The ground under Arlen's sneakers sloshed and sucked at every step as he made his way across the alien landscape.
The purple grass whispered against his legs, and the orange light of the setting sun — or whatever that massive, burning orb was — threw long, jagged shadows.
Each step made it more real.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not a bad trip.
He was here, wherever here was.
The black smoke still rose ahead, thick and angry. Whatever made it had probably made that roar too — and Arlen wasn't exactly itching to meet it. But he had no better plan.
Wandering aimlessly didn't sound like a winning strategy.
The silver medallion floated a few inches from his chest, bobbing lazily, as if attached to him by an invisible thread. Every now and then, it would emit a faint ping, a ripple through the air that sent small insects scattering from the grass.
He tried ignoring it. Mostly.
His stomach growled. Loud.
"Fantastic," Arlen muttered. "Kidnapped to fantasy land and left to starve. Real classy, Rift. Real classy."
He tried not to think about how absurd it all was. How badly he wanted to sit in his crappy apartment, microwave a frozen burrito, and watch some low-budget sci-fi series.
Instead, he was trudging toward certain death.
Just perfect.
The sun sank lower.
The sky, once green, was shifting to a bruised purple. Strange, glittering motes drifted down like reverse snow.
Arlen squinted at one — it looked like a tiny, fluttering fish made of glass. It bobbed past his ear, chiming faintly.
"What even is this place?" he muttered, brushing it away.
And then he heard voices.
Not roars. Not growls.
Voices. Human.
Arlen ducked low, heart thudding.
The grass was thick enough to hide in — barely.
He crept forward, parting the purple blades carefully.
Beyond a small rise, he spotted them: a group of about six figures clustered around a broken cart. Two horses — no, Arlen corrected himself, horse-like creatures — were hitched nearby. They had antlers and scales along their necks.
The people — and they were people, or close enough — were arguing in sharp, tense tones.
One, a woman with hair like molten copper, pointed furiously at the cart. It looked like it had been burned — one wheel melted, black streaks along the wood.
Another, a massive man with dark skin and a coat made of patchwork leather, gestured wildly at the smoke rising beyond the hills.
They looked... scared.
Not dangerous, Arlen thought.
Or at least, not immediately.
His stomach twisted again. He needed food. Shelter. Information.
But how the hell was he supposed to approach?
He was a stranger here — worse, he didn't even know the rules.
While he hesitated, the decision was made for him.
The medallion floating at his chest gave a sharp, loud PING! — much louder than before.
Arlen froze.
Every head at the broken cart snapped toward the sound.
"Shit," he hissed.
The copper-haired woman drew a dagger. She barked something — a word he didn't understand — and a ripple of silver energy burst from her hand, sweeping across the grass toward him like a radar pulse.
Arlen had about two seconds to decide.
Run? Hide? Surrender?
Witnesses must not interfere.
The King's words rang in his head. But Arlen shoved them aside.
He rose from the grass, hands raised.
"Uh... hi!" he called, voice cracking. "I come in peace!"
Six weapons were drawn in a heartbeat.
Bows, knives, and — weirdly enough — something that looked suspiciously like a wrench wrapped in runes.
Arlen gulped.
The big man with the patchwork coat stepped forward. His voice was a deep, rumbling growl.
"Name yourself, trespasser."
Arlen swallowed. "Arlen. Arlen Vance. I, uh, mean no harm."
He almost added "I'm a Witness," but thought better of it. He had no idea if that meant anything here — or if it would get him instantly murdered.
The group eyed him suspiciously.
The copper-haired woman flicked her dagger in his direction. "Where's your mark?"
"My... what?"
"Your House Mark. Your Bond. Your Guild seal. You're bare."
She said it like it was an accusation. Maybe it was.
Arlen blinked. "I'm... new?"
That earned a ripple of low laughter — grim and mocking.
"New," the big man echoed. He scratched his chin, clearly debating whether or not to bash Arlen's head in. "From the Rifts, maybe?"
The word Rifts made the whole group tense.
"You seen the sky, stranger?" another voice asked — a wiry young man with a crossbow slung over his back. "Seen the cracks?"
Arlen nodded slowly. "Yeah. Hard to miss."
That seemed to satisfy them. Slightly.
The copper-haired woman sheathed her dagger, though she didn't stop glaring.
"What's your price, then?" she asked sharply. "Food? Shelter? Work?"
Arlen opened his mouth — then paused.
He was used to Earth terms. Dollars. Rent. Bargains.
But here? Price might mean something else entirely.
Carefully, he answered, "Information."
The group exchanged looks.
Finally, the big man sighed. "You picked a bad time to fall through the Rift, Arlen Vance. The world's ending, and there's no patience for dead weight."
He waved a hand.
"Come on. Before the Shrikes smell you."
Shrikes?
Arlen didn't ask. He just stumbled after them, heart hammering.
The group moved quickly.
They didn't take the road (not that there was much of one) — they cut through the grass, keeping low, avoiding open spaces.
Whatever Shrikes were, the group seemed dead set on avoiding them.
As they moved, Arlen picked up snippets of conversation.
"...village burned two nights ago..."
"...sky splitting wider..."
"...no safe havens left..."
"...Guilds fighting over scraps..."
It was chaos. Whatever world he'd landed in, it was crumbling.
After an hour of hard marching, they reached a shallow ravine.
At the base, half-hidden by rocky outcrops, was a campsite: three battered tents, a dying fire, and a single wooden chest covered in iron bands.
The copper-haired woman — clearly the leader — gestured for Arlen to sit.
He collapsed onto a stone, legs trembling.
The big man dropped a chunk of salted meat into Arlen's hands. It was tough, dry, and tasted faintly of soap, but Arlen wolfed it down gratefully.
Once he'd eaten, the woman sat across from him, arms crossed.
"Start talking."
Arlen hesitated. "About what?"
"Where you came from. What you know. What you're hiding."
He spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know anything! I woke up here after... falling through something. A Rift, you called it?"
The group muttered.
"Accidental Rift-fall," the big man grunted. "Bad luck."
"Worse than that," another added. "Means the barriers are thinner than we thought."
The woman leaned forward, studying him like a puzzle.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story."
"Story?" Arlen echoed.
"Your Tale," she said impatiently. "Your Destiny. Your Shaping."
She might as well have been speaking Greek.
Seeing his confusion, she cursed under her breath.
"In this world, stranger," she said tightly, "you are what is told about you. Your power grows from your Story. No Story, no survival."
The others nodded grimly.
Arlen's mind reeled.
On Earth, stories were entertainment. Here, they were... survival?
"But you," she continued, voice low and dangerous, "are a blank page."
"Which makes you dangerous," the big man finished.
Arlen's mouth went dry. "Dangerous how?"
The copper-haired woman smiled — but there was no warmth in it.
"Because anyone can write on you."
Before Arlen could ask what that meant, the ground shook.
A scream — high, shrill, and not human — ripped through the night.
The group jumped to their feet.
"Shrikes!" someone shouted.
Arlen stumbled up, heart slamming.
From the ravine edge, he saw them: a flock of creatures descending like a living storm.
They had wings like broken glass, bodies stitched from bones and shadow, and eyes — dozens of eyes — that burned with green fire.
They shrieked, a sound like razors scraping bone.
Arlen froze.
The medallion at his chest pulsed — hot, urgent.
The copper-haired woman grabbed his arm.
"RUN!"
No argument there.
They sprinted across the ravine floor, heading for a narrow tunnel carved into the cliff wall.
The Shrikes dove.
One snatched a man — the wiry crossbow wielder — lifting him screaming into the air. Blood sprayed the rocks below.
Arlen almost tripped. He forced himself onward.
The big man — huge but surprisingly fast — barreled into a Shrike mid-dive, smashing it into shards of bone and smoke. But for every one that fell, three more took its place.
Arlen and the others reached the tunnel just as a second wave swooped.
The copper-haired woman turned, hands glowing with fierce, violet light.
She hurled a sphere of fire into the flock, buying precious seconds.
"Move, move!" she roared.
They plunged into the tunnel.
Darkness swallowed them. The Shrikes howled in frustration, unable — or unwilling — to follow.
Arlen collapsed against a wall, gasping.
His body shook. His mind whirled.
"Are they gone?" he panted.
"For now," the big man rumbled.
The copper-haired woman shot him a fierce look.
"You owe us your life, Rift-stray."
"I know," Arlen whispered.
And he meant it.
But deep down, a cold fear was settling in.
Because he realized something:
The Shrikes weren't natural predators. They were drawn to him.
Drawn to the broken medallion still pulsing against his chest.
And whatever he was now — Witness, trespasser, anomaly — he wasn't just a victim.
He was a target.
The ground under Arlen's sneakers sloshed and sucked at every step as he made his way across the alien landscape.
The purple grass whispered against his legs, and the orange light of the setting sun — or whatever that massive, burning orb was — threw long, jagged shadows.
Each step made it more real.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not a bad trip.
He was here, wherever here was.
The black smoke still rose ahead, thick and angry. Whatever made it had probably made that roar too — and Arlen wasn't exactly itching to meet it. But he had no better plan.
Wandering aimlessly didn't sound like a winning strategy.
The silver medallion floated a few inches from his chest, bobbing lazily, as if attached to him by an invisible thread. Every now and then, it would emit a faint ping, a ripple through the air that sent small insects scattering from the grass.
He tried ignoring it. Mostly.
His stomach growled. Loud.
"Fantastic," Arlen muttered. "Kidnapped to fantasy land and left to starve. Real classy, Rift. Real classy."
He tried not to think about how absurd it all was. How badly he wanted to sit in his crappy apartment, microwave a frozen burrito, and watch some low-budget sci-fi series.
Instead, he was trudging toward certain death.
Just perfect.
The sun sank lower.
The sky, once green, was shifting to a bruised purple. Strange, glittering motes drifted down like reverse snow.
Arlen squinted at one — it looked like a tiny, fluttering fish made of glass. It bobbed past his ear, chiming faintly.
"What even is this place?" he muttered, brushing it away.
And then he heard voices.
Not roars. Not growls.
Voices. Human.
Arlen ducked low, heart thudding.
The grass was thick enough to hide in — barely.
He crept forward, parting the purple blades carefully.
Beyond a small rise, he spotted them: a group of about six figures clustered around a broken cart. Two horses — no, Arlen corrected himself, horse-like creatures — were hitched nearby. They had antlers and scales along their necks.
The people — and they were people, or close enough — were arguing in sharp, tense tones.
One, a woman with hair like molten copper, pointed furiously at the cart. It looked like it had been burned — one wheel melted, black streaks along the wood.
Another, a massive man with dark skin and a coat made of patchwork leather, gestured wildly at the smoke rising beyond the hills.
They looked... scared.
Not dangerous, Arlen thought.
Or at least, not immediately.
His stomach twisted again. He needed food. Shelter. Information.
But how the hell was he supposed to approach?
He was a stranger here — worse, he didn't even know the rules.
While he hesitated, the decision was made for him.
The medallion floating at his chest gave a sharp, loud PING! — much louder than before.
Arlen froze.
Every head at the broken cart snapped toward the sound.
"Shit," he hissed.
The copper-haired woman drew a dagger. She barked something — a word he didn't understand — and a ripple of silver energy burst from her hand, sweeping across the grass toward him like a radar pulse.
Arlen had about two seconds to decide.
Run? Hide? Surrender?
Witnesses must not interfere.
The King's words rang in his head. But Arlen shoved them aside.
He rose from the grass, hands raised.
"Uh... hi!" he called, voice cracking. "I come in peace!"
Six weapons were drawn in a heartbeat.
Bows, knives, and — weirdly enough — something that looked suspiciously like a wrench wrapped in runes.
Arlen gulped.
The big man with the patchwork coat stepped forward. His voice was a deep, rumbling growl.
"Name yourself, trespasser."
Arlen swallowed. "Arlen. Arlen Vance. I, uh, mean no harm."
He almost added "I'm a Witness," but thought better of it. He had no idea if that meant anything here — or if it would get him instantly murdered.
The group eyed him suspiciously.
The copper-haired woman flicked her dagger in his direction. "Where's your mark?"
"My... what?"
"Your House Mark. Your Bond. Your Guild seal. You're bare."
She said it like it was an accusation. Maybe it was.
Arlen blinked. "I'm... new?"
That earned a ripple of low laughter — grim and mocking.
"New," the big man echoed. He scratched his chin, clearly debating whether or not to bash Arlen's head in. "From the Rifts, maybe?"
The word Rifts made the whole group tense.
"You seen the sky, stranger?" another voice asked — a wiry young man with a crossbow slung over his back. "Seen the cracks?"
Arlen nodded slowly. "Yeah. Hard to miss."
That seemed to satisfy them. Slightly.
The copper-haired woman sheathed her dagger, though she didn't stop glaring.
"What's your price, then?" she asked sharply. "Food? Shelter? Work?"
Arlen opened his mouth — then paused.
He was used to Earth terms. Dollars. Rent. Bargains.
But here? Price might mean something else entirely.
Carefully, he answered, "Information."
The group exchanged looks.
Finally, the big man sighed. "You picked a bad time to fall through the Rift, Arlen Vance. The world's ending, and there's no patience for dead weight."
He waved a hand.
"Come on. Before the Shrikes smell you."
Shrikes?
Arlen didn't ask. He just stumbled after them, heart hammering.
The group moved quickly.
They didn't take the road (not that there was much of one) — they cut through the grass, keeping low, avoiding open spaces.
Whatever Shrikes were, the group seemed dead set on avoiding them.
As they moved, Arlen picked up snippets of conversation.
"...village burned two nights ago..."
"...sky splitting wider..."
"...no safe havens left..."
"...Guilds fighting over scraps..."
It was chaos. Whatever world he'd landed in, it was crumbling.
After an hour of hard marching, they reached a shallow ravine.
At the base, half-hidden by rocky outcrops, was a campsite: three battered tents, a dying fire, and a single wooden chest covered in iron bands.
The copper-haired woman — clearly the leader — gestured for Arlen to sit.
He collapsed onto a stone, legs trembling.
The big man dropped a chunk of salted meat into Arlen's hands. It was tough, dry, and tasted faintly of soap, but Arlen wolfed it down gratefully.
Once he'd eaten, the woman sat across from him, arms crossed.
"Start talking."
Arlen hesitated. "About what?"
"Where you came from. What you know. What you're hiding."
He spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know anything! I woke up here after... falling through something. A Rift, you called it?"
The group muttered.
"Accidental Rift-fall," the big man grunted. "Bad luck."
"Worse than that," another added. "Means the barriers are thinner than we thought."
The woman leaned forward, studying him like a puzzle.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story."
"Story?" Arlen echoed.
"Your Tale," she said impatiently. "Your Destiny. Your Shaping."
She might as well have been speaking Greek.
Seeing his confusion, she cursed under her breath.
"In this world, stranger," she said tightly, "you are what is told about you. Your power grows from your Story. No Story, no survival."
The others nodded grimly.
Arlen's mind reeled.
On Earth, stories were entertainment. Here, they were... survival?
"But you," she continued, voice low and dangerous, "are a blank page."
"Which makes you dangerous," the big man finished.
Arlen's mouth went dry. "Dangerous how?"
The copper-haired woman smiled — but there was no warmth in it.
"Because anyone can write on you."
Before Arlen could ask what that meant, the ground shook.
A scream — high, shrill, and not human — ripped through the night.
The group jumped to their feet.
"Shrikes!" someone shouted.
Arlen stumbled up, heart slamming.
From the ravine edge, he saw them: a flock of creatures descending like a living storm.
They had wings like broken glass, bodies stitched from bones and shadow, and eyes — dozens of eyes — that burned with green fire.
They shrieked, a sound like razors scraping bone.
Arlen froze.
The medallion at his chest pulsed — hot, urgent.
The copper-haired woman grabbed his arm.
"RUN!"
No argument there.
They sprinted across the ravine floor, heading for a narrow tunnel carved into the cliff wall.
The Shrikes dove.
One snatched a man — the wiry crossbow wielder — lifting him screaming into the air. Blood sprayed the rocks below.
Arlen almost tripped. He forced himself onward.
The big man — huge but surprisingly fast — barreled into a Shrike mid-dive, smashing it into shards of bone and smoke. But for every one that fell, three more took its place.
Arlen and the others reached the tunnel just as a second wave swooped.
The copper-haired woman turned, hands glowing with fierce, violet light.
She hurled a sphere of fire into the flock, buying precious seconds.
"Move, move!" she roared.
They plunged into the tunnel.
Darkness swallowed them. The Shrikes howled in frustration, unable — or unwilling — to follow.
Arlen collapsed against a wall, gasping.
His body shook. His mind whirled.
"Are they gone?" he panted.
"For now," the big man rumbled.
The copper-haired woman shot him a fierce look.
"You owe us your life, Rift-stray."
"I know," Arlen whispered.
And he meant it.
But deep down, a cold fear was settling in.
Because he realized something:
The Shrikes weren't natural predators. They were drawn to him.
Drawn to the broken medallion still pulsing against his chest.
And whatever he was now — Witness, trespasser, anomaly — he wasn't just a victim.
He was a target.
The ground under Arlen's sneakers sloshed and sucked at every step as he made his way across the alien landscape.
The purple grass whispered against his legs, and the orange light of the setting sun — or whatever that massive, burning orb was — threw long, jagged shadows.
Each step made it more real.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not a bad trip.
He was here, wherever here was.
The black smoke still rose ahead, thick and angry. Whatever made it had probably made that roar too — and Arlen wasn't exactly itching to meet it. But he had no better plan.
Wandering aimlessly didn't sound like a winning strategy.
The silver medallion floated a few inches from his chest, bobbing lazily, as if attached to him by an invisible thread. Every now and then, it would emit a faint ping, a ripple through the air that sent small insects scattering from the grass.
He tried ignoring it. Mostly.
His stomach growled. Loud.
"Fantastic," Arlen muttered. "Kidnapped to fantasy land and left to starve. Real classy, Rift. Real classy."
He tried not to think about how absurd it all was. How badly he wanted to sit in his crappy apartment, microwave a frozen burrito, and watch some low-budget sci-fi series.
Instead, he was trudging toward certain death.
Just perfect.
The sun sank lower.
The sky, once green, was shifting to a bruised purple. Strange, glittering motes drifted down like reverse snow.
Arlen squinted at one — it looked like a tiny, fluttering fish made of glass. It bobbed past his ear, chiming faintly.
"What even is this place?" he muttered, brushing it away.
And then he heard voices.
Not roars. Not growls.
Voices. Human.
Arlen ducked low, heart thudding.
The grass was thick enough to hide in — barely.
He crept forward, parting the purple blades carefully.
Beyond a small rise, he spotted them: a group of about six figures clustered around a broken cart. Two horses — no, Arlen corrected himself, horse-like creatures — were hitched nearby. They had antlers and scales along their necks.
The people — and they were people, or close enough — were arguing in sharp, tense tones.
One, a woman with hair like molten copper, pointed furiously at the cart. It looked like it had been burned — one wheel melted, black streaks along the wood.
Another, a massive man with dark skin and a coat made of patchwork leather, gestured wildly at the smoke rising beyond the hills.
They looked... scared.
Not dangerous, Arlen thought.
Or at least, not immediately.
His stomach twisted again. He needed food. Shelter. Information.
But how the hell was he supposed to approach?
He was a stranger here — worse, he didn't even know the rules.
While he hesitated, the decision was made for him.
The medallion floating at his chest gave a sharp, loud PING! — much louder than before.
Arlen froze.
Every head at the broken cart snapped toward the sound.
"Shit," he hissed.
The copper-haired woman drew a dagger. She barked something — a word he didn't understand — and a ripple of silver energy burst from her hand, sweeping across the grass toward him like a radar pulse.
Arlen had about two seconds to decide.
Run? Hide? Surrender?
Witnesses must not interfere.
The King's words rang in his head. But Arlen shoved them aside.
He rose from the grass, hands raised.
"Uh... hi!" he called, voice cracking. "I come in peace!"
Six weapons were drawn in a heartbeat.
Bows, knives, and — weirdly enough — something that looked suspiciously like a wrench wrapped in runes.
Arlen gulped.
The big man with the patchwork coat stepped forward. His voice was a deep, rumbling growl.
"Name yourself, trespasser."
Arlen swallowed. "Arlen. Arlen Vance. I, uh, mean no harm."
He almost added "I'm a Witness," but thought better of it. He had no idea if that meant anything here — or if it would get him instantly murdered.
The group eyed him suspiciously.
The copper-haired woman flicked her dagger in his direction. "Where's your mark?"
"My... what?"
"Your House Mark. Your Bond. Your Guild seal. You're bare."
She said it like it was an accusation. Maybe it was.
Arlen blinked. "I'm... new?"
That earned a ripple of low laughter — grim and mocking.
"New," the big man echoed. He scratched his chin, clearly debating whether or not to bash Arlen's head in. "From the Rifts, maybe?"
The word Rifts made the whole group tense.
"You seen the sky, stranger?" another voice asked — a wiry young man with a crossbow slung over his back. "Seen the cracks?"
Arlen nodded slowly. "Yeah. Hard to miss."
That seemed to satisfy them. Slightly.
The copper-haired woman sheathed her dagger, though she didn't stop glaring.
"What's your price, then?" she asked sharply. "Food? Shelter? Work?"
Arlen opened his mouth — then paused.
He was used to Earth terms. Dollars. Rent. Bargains.
But here? Price might mean something else entirely.
Carefully, he answered, "Information."
The group exchanged looks.
Finally, the big man sighed. "You picked a bad time to fall through the Rift, Arlen Vance. The world's ending, and there's no patience for dead weight."
He waved a hand.
"Come on. Before the Shrikes smell you."
Shrikes?
Arlen didn't ask. He just stumbled after them, heart hammering.
The group moved quickly.
They didn't take the road (not that there was much of one) — they cut through the grass, keeping low, avoiding open spaces.
Whatever Shrikes were, the group seemed dead set on avoiding them.
As they moved, Arlen picked up snippets of conversation.
"...village burned two nights ago..."
"...sky splitting wider..."
"...no safe havens left..."
"...Guilds fighting over scraps..."
It was chaos. Whatever world he'd landed in, it was crumbling.
After an hour of hard marching, they reached a shallow ravine.
At the base, half-hidden by rocky outcrops, was a campsite: three battered tents, a dying fire, and a single wooden chest covered in iron bands.
The copper-haired woman — clearly the leader — gestured for Arlen to sit.
He collapsed onto a stone, legs trembling.
The big man dropped a chunk of salted meat into Arlen's hands. It was tough, dry, and tasted faintly of soap, but Arlen wolfed it down gratefully.
Once he'd eaten, the woman sat across from him, arms crossed.
"Start talking."
Arlen hesitated. "About what?"
"Where you came from. What you know. What you're hiding."
He spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know anything! I woke up here after... falling through something. A Rift, you called it?"
The group muttered.
"Accidental Rift-fall," the big man grunted. "Bad luck."
"Worse than that," another added. "Means the barriers are thinner than we thought."
The woman leaned forward, studying him like a puzzle.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story."
"Story?" Arlen echoed.
"Your Tale," she said impatiently. "Your Destiny. Your Shaping."
She might as well have been speaking Greek.
Seeing his confusion, she cursed under her breath.
"In this world, stranger," she said tightly, "you are what is told about you. Your power grows from your Story. No Story, no survival."
The others nodded grimly.
Arlen's mind reeled.
On Earth, stories were entertainment. Here, they were... survival?
"But you," she continued, voice low and dangerous, "are a blank page."
"Which makes you dangerous," the big man finished.
Arlen's mouth went dry. "Dangerous how?"
The copper-haired woman smiled — but there was no warmth in it.
"Because anyone can write on you."
Before Arlen could ask what that meant, the ground shook.
A scream — high, shrill, and not human — ripped through the night.
The group jumped to their feet.
"Shrikes!" someone shouted.
Arlen stumbled up, heart slamming.
From the ravine edge, he saw them: a flock of creatures descending like a living storm.
They had wings like broken glass, bodies stitched from bones and shadow, and eyes — dozens of eyes — that burned with green fire.
They shrieked, a sound like razors scraping bone.
Arlen froze.
The medallion at his chest pulsed — hot, urgent.
The copper-haired woman grabbed his arm.
"RUN!"
No argument there.
They sprinted across the ravine floor, heading for a narrow tunnel carved into the cliff wall.
The Shrikes dove.
One snatched a man — the wiry crossbow wielder — lifting him screaming into the air. Blood sprayed the rocks below.
Arlen almost tripped. He forced himself onward.
The big man — huge but surprisingly fast — barreled into a Shrike mid-dive, smashing it into shards of bone and smoke. But for every one that fell, three more took its place.
Arlen and the others reached the tunnel just as a second wave swooped.
The copper-haired woman turned, hands glowing with fierce, violet light.
She hurled a sphere of fire into the flock, buying precious seconds.
"Move, move!" she roared.
They plunged into the tunnel.
Darkness swallowed them. The Shrikes howled in frustration, unable — or unwilling — to follow.
Arlen collapsed against a wall, gasping.
His body shook. His mind whirled.
"Are they gone?" he panted.
"For now," the big man rumbled.
The copper-haired woman shot him a fierce look.
"You owe us your life, Rift-stray."
"I know," Arlen whispered.
And he meant it.
But deep down, a cold fear was settling in.
Because he realized something:
The Shrikes weren't natural predators. They were drawn to him.
Drawn to the broken medallion still pulsing against his chest.
And whatever he was now — Witness, trespasser, anomaly — he wasn't just a victim.
He was a target.
The ground under Arlen's sneakers sloshed and sucked at every step as he made his way across the alien landscape.
The purple grass whispered against his legs, and the orange light of the setting sun — or whatever that massive, burning orb was — threw long, jagged shadows.
Each step made it more real.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not a bad trip.
He was here, wherever here was.
The black smoke still rose ahead, thick and angry. Whatever made it had probably made that roar too — and Arlen wasn't exactly itching to meet it. But he had no better plan.
Wandering aimlessly didn't sound like a winning strategy.
The silver medallion floated a few inches from his chest, bobbing lazily, as if attached to him by an invisible thread. Every now and then, it would emit a faint ping, a ripple through the air that sent small insects scattering from the grass.
He tried ignoring it. Mostly.
His stomach growled. Loud.
"Fantastic," Arlen muttered. "Kidnapped to fantasy land and left to starve. Real classy, Rift. Real classy."
He tried not to think about how absurd it all was. How badly he wanted to sit in his crappy apartment, microwave a frozen burrito, and watch some low-budget sci-fi series.
Instead, he was trudging toward certain death.
Just perfect.
The sun sank lower.
The sky, once green, was shifting to a bruised purple. Strange, glittering motes drifted down like reverse snow.
Arlen squinted at one — it looked like a tiny, fluttering fish made of glass. It bobbed past his ear, chiming faintly.
"What even is this place?" he muttered, brushing it away.
And then he heard voices.
Not roars. Not growls.
Voices. Human.
Arlen ducked low, heart thudding.
The grass was thick enough to hide in — barely.
He crept forward, parting the purple blades carefully.
Beyond a small rise, he spotted them: a group of about six figures clustered around a broken cart. Two horses — no, Arlen corrected himself, horse-like creatures — were hitched nearby. They had antlers and scales along their necks.
The people — and they were people, or close enough — were arguing in sharp, tense tones.
One, a woman with hair like molten copper, pointed furiously at the cart. It looked like it had been burned — one wheel melted, black streaks along the wood.
Another, a massive man with dark skin and a coat made of patchwork leather, gestured wildly at the smoke rising beyond the hills.
They looked... scared.
Not dangerous, Arlen thought.
Or at least, not immediately.
His stomach twisted again. He needed food. Shelter. Information.
But how the hell was he supposed to approach?
He was a stranger here — worse, he didn't even know the rules.
While he hesitated, the decision was made for him.
The medallion floating at his chest gave a sharp, loud PING! — much louder than before.
Arlen froze.
Every head at the broken cart snapped toward the sound.
"Shit," he hissed.
The copper-haired woman drew a dagger. She barked something — a word he didn't understand — and a ripple of silver energy burst from her hand, sweeping across the grass toward him like a radar pulse.
Arlen had about two seconds to decide.
Run? Hide? Surrender?
Witnesses must not interfere.
The King's words rang in his head. But Arlen shoved them aside.
He rose from the grass, hands raised.
"Uh... hi!" he called, voice cracking. "I come in peace!"
Six weapons were drawn in a heartbeat.
Bows, knives, and — weirdly enough — something that looked suspiciously like a wrench wrapped in runes.
Arlen gulped.
The big man with the patchwork coat stepped forward. His voice was a deep, rumbling growl.
"Name yourself, trespasser."
Arlen swallowed. "Arlen. Arlen Vance. I, uh, mean no harm."
He almost added "I'm a Witness," but thought better of it. He had no idea if that meant anything here — or if it would get him instantly murdered.
The group eyed him suspiciously.
The copper-haired woman flicked her dagger in his direction. "Where's your mark?"
"My... what?"
"Your House Mark. Your Bond. Your Guild seal. You're bare."
She said it like it was an accusation. Maybe it was.
Arlen blinked. "I'm... new?"
That earned a ripple of low laughter — grim and mocking.
"New," the big man echoed. He scratched his chin, clearly debating whether or not to bash Arlen's head in. "From the Rifts, maybe?"
The word Rifts made the whole group tense.
"You seen the sky, stranger?" another voice asked — a wiry young man with a crossbow slung over his back. "Seen the cracks?"
Arlen nodded slowly. "Yeah. Hard to miss."
That seemed to satisfy them. Slightly.
The copper-haired woman sheathed her dagger, though she didn't stop glaring.
"What's your price, then?" she asked sharply. "Food? Shelter? Work?"
Arlen opened his mouth — then paused.
He was used to Earth terms. Dollars. Rent. Bargains.
But here? Price might mean something else entirely.
Carefully, he answered, "Information."
The group exchanged looks.
Finally, the big man sighed. "You picked a bad time to fall through the Rift, Arlen Vance. The world's ending, and there's no patience for dead weight."
He waved a hand.
"Come on. Before the Shrikes smell you."
Shrikes?
Arlen didn't ask. He just stumbled after them, heart hammering.
The group moved quickly.
They didn't take the road (not that there was much of one) — they cut through the grass, keeping low, avoiding open spaces.
Whatever Shrikes were, the group seemed dead set on avoiding them.
As they moved, Arlen picked up snippets of conversation.
"...village burned two nights ago..."
"...sky splitting wider..."
"...no safe havens left..."
"...Guilds fighting over scraps..."
It was chaos. Whatever world he'd landed in, it was crumbling.
After an hour of hard marching, they reached a shallow ravine.
At the base, half-hidden by rocky outcrops, was a campsite: three battered tents, a dying fire, and a single wooden chest covered in iron bands.
The copper-haired woman — clearly the leader — gestured for Arlen to sit.
He collapsed onto a stone, legs trembling.
The big man dropped a chunk of salted meat into Arlen's hands. It was tough, dry, and tasted faintly of soap, but Arlen wolfed it down gratefully.
Once he'd eaten, the woman sat across from him, arms crossed.
"Start talking."
Arlen hesitated. "About what?"
"Where you came from. What you know. What you're hiding."
He spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know anything! I woke up here after... falling through something. A Rift, you called it?"
The group muttered.
"Accidental Rift-fall," the big man grunted. "Bad luck."
"Worse than that," another added. "Means the barriers are thinner than we thought."
The woman leaned forward, studying him like a puzzle.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story."
"Story?" Arlen echoed.
"Your Tale," she said impatiently. "Your Destiny. Your Shaping."
She might as well have been speaking Greek.
Seeing his confusion, she cursed under her breath.
"In this world, stranger," she said tightly, "you are what is told about you. Your power grows from your Story. No Story, no survival."
The others nodded grimly.
Arlen's mind reeled.
On Earth, stories were entertainment. Here, they were... survival?
"But you," she continued, voice low and dangerous, "are a blank page."
"Which makes you dangerous," the big man finished.
Arlen's mouth went dry. "Dangerous how?"
The copper-haired woman smiled — but there was no warmth in it.
"Because anyone can write on you."
Before Arlen could ask what that meant, the ground shook.
A scream — high, shrill, and not human — ripped through the night.
The group jumped to their feet.
"Shrikes!" someone shouted.
Arlen stumbled up, heart slamming.
From the ravine edge, he saw them: a flock of creatures descending like a living storm.
They had wings like broken glass, bodies stitched from bones and shadow, and eyes — dozens of eyes — that burned with green fire.
They shrieked, a sound like razors scraping bone.
Arlen froze.
The medallion at his chest pulsed — hot, urgent.
The copper-haired woman grabbed his arm.
"RUN!"
No argument there.
They sprinted across the ravine floor, heading for a narrow tunnel carved into the cliff wall.
The Shrikes dove.
One snatched a man — the wiry crossbow wielder — lifting him screaming into the air. Blood sprayed the rocks below.
Arlen almost tripped. He forced himself onward.
The big man — huge but surprisingly fast — barreled into a Shrike mid-dive, smashing it into shards of bone and smoke. But for every one that fell, three more took its place.
Arlen and the others reached the tunnel just as a second wave swooped.
The copper-haired woman turned, hands glowing with fierce, violet light.
She hurled a sphere of fire into the flock, buying precious seconds.
"Move, move!" she roared.
They plunged into the tunnel.
Darkness swallowed them. The Shrikes howled in frustration, unable — or unwilling — to follow.
Arlen collapsed against a wall, gasping.
His body shook. His mind whirled.
"Are they gone?" he panted.
"For now," the big man rumbled.
The copper-haired woman shot him a fierce look.
"You owe us your life, Rift-stray."
"I know," Arlen whispered.
And he meant it.
But deep down, a cold fear was settling in.
Because he realized something:
The Shrikes weren't natural predators. They were drawn to him.
Drawn to the broken medallion still pulsing against his chest.
And whatever he was now — Witness, trespasser, anomaly — he wasn't just a victim.
He was a target.