If you've never been struck by lightning while being chased through a collapsing ruin by magic cultists, congratulations. You've made better life choices than me.
I was twelve the first time it happened.
I'm sixteen now. You'd think I'd learn.
The ruins were older than old — all sharp angles and impossible geometry, like someone asked a fever dream to design a castle. Dust curled through the air like it was trying to whisper secrets I didn't have time to hear.
Behind me: yelling. Footsteps. One of them shouted, "He's heading for the shard chamber!"
Which, yeah — guilty. I was heading for the shard chamber. Not because I wanted to. Because a sigil had called to me. Literally. Like a voice in my head whispering, Cassien, come touch the forbidden magical object... Which, again, objectively bad idea.
But you know what's worse than touching a cursed sigil? Letting the Harrowed Choir get it first.
My boots skidded across the cracked mosaic floor — some kind of forgotten god with too many arms and not enough face — as I rounded a corner and nearly fell into what used to be a staircase. Now it was rubble, and somewhere way, way down at the bottom, a faint glow pulsed.
The shard.
I didn't stop to think. I jumped.
Freefall is a great time to reflect on your mistakes. Like, for example:
Not learning how to fall without dislocating something.
Ignoring the weird burning sensation in your palm where a sigil birthmark lives.
Trusting a smuggler named Peach. (Never trust anyone named after fruit.)
I landed hard. My ankle screamed, but I kept limping toward the glow. The chamber was circular, quiet. The air shimmered like heat haze, though it was cold enough to freeze spit midair.
The shard floated above a pedestal.
About the size of a dinner plate.
Color: stormcloud gray with cracks of electric blue.
Vibes: do not touch.
Naturally, I touched it.
The moment my fingers grazed the surface, it flared — not with light, but with sound. A chord that hummed inside my bones, inside my thoughts, deep and ancient and angry.
Visions hit like a punch:
A battlefield made of shattered stars.
A woman screaming a name I didn't know — "Caia!"
A circle of gods watching a world break.
And then: nothing.
I woke up on my back, gasping, the shard gone. Or maybe in me. The mark on my palm? Now glowing.
Footsteps echoed in the hall above.
They'd found me.
I groaned, rolled to my feet, and muttered, "Next time, let the world burn."
Then I ran.