kieran's chest. She felt his heartbeat—fast but controlled.
"Kieran," she whispered.
For a moment, he didn't respond.
Then—his body relaxed, just slightly.
He took a slow breath and stepped back.
Zyra turned to the old man. "Tell us what you know. Please."
The man hesitated, his gaze darting toward Kieran again. But then—his fear turned to sorrow.
"You don't understand," he whispered. "If he's truly Rift-touched… then he is not the same man you knew."
---
The Rift Took More Than Time
They found shelter in what remained of the village tavern.
The roof had partially collapsed, dust thick in the air, but it was better than the open streets. The old man, who introduced himself as Marek, sat by the broken hearth, rubbing his hands together as if warming them.
Riven leaned against the door, arms crossed, watching him carefully.
Zyra sat beside Kieran, close enough to feel his warmth—but she couldn't ignore how wrong something felt.
Marek exhaled shakily. "You were gone a long time."
Zyra tensed. "How long?"
Marek hesitated. Then—
"Seventeen years."
The words slammed into her chest.
She heard Riven curse.
Felt Kieran's body go rigid beside her.
Seventeen. Years.
The world they knew was gone.
---
What It Means to Be Rift-Touched
Marek's gaze flickered toward Kieran again.
"I've heard of Rift-touched before," he said. "But I've never seen one."
Zyra swallowed. "What does it mean?"
Marek's throat bobbed as he looked at Kieran. "It means… he didn't come back whole."
Silence.
Then—Kieran let out a sharp breath. "I feel fine." His voice was steady, but Zyra heard the strain beneath it.
Marek gave him a pitying look. "Do you?"
Kieran's fingers curled against his knee.
Zyra felt it then—the slight pull of his magic. It wasn't the same.
Before, his power had been like silver flame. Bright, powerful, warm.
Now?
It was shadowed. Heavy. Twisting beneath the surface.
Marek continued. "The Rift doesn't just take time. It takes pieces of people. Memories. Souls. It twists them. And sometimes… it gives something back."
Zyra's breath hitched.
Riven's voice was sharp. "Like what?"
Marek's expression darkened. "Power."
His eyes landed on Kieran.
"Power that was never meant for this world."
---
The First Signs
The wind howled outside, rattling what remained of the window frames.
Kieran didn't speak for a long moment. Then—he stood abruptly.
Zyra followed. "Kieran—"
"I need air." His voice was tight.
Without another word, he stepped outside.
Zyra hesitated. She turned back to Marek. "Is there a way to reverse it?"
The old man sighed. "I don't know. But if his magic has changed, if he's already feeling… different, then you don't have much time."
Zyra's chest tightened.
"How long?" she whispered.
Marek's expression was grim. "Before he loses himself completely? Days. Maybe weeks."
Zyra didn't hesitate.
She turned and ran after Kieran.
---
The Shadows Stir
She found him at the edge of the village, standing at the base of a crumbling statue.
The sky above was darker now, streaked with crimson clouds.
Kieran's back was to her, his hands clenched at his sides.
She stepped forward. "Talk to me."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then—"I don't feel different."
Zyra frowned. "Kieran—"
"Not in the way he said." He turned to her, his silver eyes catching the faint red light of the sky. "But there's something in me. I can feel it. It's like a whisper in my mind. A hunger in my bones."
Zyra's pulse spiked.
He took a slow breath. "And the worst part?" His voice dropped. "I don't know if I want it to go away."
A gust of wind kicked up around them.
And in the shadows behind him—something moved.
Zyra's breath hitched. "Kieran," she whispered.
He frowned. "What?"
His shadow stretched again—twisting unnaturally.
For a moment, it almost looked like something else was standing there.
Something watching.
Zyra's skin prickled. "We need to fix this."
Kieran exhaled. "If it can be fixed."
She grabbed his hand. "It has to be."
For the first time, doubt flickered in his eyes.
And the shadows stretched further.
---