Ash blanketed the hills like pale death.
Elwin stood at the monastery's edge, where scorched stone gave way to brittle grass and the first signs of spring snow. The rising sun broke across the eastern horizon in a wash of gold and blood-red, casting long shadows behind the broken spires. Smoke still curled upward in lazy spirals, clinging to the bones of what had once been a sanctuary.
He hadn't looked back since sunrise. Couldn't.
Aymelle's staff was strapped across his back, wrapped in the remains of his old cloak. He had barely spoken since dawn. Mael had tried to come with him—insisted, even—but Elwin had refused. This wasn't a path for two. Not yet.
His boots sank into the slush of melting frost and mud as he crossed into the forest beyond the hills. The trees here were dense and quiet, the air sharp with cold. Crows circled overhead in uneasy spirals, as though the sky itself remembered last night's horror.
He followed no path. Only a feeling. A thread of intuition—or perhaps something deeper. Something waking.
And as the morning hours crawled forward, that sense only grew stronger.
---
By midday, the forest thickened. Pines leaned inward like mourners, branches heavy with snow. Elwin's breath came in visible wisps. He paused by a frozen brook, knelt to drink, and caught his reflection in the water's surface.
His face was pale. Eyes darker than he remembered. Haunted. Changed.
He touched his chest where the Revenant's strike had bruised his ribs. The skin was whole now—no wounds, no ache—but the memory of pain lingered like a brand.
And worse—beneath his skin, something pulsed.
He frowned, unwrapping the glove on his right hand.
There, faint but unmistakable, was a crimson sigil—jagged, circular, burning softly against his palm. He hadn't noticed it until now. The Revenant's blade hadn't cut deep enough to mark him.
But this wasn't from a blade.
He clenched his fist.
"I don't have time for this," he muttered, rewrapping the glove.
A branch snapped nearby.
Elwin stood instantly, sword drawn, senses alert.
Then—a voice. A soft whistle. Almost like… a song?
He turned, stepping carefully through the brush.
There, between two trees, stood a girl.
She couldn't have been older than sixteen. Wild, dark hair tangled around her shoulders. Her cloak was patched and muddy, her eyes sharp as glass. In her hands, a crude sling. And behind her, three men—older, ragged, armed with axes and clubs.
They looked at him with wary suspicion.
"Another one," muttered one of the men. "A survivor."
"Not one of them Bloodbound," said another. "He's got steel, not tattoos."
Elwin didn't lower his sword. "I'm not your enemy."
The girl tilted her head. "You were at the fire, weren't you?"
He didn't answer.
"You've got that look," she said. "Ash and grief."
One of the men stepped forward. "We don't want trouble, stranger. Just looking for shelter. There's a town not far—Noin. If you're headed there, better hurry. Nights are colder now. And the dreams…"
The girl shot him a glare. "Don't talk about the dreams."
Elwin sheathed his blade. "What's happening in Noin?"
The girl hesitated, then reached into her satchel and tossed something at his feet.
A strip of parchment. Burned at the edges. It bore a symbol Elwin had seen only once before—in the chapel's last moments, as the Revenant leader reached for Aymelle.
A broken circle. Blood and flame.
"People in Noin have started disappearing," the girl said. "Every time, the same mark. Same dream. Same screams. They say the Bloodbound are looking for someone."
Elwin's jaw tightened.
Someone.
Aymelle.
"I'm going there," he said.
"Suit yourself," one of the men grunted. "We're heading the other way."
"You'll die," the girl said. "Or worse. But…"
She paused, stepped forward, and looked him in the eyes.
"…if you find what they're after, maybe you'll stop the dreaming."
Then she turned, vanishing with the others into the trees.
Elwin remained still for a long moment, staring at the parchment in his hand.
The road ahead had just grown darker.
But his path was clear.
He set off again, this time with fire in his blood—and a storm gathering in the north.
The sun dipped low when Elwin finally saw it.
Nestled in a shallow valley beyond a frostbitten ridge, the town of Noin sat like a wounded animal—still, silent, and draped in the color of dusk. No chimney smoke curled upward. No voices called out. Only a cold wind stirred the weathered banners hanging from the stone gate, each bearing the same worn emblem: a silver flame, now tarnished.
Elwin approached cautiously.
The town gate stood open, but no guards manned it. Inside, narrow streets wound between crooked timber houses, many of which looked abandoned. Doors hung ajar. Curtains were torn. And on the walls, scrawled in dried red ink—or something worse—was the same broken circle he had seen on the parchment.
He passed a shuttered inn. A broken wagon. A bloodstained scarf caught in a thornbush.
And then—
"Hold it."
The voice was young, male, and trembling with poorly masked courage. A boy—maybe fifteen, with a makeshift spear—stood behind a barricade of crates and barrels. His eyes widened when he saw Elwin's sword.
"I don't want to fight," the boy said quickly. "You're not one of them, are you?"
"I'm not."
"…You sure?"
Elwin raised his hands. "I'm looking for answers. And someone the Bloodbound may have taken."
The boy stared for a long moment. Then slowly lowered his spear.
"They come at night," he whispered. "Not just the monsters. The dreams. The voice."
"What voice?"
The boy flinched. "You'll hear it. Everyone does. Eventually."
He stepped aside. "Talk to the priestess. She's the only one who hasn't gone mad. Her chapel's still open. Barely."
Elwin nodded and moved on.
As he neared the chapel, the air grew colder. A strange pressure pressed against his skin, as if the town itself was holding its breath.
The chapel was small and worn, its bell cracked in half. Candles flickered inside, their dim glow barely reaching the entrance. Elwin pushed open the door.
She stood at the altar—tall, pale, dressed in tattered white robes. Her back was to him, but he could sense the strength in her. Not physical strength—faith. Will.
"You came from the monastery," she said without turning.
Elwin's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
"I saw it in the flame." She turned, and her eyes—silver-gray—met his. "You carry her staff. Aymelle's."
He stepped forward, startled. "You knew her?"
A faint smile touched the woman's lips. "I was her mentor, long ago. I am Ilyana."
Elwin felt the world shift.
Ilyana.
He remembered Aymelle's letters—always signed with gratitude toward the woman who had first taught her to channel light.
"You're alive," he said. "Thank the Goddess."
"The Goddess doesn't answer here anymore," Ilyana replied quietly. "Not since the blood rites began."
"What happened to this town?"
She turned away, gaze dark. "Three weeks ago, the first signs appeared—people vanishing in the night. Children waking with blood on their hands. Elders screaming in sleep until their hearts failed. We prayed. We fasted. But then…"
Her voice broke slightly.
"…the altar bled. And the dreams came. A voice whispering of a gate, of sacrifice, of the vessel."
Elwin's heart pounded.
"They're after her," he said. "Aymelle. They took her."
Ilyana nodded slowly. "They seek the Prophet's blood. And she is the last line."
Suddenly, a bell clanged—low and broken.
Ilyana stiffened. "They're here."
Elwin reached for his sword.
Outside, the town began to scream.
The broken bell tolled again—slow, uneven, like the heartbeat of something dying.
Elwin burst out of the chapel with Ilyana close behind. Across the town square, shadows poured from the alleys like ink spilling into water. Shapes moved through the mist—hulking figures in tattered armor, eyes glowing faintly red.
Revenants.
But this time, they weren't alone.
Behind them came something different—a tall, hunched figure wrapped in crimson robes, its face hidden behind a mask of carved bone. The air around it shimmered with heat, though no fire burned. It moved with purpose, staff tapping the ground rhythmically. Every tap left behind a flicker of blood-red light.
At its feet, bound in chains, was a girl no older than twelve.
She was gagged. Terrified. Marked with a bloody rune across her forehead.
"They're performing a rite," Ilyana whispered. "They mean to open a Gate here."
"No," Elwin growled. "Not again."
He drew his blade.
The crimson priest stopped at the center of the square. Its voice slithered through the air, ancient and male, yet somehow echoing from everywhere at once.
"By the covenant of the Bound Flame… by the ashes of the Ninefold Gate… I call upon the Sealed One. Take this vessel, and open the path."
Elwin ran.
The Revenants moved to intercept—but this time, he was faster. Angrier.
His blade flashed through the first one's neck, sending it crashing into a stall. Another lunged at him, but Ilyana raised her hand.
"Severance of Sin!"
Chains of light burst from the ground and wrapped around the creature's limbs, pulling it apart in a flash of divine energy.
Elwin reached the girl just as the crimson-robed priest raised his staff.
Their eyes met.
"Too late," it said.
The ground cracked.
A sigil of pulsing red bloomed beneath the girl. She screamed, even through the gag, as the runes began to glow—feeding on her life.
"Hold on!" Elwin slashed the chains, grabbed her, and pulled.
The priest shrieked, extending a clawed hand—but Ilyana stepped in, her body blazing with white fire. "You will not touch them!"
She hurled a spear of light straight into its chest.
The priest staggered back, howling. Its mask cracked.
But the ritual wasn't over.
The red sigil flared—then imploded.
A column of black flame roared into the sky, splitting the clouds. All sound vanished for a moment, sucked into the dark.
Then came the scream.
Not from the girl.
From the sky.
Something ancient and wrong pressed against the world. The air itself warped. Shadows bent in directions they shouldn't. Even Ilyana faltered.
"What did it summon?" Elwin muttered, shielding the girl with his body.
A shape slithered down from the sky like smoke made flesh—a massive, eyeless beast wreathed in tendrils of bone and shadow. It didn't walk—it glided, as if carried by hatred alone.
And behind it, through the still-smoking rift in the air, more figures stirred.
The Gate had opened.
Just a crack—but enough.
Elwin tightened his grip on the girl and met Ilyana's eyes.
"We have to seal it."
"I can try," she said, voice thin. "But it will take time. Hold them off."
The beast screeched and lunged.
Elwin ran to meet it.
The Riftborn Beast lunged like a nightmare uncoiled—jaws unhinging to reveal spiraling rows of teeth that hummed with ancient hunger. Its tendrils lashed at the earth, shattering cobblestones like glass. Shadows warped in its wake, pulling the light from lanterns, from torches, even from the stars above.
Elwin met it head-on.
His blade sang against bone-flesh, slicing across one of the tendrils. Dark ichor hissed as it splattered the ground, burning through stone. The creature didn't flinch. It spun, a tail of serrated ribs crashing into Elwin's side and sending him tumbling.
He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up wheezing. The girl cowered behind him, sobbing.
The beast reared again.
Elwin didn't think—he moved. Rolled between the slamming limbs, struck upward, slicing through the sinew of its leg. It roared, more in annoyance than pain.
"Elwin!" Ilyana's voice cut through the chaos. She stood at the edge of the sigil, hands raised, eyes blazing. "I can seal the Gate, but I need a fragment of it. A shard of that beast!"
He didn't hesitate.
He dove under the beast again, this time targeting the runed growth at its shoulder—a pulsing tumor of light and dark.
One tendril caught his arm.
Pain exploded through him. His blade flew from his hand. He screamed—but he held on. With his free arm, he drew his dagger and drove it into the core.
A crack.
A scream—not from the beast, but from the air itself.
The Riftborn recoiled, thrashing wildly. Elwin tumbled away, bleeding, clutching a shard of bone still pulsing with crimson glow.
He threw it to Ilyana. "Now!"
She caught it and slammed it into the center of the sigil. Her voice rose like a hymn:
"Light of the Goddess, bind this breach. In Her name, I cast the Seal!"
A dome of silver fire erupted from the ground. The Gate shrieked. The Riftborn lunged to escape—but the dome snapped shut like jaws.
The beast hit the barrier, screamed, and was pulled back—inch by inch—into the rift.
With a final roar, it vanished. The Gate snapped closed with a thunderclap that cracked the sky.
Silence fell.
Ash drifted down like snow.
---
Elwin collapsed to one knee, his arm limp, blood soaking his tunic. The girl huddled beside him, safe. Ilyana staggered over, pale, her breath ragged.
"You did it," he rasped.
She gave a tired smile. "No. We did."
Then came the horns.
From the northern hill, a line of mounted figures approached—cloaked in gray and blue, banners bearing the sigil of the Ivory Spire. Leading them was a woman in black armor, riding a snow-white wolf.
Her eyes locked onto Elwin, calculating and cold.
Ilyana's smile faded. "That's General Seradine… of the Spire."
"I thought they stayed out of village matters," Elwin muttered.
"They do. Unless a Gate opens."
Seradine dismounted, her gaze sweeping over the devastation.
"You're Elwin, from the monastery," she said, voice like a drawn blade. "And the one who closed the Gate."
"I just fought," he replied.
She nodded once. "Then you've earned our attention."
Behind her, a tall man stepped forward—his eyes golden, a faint, unnatural glow beneath his hood. He said nothing, but Elwin felt the weight of that stare.
"We'll be escorting you to the Spire," Seradine said.
Elwin looked at the ruins of Noin, at the girl now clinging to his uninjured arm, and at Aymelle's staff still strapped to his back.
"I'm not done here."
Seradine's eyes narrowed. "You are. The war has begun, Elwin of the Monastery. Whether you want to be part of it or not."
He stood, swaying slightly.
"I'm not here for your war," he said. "I'm here for her."
"Then walk," she said, mounting again. "But if you don't come with us, you'll never find the Bloodbound."
Elwin froze.
"You know where they took her?"
"We know more than that. But answers have a price."
Elwin looked at Ilyana.
She gave him a faint nod. "We go."
He turned to the girl. "What's your name?"
She looked up, eyes wide. "Selene."
He smiled gently. "You're safe now, Selene. I promise."
He turned to the horizon.
This was no longer just about Aymelle.
Something ancient had awakened. The Revenants were only the beginning. If the Bloodbound meant to tear open the Gate again… then the world was already on the edge.
Elwin stepped forward, sword in one hand, staff on his back, and destiny waiting beyond the ashes.