The tunnel smelled like wet stone and old fire.
Arlen stumbled along behind the others, one hand brushing the rough wall for balance. The copper-haired woman led the way, her palm glowing faintly to light the path. Behind him, the big man — Broan, Arlen had overheard someone call him — kept a steady, watchful pace, a sword as long as Arlen's leg strapped to his back.
Nobody spoke.
Their silence pressed heavier than the darkness.
Arlen's lungs burned from the run. His mind buzzed with a hundred frantic questions, but he knew better than to ask them now.
For now, survival came first.
Finally, the tunnel widened into a hollowed-out chamber. A shallow pool of glowing water rippled in the center, illuminating the rough stone walls with a ghostly blue light.
The copper-haired woman turned, face hard and drawn.
"This will have to do," she muttered.
She dropped her pack and crouched by the pool, cupping water into her hands to drink.
Broan and the others followed suit, settling into weary clusters. Two were missing — the crossbowman snatched by the Shrikes, and another who had disappeared during the chaos.
Dead.
Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat.
He moved cautiously to the edge of the group, giving everyone space. He didn't want to make himself more of a target than he already was.
The copper-haired woman finished drinking and stood. Her sharp eyes flicked to Arlen.
"You have a name?"
"Arlen," he said again. "Arlen Vance."
She nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.
"I'm Talia," she said. "Leader of this splinter. What's left of it, anyway."
She didn't sound proud — just tired.
"This," she gestured at Broan and a wiry, pale-skinned woman tying a bandage around her arm, "is what's left of the Thorn Guild's outpost line."
Arlen hesitated. "Guild? Like... adventurers?"
The tunnel smelled like wet stone and old fire.
Arlen stumbled along behind the others, one hand brushing the rough wall for balance. The copper-haired woman led the way, her palm glowing faintly to light the path. Behind him, the big man — Broan, Arlen had overheard someone call him — kept a steady, watchful pace, a sword as long as Arlen's leg strapped to his back.
Nobody spoke.
Their silence pressed heavier than the darkness.
Arlen's lungs burned from the run. His mind buzzed with a hundred frantic questions, but he knew better than to ask them now.
For now, survival came first.
Finally, the tunnel widened into a hollowed-out chamber. A shallow pool of glowing water rippled in the center, illuminating the rough stone walls with a ghostly blue light.
The copper-haired woman turned, face hard and drawn.
"This will have to do," she muttered.
She dropped her pack and crouched by the pool, cupping water into her hands to drink.
Broan and the others followed suit, settling into weary clusters. Two were missing — the crossbowman snatched by the Shrikes, and another who had disappeared during the chaos.
Dead.
Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat.
He moved cautiously to the edge of the group, giving everyone space. He didn't want to make himself more of a target than he already was.
The copper-haired woman finished drinking and stood. Her sharp eyes flicked to Arlen.
"You have a name?"
"Arlen," he said again. "Arlen Vance."
She nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.
"I'm Talia," she said. "Leader of this splinter. What's left of it, anyway."
She didn't sound proud — just tired.
"This," she gestured at Broan and a wiry, pale-skinned woman tying a bandage around her arm, "is what's left of the Thorn Guild's outpost line."
Arlen hesitated. "Guild? Like... adventurers?"
Talia barked a sharp laugh. "Adventurers? Gods, no. That was before the Rifts. Now, Guilds are survival. Territory. Trade. Power."
She crouched again, tracing a rough map in the dust with her dagger's tip.
"There were six strongholds in the borderlands," she said grimly. "Two fell last month. The Riftstorms tore through the Third Circuit last week. Now even the safe roads aren't safe."
She looked up at him sharply.
"And then you fall out of the sky, blank as first snow."
Arlen spread his hands helplessly. "Not exactly part of a plan."
Talia studied him.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story." She tapped the broken medallion floating near his chest. "But you carry that."
Arlen looked down at the silver disk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.
Talia snorted. "That makes two of us."
Broan grunted from where he sat sharpening his sword.
"Feels wrong," the big man rumbled. "Feels like old magic."
"Old magic's dead," Talia said automatically — but something uncertain flickered across her face.
Arlen decided it was now or never.
"What's Storycraft?" he asked.
Silence fell.
Talia rose slowly, sheathing her dagger.
"You really don't know?"
Arlen shook his head.
Talia considered him for a long moment — then sighed.
"Alright, blank-skin. Lesson one."
She moved to the pool, beckoning him closer.
Arlen obeyed, though every instinct told him to stay back.
She pointed at the water's surface.
"Look," she said.
He leaned in. His reflection stared back — pale, mud-smeared, eyes wide with fear.
Talia whispered a word — a word that wasn't sound so much as sensation, like a breeze tugging at his soul.
The water shimmered.
Arlen's reflection changed.
Now he wore black armor chased with gold, a crown of twisted thorns on his brow. In one hand, he held a sword made of bleeding light.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Talia smiled grimly.
"That's Storycraft," she said. "The shaping of truth by belief."
She tapped the pool with one boot.
"Here, what people say about you matters more than what you are. If enough voices tell the same tale, it becomes real. History. Power."
Arlen's mind reeled.
"So you could... lie your way to strength?"
Talia shrugged. "Lie, win fame, earn fear — doesn't matter how. Gather enough witnesses to a story, and it sticks. Changes you."
She spread her arms.
"That's how the Guilds rose. Not with armies. With Tales."
Broan rumbled agreement.
"And how the world started to fall," he added. "Too many stories, pulling reality apart."
Talia shot him a warning glance — then turned back to Arlen.
"You're a blank," she said. "No crafted Tale. No House to protect you. No Bond to stabilize you. That makes you fragile."
She leaned in.
"But it also makes you dangerous."
Arlen shivered.
"Because anyone can write my Story," he whispered.
Talia smiled — and it was not kind.
"Exactly."
She straightened, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Which means you have two choices."
She held up a finger.
"One: you can swear to a House or Guild. Bind yourself to an existing Story. Safety, but no freedom."
A second finger.
"Two: you can carve your own Story. Dangerous. Lonely. But powerful, if you survive."
Broan grunted. "Mostly, they don't."
Talia ignored him.
"So," she said lightly. "What's it going to be, Rift-stray?"
Arlen hesitated.
Part of him screamed to take the safe path — to find shelter in a Guild, to let someone else tell him who to be.
But another part — the stubborn core that had kept him going on Earth even when everything crumbled — burned hotter.
He remembered the Witness King's decree: Observe. Do not interfere.
He remembered the Shrikes, the way they had smelled him in the wind.
He remembered the feeling, standing in the purple grass, realizing he could act.
Not just watch.
His fists clenched.
"I'll carve my own," Arlen said, voice shaking.
Talia studied him for a long, heavy moment.
Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "Stupid. But good."
She pulled a thin, black-bladed dagger from her belt.
Arlen tensed — but she wasn't pointing it at him.
Instead, she nicked her own palm, letting a bead of dark blood fall into the pool.
The water hissed and flared gold.
She handed the dagger to Arlen.
"Your first mark," she said simply.
Arlen stared at the blade.
"What do I have to do?"
Talia smiled thinly.
"Choose your Story's beginning."
He swallowed hard.
Then, carefully, he pressed the dagger to his thumb.
A thin line of blood welled.
He let it fall into the water.
The pool exploded with light.
Visions — dreams — possibilities — swirled around him.
A boy standing atop a burning citadel, shouting defiance to the gods.
A shadowed figure freeing slaves from crystal prisons.
A kingkiller. A world-breaker. A savior. A liar.
Thousands of paths. A million Songs.
Talia's voice cut through the visions, harsh and clear:
"Name your First Deed!"
Arlen's heart pounded.
He remembered the Shrikes.
The death.
The way the Rift had chosen him without asking.
He clenched his jaw.
"My First Deed," he said fiercely, "is defiance."
The light around the pool shrieked — a sound like tearing silk and newborn thunder.
The floating medallion at his chest shivered, then fused to his skin, becoming a faint, silvery scar over his heart.
Talia's eyes widened — not in fear, but something close to awe.
Broan muttered a prayer under his breath.
"You just declared war," Talia said softly.
"On what?" Arlen asked.
She smiled grimly.
"On everything that thinks it owns you."
Arlen smiled back.
For the first time since falling through the Rift, he felt... steady.
Not safe — but right.
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
Talia turned away, tossing him a battered cloak from a pile of gear.
"Rest while you can, Arlen Vance of Defiance," she said.
"We march at dawn."
And somewhere, far beyond the tunnel's walls, something in the broken sky stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Whispering.
Talia barked a sharp laugh. "Adventurers? Gods, no. That was before the Rifts. Now, Guilds are survival. Territory. Trade. Power."
She crouched again, tracing a rough map in the dust with her dagger's tip.
"There were six strongholds in the borderlands," she said grimly. "Two fell last month. The Riftstorms tore through the Third Circuit last week. Now even the safe roads aren't safe."
She looked up at him sharply.
"And then you fall out of the sky, blank as first snow."
Arlen spread his hands helplessly. "Not exactly part of a plan."
Talia studied him.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story." She tapped the broken medallion floating near his chest. "But you carry that."
Arlen looked down at the silver disk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.
Talia snorted. "That makes two of us."
Broan grunted from where he sat sharpening his sword.
"Feels wrong," the big man rumbled. "Feels like old magic."
"Old magic's dead," Talia said automatically — but something uncertain flickered across her face.
Arlen decided it was now or never.
"What's Storycraft?" he asked.
Silence fell.
Talia rose slowly, sheathing her dagger.
"You really don't know?"
Arlen shook his head.
Talia considered him for a long moment — then sighed.
"Alright, blank-skin. Lesson one."
She moved to the pool, beckoning him closer.
Arlen obeyed, though every instinct told him to stay back.
She pointed at the water's surface.
"Look," she said.
He leaned in. His reflection stared back — pale, mud-smeared, eyes wide with fear.
Talia whispered a word — a word that wasn't sound so much as sensation, like a breeze tugging at his soul.
The water shimmered.
Arlen's reflection changed.
Now he wore black armor chased with gold, a crown of twisted thorns on his brow. In one hand, he held a sword made of bleeding light.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Talia smiled grimly.
"That's Storycraft," she said. "The shaping of truth by belief."
She tapped the pool with one boot.
"Here, what people say about you matters more than what you are. If enough voices tell the same tale, it becomes real. History. Power."
Arlen's mind reeled.
"So you could... lie your way to strength?"
Talia shrugged. "Lie, win fame, earn fear — doesn't matter how. Gather enough witnesses to a story, and it sticks. Changes you."
She spread her arms.
"That's how the Guilds rose. Not with armies. With Tales."
Broan rumbled agreement.
"And how the world started to fall," he added. "Too many stories, pulling reality apart."
Talia shot him a warning glance — then turned back to Arlen.
"You're a blank," she said. "No crafted Tale. No House to protect you. No Bond to stabilize you. That makes you fragile."
She leaned in.
"But it also makes you dangerous."
Arlen shivered.
"Because anyone can write my Story," he whispered.
Talia smiled — and it was not kind.
"Exactly."
She straightened, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Which means you have two choices."
She held up a finger.
"One: you can swear to a House or Guild. Bind yourself to an existing Story. Safety, but no freedom."
A second finger.
"Two: you can carve your own Story. Dangerous. Lonely. But powerful, if you survive."
Broan grunted. "Mostly, they don't."
Talia ignored him.
"So," she said lightly. "What's it going to be, Rift-stray?"
Arlen hesitated.
Part of him screamed to take the safe path — to find shelter in a Guild, to let someone else tell him who to be.
But another part — the stubborn core that had kept him going on Earth even when everything crumbled — burned hotter.
He remembered the Witness King's decree: Observe. Do not interfere.
He remembered the Shrikes, the way they had smelled him in the wind.
He remembered the feeling, standing in the purple grass, realizing he could act.
Not just watch.
His fists clenched.
"I'll carve my own," Arlen said, voice shaking.
Talia studied him for a long, heavy moment.
Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "Stupid. But good."
She pulled a thin, black-bladed dagger from her belt.
Arlen tensed — but she wasn't pointing it at him.
Instead, she nicked her own palm, letting a bead of dark blood fall into the pool.
The water hissed and flared gold.
She handed the dagger to Arlen.
"Your first mark," she said simply.
Arlen stared at the blade.
"What do I have to do?"
Talia smiled thinly.
"Choose your Story's beginning."
He swallowed hard.
Then, carefully, he pressed the dagger to his thumb.
A thin line of blood welled.
He let it fall into the water.
The pool exploded with light.
Visions — dreams — possibilities — swirled around him.
A boy standing atop a burning citadel, shouting defiance to the gods.
A shadowed figure freeing slaves from crystal prisons.
A kingkiller. A world-breaker. A savior. A liar.
Thousands of paths. A million Songs.
Talia's voice cut through the visions, harsh and clear:
"Name your First Deed!"
Arlen's heart pounded.
He remembered the Shrikes.
The death.
The way the Rift had chosen him without asking.
He clenched his jaw.
"My First Deed," he said fiercely, "is defiance."
The light around the pool shrieked — a sound like tearing silk and newborn thunder.
The floating medallion at his chest shivered, then fused to his skin, becoming a faint, silvery scar over his heart.
Talia's eyes widened — not in fear, but something close to awe.
Broan muttered a prayer under his breath.
"You just declared war," Talia said softly.
"On what?" Arlen asked.
She smiled grimly.
"On everything that thinks it owns you."
Arlen smiled back.
For the first time since falling through the Rift, he felt... steady.
Not safe — but right.
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
Talia turned away, tossing him a battered cloak from a pile of gear.
"Rest while you can, Arlen Vance of Defiance," she said.
"We march at dawn."
And somewhere, far beyond the tunnel's walls, something in the broken sky stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Whispering.
The tunnel smelled like wet stone and old fire.
Arlen stumbled along behind the others, one hand brushing the rough wall for balance. The copper-haired woman led the way, her palm glowing faintly to light the path. Behind him, the big man — Broan, Arlen had overheard someone call him — kept a steady, watchful pace, a sword as long as Arlen's leg strapped to his back.
Nobody spoke.
Their silence pressed heavier than the darkness.
Arlen's lungs burned from the run. His mind buzzed with a hundred frantic questions, but he knew better than to ask them now.
For now, survival came first.
Finally, the tunnel widened into a hollowed-out chamber. A shallow pool of glowing water rippled in the center, illuminating the rough stone walls with a ghostly blue light.
The copper-haired woman turned, face hard and drawn.
"This will have to do," she muttered.
She dropped her pack and crouched by the pool, cupping water into her hands to drink.
Broan and the others followed suit, settling into weary clusters. Two were missing — the crossbowman snatched by the Shrikes, and another who had disappeared during the chaos.
Dead.
Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat.
He moved cautiously to the edge of the group, giving everyone space. He didn't want to make himself more of a target than he already was.
The copper-haired woman finished drinking and stood. Her sharp eyes flicked to Arlen.
"You have a name?"
"Arlen," he said again. "Arlen Vance."
She nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.
"I'm Talia," she said. "Leader of this splinter. What's left of it, anyway."
She didn't sound proud — just tired.
"This," she gestured at Broan and a wiry, pale-skinned woman tying a bandage around her arm, "is what's left of the Thorn Guild's outpost line."
Arlen hesitated. "Guild? Like... adventurers?"
Talia barked a sharp laugh. "Adventurers? Gods, no. That was before the Rifts. Now, Guilds are survival. Territory. Trade. Power."
She crouched again, tracing a rough map in the dust with her dagger's tip.
"There were six strongholds in the borderlands," she said grimly. "Two fell last month. The Riftstorms tore through the Third Circuit last week. Now even the safe roads aren't safe."
She looked up at him sharply.
"And then you fall out of the sky, blank as first snow."
Arlen spread his hands helplessly. "Not exactly part of a plan."
Talia studied him.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story." She tapped the broken medallion floating near his chest. "But you carry that."
Arlen looked down at the silver disk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.
Talia snorted. "That makes two of us."
Broan grunted from where he sat sharpening his sword.
"Feels wrong," the big man rumbled. "Feels like old magic."
"Old magic's dead," Talia said automatically — but something uncertain flickered across her face.
Arlen decided it was now or never.
"What's Storycraft?" he asked.
Silence fell.
Talia rose slowly, sheathing her dagger.
"You really don't know?"
Arlen shook his head.
Talia considered him for a long moment — then sighed.
"Alright, blank-skin. Lesson one."
She moved to the pool, beckoning him closer.
Arlen obeyed, though every instinct told him to stay back.
She pointed at the water's surface.
"Look," she said.
He leaned in. His reflection stared back — pale, mud-smeared, eyes wide with fear.
Talia whispered a word — a word that wasn't sound so much as sensation, like a breeze tugging at his soul.
The water shimmered.
Arlen's reflection changed.
Now he wore black armor chased with gold, a crown of twisted thorns on his brow. In one hand, he held a sword made of bleeding light.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Talia smiled grimly.
"That's Storycraft," she said. "The shaping of truth by belief."
She tapped the pool with one boot.
"Here, what people say about you matters more than what you are. If enough voices tell the same tale, it becomes real. History. Power."
Arlen's mind reeled.
"So you could... lie your way to strength?"
Talia shrugged. "Lie, win fame, earn fear — doesn't matter how. Gather enough witnesses to a story, and it sticks. Changes you."
She spread her arms.
"That's how the Guilds rose. Not with armies. With Tales."
Broan rumbled agreement.
"And how the world started to fall," he added. "Too many stories, pulling reality apart."
Talia shot him a warning glance — then turned back to Arlen.
"You're a blank," she said. "No crafted Tale. No House to protect you. No Bond to stabilize you. That makes you fragile."
She leaned in.
"But it also makes you dangerous."
Arlen shivered.
"Because anyone can write my Story," he whispered.
Talia smiled — and it was not kind.
"Exactly."
She straightened, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Which means you have two choices."
She held up a finger.
"One: you can swear to a House or Guild. Bind yourself to an existing Story. Safety, but no freedom."
A second finger.
"Two: you can carve your own Story. Dangerous. Lonely. But powerful, if you survive."
Broan grunted. "Mostly, they don't."
Talia ignored him.
"So," she said lightly. "What's it going to be, Rift-stray?"
Arlen hesitated.
Part of him screamed to take the safe path — to find shelter in a Guild, to let someone else tell him who to be.
But another part — the stubborn core that had kept him going on Earth even when everything crumbled — burned hotter.
He remembered the Witness King's decree: Observe. Do not interfere.
He remembered the Shrikes, the way they had smelled him in the wind.
He remembered the feeling, standing in the purple grass, realizing he could act.
Not just watch.
His fists clenched.
"I'll carve my own," Arlen said, voice shaking.
Talia studied him for a long, heavy moment.
Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "Stupid. But good."
She pulled a thin, black-bladed dagger from her belt.
Arlen tensed — but she wasn't pointing it at him.
Instead, she nicked her own palm, letting a bead of dark blood fall into the pool.
The water hissed and flared gold.
She handed the dagger to Arlen.
"Your first mark," she said simply.
Arlen stared at the blade.
"What do I have to do?"
Talia smiled thinly.
"Choose your Story's beginning."
He swallowed hard.
Then, carefully, he pressed the dagger to his thumb.
A thin line of blood welled.
He let it fall into the water.
The pool exploded with light.
Visions — dreams — possibilities — swirled around him.
A boy standing atop a burning citadel, shouting defiance to the gods.
A shadowed figure freeing slaves from crystal prisons.
A kingkiller. A world-breaker. A savior. A liar.
Thousands of paths. A million Songs.
Talia's voice cut through the visions, harsh and clear:
"Name your First Deed!"
Arlen's heart pounded.
He remembered the Shrikes.
The death.
The way the Rift had chosen him without asking.
He clenched his jaw.
"My First Deed," he said fiercely, "is defiance."
The light around the pool shrieked — a sound like tearing silk and newborn thunder.
The floating medallion at his chest shivered, then fused to his skin, becoming a faint, silvery scar over his heart.
Talia's eyes widened — not in fear, but something close to awe.
Broan muttered a prayer under his breath.
"You just declared war," Talia said softly.
"On what?" Arlen asked.
She smiled grimly.
"On everything that thinks it owns you."
Arlen smiled back.
For the first time since falling through the Rift, he felt... steady.
Not safe — but right.
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
Talia turned away, tossing him a battered cloak from a pile of gear.
"Rest while you can, Arlen Vance of Defiance," she said.
"We march at dawn."
And somewhere, far beyond the tunnel's walls, something in the broken sky stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Whispering.
The tunnel smelled like wet stone and old fire.
Arlen stumbled along behind the others, one hand brushing the rough wall for balance. The copper-haired woman led the way, her palm glowing faintly to light the path. Behind him, the big man — Broan, Arlen had overheard someone call him — kept a steady, watchful pace, a sword as long as Arlen's leg strapped to his back.
Nobody spoke.
Their silence pressed heavier than the darkness.
Arlen's lungs burned from the run. His mind buzzed with a hundred frantic questions, but he knew better than to ask them now.
For now, survival came first.
Finally, the tunnel widened into a hollowed-out chamber. A shallow pool of glowing water rippled in the center, illuminating the rough stone walls with a ghostly blue light.
The copper-haired woman turned, face hard and drawn.
"This will have to do," she muttered.
She dropped her pack and crouched by the pool, cupping water into her hands to drink.
Broan and the others followed suit, settling into weary clusters. Two were missing — the crossbowman snatched by the Shrikes, and another who had disappeared during the chaos.
Dead.
Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat.
He moved cautiously to the edge of the group, giving everyone space. He didn't want to make himself more of a target than he already was.
The copper-haired woman finished drinking and stood. Her sharp eyes flicked to Arlen.
"You have a name?"
"Arlen," he said again. "Arlen Vance."
She nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.
"I'm Talia," she said. "Leader of this splinter. What's left of it, anyway."
She didn't sound proud — just tired.
"This," she gestured at Broan and a wiry, pale-skinned woman tying a bandage around her arm, "is what's left of the Thorn Guild's outpost line."
Arlen hesitated. "Guild? Like... adventurers?"
Talia barked a sharp laugh. "Adventurers? Gods, no. That was before the Rifts. Now, Guilds are survival. Territory. Trade. Power."
She crouched again, tracing a rough map in the dust with her dagger's tip.
"There were six strongholds in the borderlands," she said grimly. "Two fell last month. The Riftstorms tore through the Third Circuit last week. Now even the safe roads aren't safe."
She looked up at him sharply.
"And then you fall out of the sky, blank as first snow."
Arlen spread his hands helplessly. "Not exactly part of a plan."
Talia studied him.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story." She tapped the broken medallion floating near his chest. "But you carry that."
Arlen looked down at the silver disk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.
Talia snorted. "That makes two of us."
Broan grunted from where he sat sharpening his sword.
"Feels wrong," the big man rumbled. "Feels like old magic."
"Old magic's dead," Talia said automatically — but something uncertain flickered across her face.
Arlen decided it was now or never.
"What's Storycraft?" he asked.
Silence fell.
Talia rose slowly, sheathing her dagger.
"You really don't know?"
Arlen shook his head.
Talia considered him for a long moment — then sighed.
"Alright, blank-skin. Lesson one."
She moved to the pool, beckoning him closer.
Arlen obeyed, though every instinct told him to stay back.
She pointed at the water's surface.
"Look," she said.
He leaned in. His reflection stared back — pale, mud-smeared, eyes wide with fear.
Talia whispered a word — a word that wasn't sound so much as sensation, like a breeze tugging at his soul.
The water shimmered.
Arlen's reflection changed.
Now he wore black armor chased with gold, a crown of twisted thorns on his brow. In one hand, he held a sword made of bleeding light.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Talia smiled grimly.
"That's Storycraft," she said. "The shaping of truth by belief."
She tapped the pool with one boot.
"Here, what people say about you matters more than what you are. If enough voices tell the same tale, it becomes real. History. Power."
Arlen's mind reeled.
"So you could... lie your way to strength?"
Talia shrugged. "Lie, win fame, earn fear — doesn't matter how. Gather enough witnesses to a story, and it sticks. Changes you."
She spread her arms.
"That's how the Guilds rose. Not with armies. With Tales."
Broan rumbled agreement.
"And how the world started to fall," he added. "Too many stories, pulling reality apart."
Talia shot him a warning glance — then turned back to Arlen.
"You're a blank," she said. "No crafted Tale. No House to protect you. No Bond to stabilize you. That makes you fragile."
She leaned in.
"But it also makes you dangerous."
Arlen shivered.
"Because anyone can write my Story," he whispered.
Talia smiled — and it was not kind.
"Exactly."
She straightened, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Which means you have two choices."
She held up a finger.
"One: you can swear to a House or Guild. Bind yourself to an existing Story. Safety, but no freedom."
A second finger.
"Two: you can carve your own Story. Dangerous. Lonely. But powerful, if you survive."
Broan grunted. "Mostly, they don't."
Talia ignored him.
"So," she said lightly. "What's it going to be, Rift-stray?"
Arlen hesitated.
Part of him screamed to take the safe path — to find shelter in a Guild, to let someone else tell him who to be.
But another part — the stubborn core that had kept him going on Earth even when everything crumbled — burned hotter.
He remembered the Witness King's decree: Observe. Do not interfere.
He remembered the Shrikes, the way they had smelled him in the wind.
He remembered the feeling, standing in the purple grass, realizing he could act.
Not just watch.
His fists clenched.
"I'll carve my own," Arlen said, voice shaking.
Talia studied him for a long, heavy moment.
Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "Stupid. But good."
She pulled a thin, black-bladed dagger from her belt.
Arlen tensed — but she wasn't pointing it at him.
Instead, she nicked her own palm, letting a bead of dark blood fall into the pool.
The water hissed and flared gold.
She handed the dagger to Arlen.
"Your first mark," she said simply.
Arlen stared at the blade.
"What do I have to do?"
Talia smiled thinly.
"Choose your Story's beginning."
He swallowed hard.
Then, carefully, he pressed the dagger to his thumb.
A thin line of blood welled.
He let it fall into the water.
The pool exploded with light.
Visions — dreams — possibilities — swirled around him.
A boy standing atop a burning citadel, shouting defiance to the gods.
A shadowed figure freeing slaves from crystal prisons.
A kingkiller. A world-breaker. A savior. A liar.
Thousands of paths. A million Songs.
Talia's voice cut through the visions, harsh and clear:
"Name your First Deed!"
Arlen's heart pounded.
He remembered the Shrikes.
The death.
The way the Rift had chosen him without asking.
He clenched his jaw.
"My First Deed," he said fiercely, "is defiance."
The light around the pool shrieked — a sound like tearing silk and newborn thunder.
The floating medallion at his chest shivered, then fused to his skin, becoming a faint, silvery scar over his heart.
Talia's eyes widened — not in fear, but something close to awe.
Broan muttered a prayer under his breath.
"You just declared war," Talia said softly.
"On what?" Arlen asked.
She smiled grimly.
"On everything that thinks it owns you."
Arlen smiled back.
For the first time since falling through the Rift, he felt... steady.
Not safe — but right.
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
Talia turned away, tossing him a battered cloak from a pile of gear.
"Rest while you can, Arlen Vance of Defiance," she said.
"We march at dawn."
And somewhere, far beyond the tunnel's walls, something in the broken sky stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Whispering.
The tunnel smelled like wet stone and old fire.
Arlen stumbled along behind the others, one hand brushing the rough wall for balance. The copper-haired woman led the way, her palm glowing faintly to light the path. Behind him, the big man — Broan, Arlen had overheard someone call him — kept a steady, watchful pace, a sword as long as Arlen's leg strapped to his back.
Nobody spoke.
Their silence pressed heavier than the darkness.
Arlen's lungs burned from the run. His mind buzzed with a hundred frantic questions, but he knew better than to ask them now.
For now, survival came first.
Finally, the tunnel widened into a hollowed-out chamber. A shallow pool of glowing water rippled in the center, illuminating the rough stone walls with a ghostly blue light.
The copper-haired woman turned, face hard and drawn.
"This will have to do," she muttered.
She dropped her pack and crouched by the pool, cupping water into her hands to drink.
Broan and the others followed suit, settling into weary clusters. Two were missing — the crossbowman snatched by the Shrikes, and another who had disappeared during the chaos.
Dead.
Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat.
He moved cautiously to the edge of the group, giving everyone space. He didn't want to make himself more of a target than he already was.
The copper-haired woman finished drinking and stood. Her sharp eyes flicked to Arlen.
"You have a name?"
"Arlen," he said again. "Arlen Vance."
She nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.
"I'm Talia," she said. "Leader of this splinter. What's left of it, anyway."
She didn't sound proud — just tired.
"This," she gestured at Broan and a wiry, pale-skinned woman tying a bandage around her arm, "is what's left of the Thorn Guild's outpost line."
Arlen hesitated. "Guild? Like... adventurers?"
Talia barked a sharp laugh. "Adventurers? Gods, no. That was before the Rifts. Now, Guilds are survival. Territory. Trade. Power."
She crouched again, tracing a rough map in the dust with her dagger's tip.
"There were six strongholds in the borderlands," she said grimly. "Two fell last month. The Riftstorms tore through the Third Circuit last week. Now even the safe roads aren't safe."
She looked up at him sharply.
"And then you fall out of the sky, blank as first snow."
Arlen spread his hands helplessly. "Not exactly part of a plan."
Talia studied him.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story." She tapped the broken medallion floating near his chest. "But you carry that."
Arlen looked down at the silver disk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.
Talia snorted. "That makes two of us."
Broan grunted from where he sat sharpening his sword.
"Feels wrong," the big man rumbled. "Feels like old magic."
"Old magic's dead," Talia said automatically — but something uncertain flickered across her face.
Arlen decided it was now or never.
"What's Storycraft?" he asked.
Silence fell.
Talia rose slowly, sheathing her dagger.
"You really don't know?"
Arlen shook his head.
Talia considered him for a long moment — then sighed.
"Alright, blank-skin. Lesson one."
She moved to the pool, beckoning him closer.
Arlen obeyed, though every instinct told him to stay back.
She pointed at the water's surface.
"Look," she said.
He leaned in. His reflection stared back — pale, mud-smeared, eyes wide with fear.
Talia whispered a word — a word that wasn't sound so much as sensation, like a breeze tugging at his soul.
The water shimmered.
Arlen's reflection changed.
Now he wore black armor chased with gold, a crown of twisted thorns on his brow. In one hand, he held a sword made of bleeding light.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Talia smiled grimly.
"That's Storycraft," she said. "The shaping of truth by belief."
She tapped the pool with one boot.
"Here, what people say about you matters more than what you are. If enough voices tell the same tale, it becomes real. History. Power."
Arlen's mind reeled.
"So you could... lie your way to strength?"
Talia shrugged. "Lie, win fame, earn fear — doesn't matter how. Gather enough witnesses to a story, and it sticks. Changes you."
She spread her arms.
"That's how the Guilds rose. Not with armies. With Tales."
Broan rumbled agreement.
"And how the world started to fall," he added. "Too many stories, pulling reality apart."
Talia shot him a warning glance — then turned back to Arlen.
"You're a blank," she said. "No crafted Tale. No House to protect you. No Bond to stabilize you. That makes you fragile."
She leaned in.
"But it also makes you dangerous."
Arlen shivered.
"Because anyone can write my Story," he whispered.
Talia smiled — and it was not kind.
"Exactly."
She straightened, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Which means you have two choices."
She held up a finger.
"One: you can swear to a House or Guild. Bind yourself to an existing Story. Safety, but no freedom."
A second finger.
"Two: you can carve your own Story. Dangerous. Lonely. But powerful, if you survive."
Broan grunted. "Mostly, they don't."
Talia ignored him.
"So," she said lightly. "What's it going to be, Rift-stray?"
Arlen hesitated.
Part of him screamed to take the safe path — to find shelter in a Guild, to let someone else tell him who to be.
But another part — the stubborn core that had kept him going on Earth even when everything crumbled — burned hotter.
He remembered the Witness King's decree: Observe. Do not interfere.
He remembered the Shrikes, the way they had smelled him in the wind.
He remembered the feeling, standing in the purple grass, realizing he could act.
Not just watch.
His fists clenched.
"I'll carve my own," Arlen said, voice shaking.
Talia studied him for a long, heavy moment.
Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "Stupid. But good."
She pulled a thin, black-bladed dagger from her belt.
Arlen tensed — but she wasn't pointing it at him.
Instead, she nicked her own palm, letting a bead of dark blood fall into the pool.
The water hissed and flared gold.
She handed the dagger to Arlen.
"Your first mark," she said simply.
Arlen stared at the blade.
"What do I have to do?"
Talia smiled thinly.
"Choose your Story's beginning."
He swallowed hard.
Then, carefully, he pressed the dagger to his thumb.
A thin line of blood welled.
He let it fall into the water.
The pool exploded with light.
Visions — dreams — possibilities — swirled around him.
A boy standing atop a burning citadel, shouting defiance to the gods.
A shadowed figure freeing slaves from crystal prisons.
A kingkiller. A world-breaker. A savior. A liar.
Thousands of paths. A million Songs.
Talia's voice cut through the visions, harsh and clear:
"Name your First Deed!"
Arlen's heart pounded.
He remembered the Shrikes.
The death.
The way the Rift had chosen him without asking.
He clenched his jaw.
"My First Deed," he said fiercely, "is defiance."
The light around the pool shrieked — a sound like tearing silk and newborn thunder.
The floating medallion at his chest shivered, then fused to his skin, becoming a faint, silvery scar over his heart.
Talia's eyes widened — not in fear, but something close to awe.
Broan muttered a prayer under his breath.
"You just declared war," Talia said softly.
"On what?" Arlen asked.
She smiled grimly.
"On everything that thinks it owns you."
Arlen smiled back.
For the first time since falling through the Rift, he felt... steady.
Not safe — but right.
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
Talia turned away, tossing him a battered cloak from a pile of gear.
"Rest while you can, Arlen Vance of Defiance," she said.
"We march at dawn."
And somewhere, far beyond the tunnel's walls, something in the broken sky stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Whispering.
The tunnel smelled like wet stone and old fire.
Arlen stumbled along behind the others, one hand brushing the rough wall for balance. The copper-haired woman led the way, her palm glowing faintly to light the path. Behind him, the big man — Broan, Arlen had overheard someone call him — kept a steady, watchful pace, a sword as long as Arlen's leg strapped to his back.
Nobody spoke.
Their silence pressed heavier than the darkness.
Arlen's lungs burned from the run. His mind buzzed with a hundred frantic questions, but he knew better than to ask them now.
For now, survival came first.
Finally, the tunnel widened into a hollowed-out chamber. A shallow pool of glowing water rippled in the center, illuminating the rough stone walls with a ghostly blue light.
The copper-haired woman turned, face hard and drawn.
"This will have to do," she muttered.
She dropped her pack and crouched by the pool, cupping water into her hands to drink.
Broan and the others followed suit, settling into weary clusters. Two were missing — the crossbowman snatched by the Shrikes, and another who had disappeared during the chaos.
Dead.
Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat.
He moved cautiously to the edge of the group, giving everyone space. He didn't want to make himself more of a target than he already was.
The copper-haired woman finished drinking and stood. Her sharp eyes flicked to Arlen.
"You have a name?"
"Arlen," he said again. "Arlen Vance."
She nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.
"I'm Talia," she said. "Leader of this splinter. What's left of it, anyway."
She didn't sound proud — just tired.
"This," she gestured at Broan and a wiry, pale-skinned woman tying a bandage around her arm, "is what's left of the Thorn Guild's outpost line."
Arlen hesitated. "Guild? Like... adventurers?"
Talia barked a sharp laugh. "Adventurers? Gods, no. That was before the Rifts. Now, Guilds are survival. Territory. Trade. Power."
She crouched again, tracing a rough map in the dust with her dagger's tip.
"There were six strongholds in the borderlands," she said grimly. "Two fell last month. The Riftstorms tore through the Third Circuit last week. Now even the safe roads aren't safe."
She looked up at him sharply.
"And then you fall out of the sky, blank as first snow."
Arlen spread his hands helplessly. "Not exactly part of a plan."
Talia studied him.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story." She tapped the broken medallion floating near his chest. "But you carry that."
Arlen looked down at the silver disk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.
Talia snorted. "That makes two of us."
Broan grunted from where he sat sharpening his sword.
"Feels wrong," the big man rumbled. "Feels like old magic."
"Old magic's dead," Talia said automatically — but something uncertain flickered across her face.
Arlen decided it was now or never.
"What's Storycraft?" he asked.
Silence fell.
Talia rose slowly, sheathing her dagger.
"You really don't know?"
Arlen shook his head.
Talia considered him for a long moment — then sighed.
"Alright, blank-skin. Lesson one."
She moved to the pool, beckoning him closer.
Arlen obeyed, though every instinct told him to stay back.
She pointed at the water's surface.
"Look," she said.
He leaned in. His reflection stared back — pale, mud-smeared, eyes wide with fear.
Talia whispered a word — a word that wasn't sound so much as sensation, like a breeze tugging at his soul.
The water shimmered.
Arlen's reflection changed.
Now he wore black armor chased with gold, a crown of twisted thorns on his brow. In one hand, he held a sword made of bleeding light.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Talia smiled grimly.
"That's Storycraft," she said. "The shaping of truth by belief."
She tapped the pool with one boot.
"Here, what people say about you matters more than what you are. If enough voices tell the same tale, it becomes real. History. Power."
Arlen's mind reeled.
"So you could... lie your way to strength?"
Talia shrugged. "Lie, win fame, earn fear — doesn't matter how. Gather enough witnesses to a story, and it sticks. Changes you."
She spread her arms.
"That's how the Guilds rose. Not with armies. With Tales."
Broan rumbled agreement.
"And how the world started to fall," he added. "Too many stories, pulling reality apart."
Talia shot him a warning glance — then turned back to Arlen.
"You're a blank," she said. "No crafted Tale. No House to protect you. No Bond to stabilize you. That makes you fragile."
She leaned in.
"But it also makes you dangerous."
Arlen shivered.
"Because anyone can write my Story," he whispered.
Talia smiled — and it was not kind.
"Exactly."
She straightened, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Which means you have two choices."
She held up a finger.
"One: you can swear to a House or Guild. Bind yourself to an existing Story. Safety, but no freedom."
A second finger.
"Two: you can carve your own Story. Dangerous. Lonely. But powerful, if you survive."
Broan grunted. "Mostly, they don't."
Talia ignored him.
"So," she said lightly. "What's it going to be, Rift-stray?"
Arlen hesitated.
Part of him screamed to take the safe path — to find shelter in a Guild, to let someone else tell him who to be.
But another part — the stubborn core that had kept him going on Earth even when everything crumbled — burned hotter.
He remembered the Witness King's decree: Observe. Do not interfere.
He remembered the Shrikes, the way they had smelled him in the wind.
He remembered the feeling, standing in the purple grass, realizing he could act.
Not just watch.
His fists clenched.
"I'll carve my own," Arlen said, voice shaking.
Talia studied him for a long, heavy moment.
Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "Stupid. But good."
She pulled a thin, black-bladed dagger from her belt.
Arlen tensed — but she wasn't pointing it at him.
Instead, she nicked her own palm, letting a bead of dark blood fall into the pool.
The water hissed and flared gold.
She handed the dagger to Arlen.
"Your first mark," she said simply.
Arlen stared at the blade.
"What do I have to do?"
Talia smiled thinly.
"Choose your Story's beginning."
He swallowed hard.
Then, carefully, he pressed the dagger to his thumb.
A thin line of blood welled.
He let it fall into the water.
The pool exploded with light.
Visions — dreams — possibilities — swirled around him.
A boy standing atop a burning citadel, shouting defiance to the gods.
A shadowed figure freeing slaves from crystal prisons.
A kingkiller. A world-breaker. A savior. A liar.
Thousands of paths. A million Songs.
Talia's voice cut through the visions, harsh and clear:
"Name your First Deed!"
Arlen's heart pounded.
He remembered the Shrikes.
The death.
The way the Rift had chosen him without asking.
He clenched his jaw.
"My First Deed," he said fiercely, "is defiance."
The light around the pool shrieked — a sound like tearing silk and newborn thunder.
The floating medallion at his chest shivered, then fused to his skin, becoming a faint, silvery scar over his heart.
Talia's eyes widened — not in fear, but something close to awe.
Broan muttered a prayer under his breath.
"You just declared war," Talia said softly.
"On what?" Arlen asked.
She smiled grimly.
"On everything that thinks it owns you."
Arlen smiled back.
For the first time since falling through the Rift, he felt... steady.
Not safe — but right.
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
Talia turned away, tossing him a battered cloak from a pile of gear.
"Rest while you can, Arlen Vance of Defiance," she said.
"We march at dawn."
And somewhere, far beyond the tunnel's walls, something in the broken sky stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Whispering.
The tunnel smelled like wet stone and old fire.
Arlen stumbled along behind the others, one hand brushing the rough wall for balance. The copper-haired woman led the way, her palm glowing faintly to light the path. Behind him, the big man — Broan, Arlen had overheard someone call him — kept a steady, watchful pace, a sword as long as Arlen's leg strapped to his back.
Nobody spoke.
Their silence pressed heavier than the darkness.
Arlen's lungs burned from the run. His mind buzzed with a hundred frantic questions, but he knew better than to ask them now.
For now, survival came first.
Finally, the tunnel widened into a hollowed-out chamber. A shallow pool of glowing water rippled in the center, illuminating the rough stone walls with a ghostly blue light.
The copper-haired woman turned, face hard and drawn.
"This will have to do," she muttered.
She dropped her pack and crouched by the pool, cupping water into her hands to drink.
Broan and the others followed suit, settling into weary clusters. Two were missing — the crossbowman snatched by the Shrikes, and another who had disappeared during the chaos.
Dead.
Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat.
He moved cautiously to the edge of the group, giving everyone space. He didn't want to make himself more of a target than he already was.
The copper-haired woman finished drinking and stood. Her sharp eyes flicked to Arlen.
"You have a name?"
"Arlen," he said again. "Arlen Vance."
She nodded slowly, as if filing it away for later.
"I'm Talia," she said. "Leader of this splinter. What's left of it, anyway."
She didn't sound proud — just tired.
"This," she gestured at Broan and a wiry, pale-skinned woman tying a bandage around her arm, "is what's left of the Thorn Guild's outpost line."
Arlen hesitated. "Guild? Like... adventurers?"
Talia barked a sharp laugh. "Adventurers? Gods, no. That was before the Rifts. Now, Guilds are survival. Territory. Trade. Power."
She crouched again, tracing a rough map in the dust with her dagger's tip.
"There were six strongholds in the borderlands," she said grimly. "Two fell last month. The Riftstorms tore through the Third Circuit last week. Now even the safe roads aren't safe."
She looked up at him sharply.
"And then you fall out of the sky, blank as first snow."
Arlen spread his hands helplessly. "Not exactly part of a plan."
Talia studied him.
"You have no House. No Bond. No Story." She tapped the broken medallion floating near his chest. "But you carry that."
Arlen looked down at the silver disk. It shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"I don't even know what it is," he admitted.
Talia snorted. "That makes two of us."
Broan grunted from where he sat sharpening his sword.
"Feels wrong," the big man rumbled. "Feels like old magic."
"Old magic's dead," Talia said automatically — but something uncertain flickered across her face.
Arlen decided it was now or never.
"What's Storycraft?" he asked.
Silence fell.
Talia rose slowly, sheathing her dagger.
"You really don't know?"
Arlen shook his head.
Talia considered him for a long moment — then sighed.
"Alright, blank-skin. Lesson one."
She moved to the pool, beckoning him closer.
Arlen obeyed, though every instinct told him to stay back.
She pointed at the water's surface.
"Look," she said.
He leaned in. His reflection stared back — pale, mud-smeared, eyes wide with fear.
Talia whispered a word — a word that wasn't sound so much as sensation, like a breeze tugging at his soul.
The water shimmered.
Arlen's reflection changed.
Now he wore black armor chased with gold, a crown of twisted thorns on his brow. In one hand, he held a sword made of bleeding light.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Talia smiled grimly.
"That's Storycraft," she said. "The shaping of truth by belief."
She tapped the pool with one boot.
"Here, what people say about you matters more than what you are. If enough voices tell the same tale, it becomes real. History. Power."
Arlen's mind reeled.
"So you could... lie your way to strength?"
Talia shrugged. "Lie, win fame, earn fear — doesn't matter how. Gather enough witnesses to a story, and it sticks. Changes you."
She spread her arms.
"That's how the Guilds rose. Not with armies. With Tales."
Broan rumbled agreement.
"And how the world started to fall," he added. "Too many stories, pulling reality apart."
Talia shot him a warning glance — then turned back to Arlen.
"You're a blank," she said. "No crafted Tale. No House to protect you. No Bond to stabilize you. That makes you fragile."
She leaned in.
"But it also makes you dangerous."
Arlen shivered.
"Because anyone can write my Story," he whispered.
Talia smiled — and it was not kind.
"Exactly."
She straightened, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Which means you have two choices."
She held up a finger.
"One: you can swear to a House or Guild. Bind yourself to an existing Story. Safety, but no freedom."
A second finger.
"Two: you can carve your own Story. Dangerous. Lonely. But powerful, if you survive."
Broan grunted. "Mostly, they don't."
Talia ignored him.
"So," she said lightly. "What's it going to be, Rift-stray?"
Arlen hesitated.
Part of him screamed to take the safe path — to find shelter in a Guild, to let someone else tell him who to be.
But another part — the stubborn core that had kept him going on Earth even when everything crumbled — burned hotter.
He remembered the Witness King's decree: Observe. Do not interfere.
He remembered the Shrikes, the way they had smelled him in the wind.
He remembered the feeling, standing in the purple grass, realizing he could act.
Not just watch.
His fists clenched.
"I'll carve my own," Arlen said, voice shaking.
Talia studied him for a long, heavy moment.
Then she nodded.
"Good," she said. "Stupid. But good."
She pulled a thin, black-bladed dagger from her belt.
Arlen tensed — but she wasn't pointing it at him.
Instead, she nicked her own palm, letting a bead of dark blood fall into the pool.
The water hissed and flared gold.
She handed the dagger to Arlen.
"Your first mark," she said simply.
Arlen stared at the blade.
"What do I have to do?"
Talia smiled thinly.
"Choose your Story's beginning."
He swallowed hard.
Then, carefully, he pressed the dagger to his thumb.
A thin line of blood welled.
He let it fall into the water.
The pool exploded with light.
Visions — dreams — possibilities — swirled around him.
A boy standing atop a burning citadel, shouting defiance to the gods.
A shadowed figure freeing slaves from crystal prisons.
A kingkiller. A world-breaker. A savior. A liar.
Thousands of paths. A million Songs.
Talia's voice cut through the visions, harsh and clear:
"Name your First Deed!"
Arlen's heart pounded.
He remembered the Shrikes.
The death.
The way the Rift had chosen him without asking.
He clenched his jaw.
"My First Deed," he said fiercely, "is defiance."
The light around the pool shrieked — a sound like tearing silk and newborn thunder.
The floating medallion at his chest shivered, then fused to his skin, becoming a faint, silvery scar over his heart.
Talia's eyes widened — not in fear, but something close to awe.
Broan muttered a prayer under his breath.
"You just declared war," Talia said softly.
"On what?" Arlen asked.
She smiled grimly.
"On everything that thinks it owns you."
Arlen smiled back.
For the first time since falling through the Rift, he felt... steady.
Not safe — but right.
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the slow drip of water.
Talia turned away, tossing him a battered cloak from a pile of gear.
"Rest while you can, Arlen Vance of Defiance," she said.
"We march at dawn."
And somewhere, far beyond the tunnel's walls, something in the broken sky stirred.
Watching.
Waiting.
Whispering.