Lira woke to the taste of blood.
It was thick on her tongue, copper and warmth mixing with the stale, dry air of the tent she had been thrown into. Her arms ached—bound behind her back with a rough rope, her wrists already raw from struggling.
She had been in fights before.
She had been captured before.
But this time, she wasn't sure which side would kill her first.
The nobles had not spared her out of mercy.
They had dragged her through the mud like a traitor.
Now, outside the tent, she could hear them arguing about what to do with her.
"She fought beside him."
"She fought against him, too."
"She's dangerous."
"She's useful."
That last voice—calm, calculating.
Not a soldier.
A commander.
Lira let her head roll back against the wooden support beam. Her body ached from the bruises left by their rough handling, but she kept her expression even.
She was not afraid.
She was angry.
Because the only reason she had been caught was that she had hesitated.
She had watched the Riftborn emerge from the battlefield.
She had seen Aelthar standing there—unmoved, unaffected, as if he had expected it all along.
For the first time, she did not know what to do.
So she ran.
But not fast enough.
The tent flap tore open.
And the noble general stepped inside.
----
Lord Brenn Casterne.
Lira recognized him instantly.
Of all the noble lords who had marched against Aelthar, Brenn was the only one who still clung to the illusion of honor.
But honor wouldn't save him now.
And it sure as hell wouldn't save her.
"Lira of Eldermere," Brenn said, voice even. "Or should I say—the woman who refused to kneel."
Lira said nothing.
Because there was nothing to say.
Brenn stepped closer, his gaze sharp as he studied her. "I don't have time for lies. So I'll offer you something simple."
He knelt before her.
And set a dagger between them.
"Kill him," he said, "and you walk free."
Lira stared at him.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then—she laughed.
A hoarse, sharp sound.
"That's your plan?" she scoffed. "You think I can get close enough to him now?"
Brenn didn't blink. "You already have."
Lira's amusement faded.
Because he was right.
She had fought beside Aelthar. She had stood by him when he was just Aric.
And if she wanted to—she could get close enough to put a dagger in his throat.
But the problem was—
She didn't know if she wanted to.
Not anymore.
Brenn leaned forward, lowering his voice. "If we let him live, this war does not end. If we wait, the Rift will consume everything."
He lifted the dagger.
And this time, Lira did not look away.
----
Lira did not take the blade.
She sat in silence, staring at the weapon as if it were something foreign.
Because, in truth—it was.
She had killed before.
She had never hesitated to put a knife between someone's ribs if it meant survival.
But this—this wasn't a simple kill.
This was something else.
"I don't take orders from men who would have let me starve last winter," she said finally, her voice flat.
Brenn exhaled through his nose. "I expected as much."
Then—he said something unexpected.
"Aelthar is not the first."
Lira's blood ran cold.
She lifted her gaze. "What did you just say?"
Brenn studied her reaction. Then, carefully—he leaned in.
"You think he's unique?" His voice was soft, steady. "You think he's the first to hear the Rift's voice? The first to rise, to take a throne, to bring ruin in his wake?"
Lira's throat tightened.
"How do you know that?"
Brenn straightened. "Because I was taught history. And history does not favor kings who listen to the Rift."
He turned.
"Lords," he called out. "We're done here."
The guards stepped forward.
And Lira realized too late—she had just lost the only chance she had to learn the rest.
The noble soldiers grabbed her arms.
Dragged her toward the prison cages.
And for the first time since this war had begun—
Lira felt afraid.
Not because she was about to die.
But because she had just learned something worse.
And if what Brenn said was true—
Then Aelthar wasn't just a warlord.
He was a cycle.
And she had no idea how it ended.
----
The cage was cold.
The metal bars hummed faintly, laced with runes—protection against whatever they thought she had become.
Lira sat on the damp ground, her back against the rough wooden beams of the noble's war camp prison. Her hands were still bound. The rope had tightened as she was thrown inside, cutting into her wrists.
She ignored it.
Because something else was happening.
Something worse.
The Rift pulsed.
Not loudly.
Not in the way it had for Aelthar.
But softly.
Like a whisper just beyond hearing.
Lira tensed.
This was wrong.
The Rift had never spoken to her before.
It had always been a presence, a force in the distance, something she could watch from the edge of reason but never touch.
But now—
Now, it wasn't distant.
It was inside.
Her vision blurred for a second. Not in exhaustion. Not in fear.
But in something else.
She blinked—and for the briefest moment, the world shifted.
The camp was gone.
The cage was gone.
Instead—she was standing somewhere else.
Velmiris.
But not as it was now.
As it had been before.
The streets were alive with movement, but the figures were not human.
Their armor gleamed black as the Rift's light. Their weapons were twisted into shapes that no forge could have created. Their eyes—glowing hollow voids—turned toward her.
Not in hostility.
Not in recognition.
But in curiosity.
And then—they knelt.
Lira gasped.
The vision shattered.
She was back in the cage. Back in the mud, back in the dark.
But the whisper remained.
"You are not meant for this, child."
Lira sucked in a breath.
Because this voice—this was not Aelthar's Rift.
This was something else.
Something that had waited longer.
Something that had seen more.
And for the first time, Lira realized—
The Rift had more than one voice.
And one of them had just spoken to her.
----
The guards were careless.
They had left her bound but not gagged.
And they had underestimated her.
The first mistake was leaving her near the cage's rusted edge. Metal weakened over time. She had been working at it for hours, subtly twisting the bindings of her wrists against the frayed ropes.
The second mistake was assuming she was alone.
She wasn't.
Not anymore.
Not since the Rift had spoken to her.
She heard them before she saw them—figures moving beyond the camp, barely visible in the flickering torchlight.
Not noble soldiers.
Not Aelthar's forces.
Something else.
She didn't wait to find out.
Lira shifted her weight, twisting the final knot free, feeling the burn as the rope snapped against her skin. She ignored the pain.
She had one chance.
She took it.
The first guard was asleep.
The second barely had time to react before her stolen blade was against his throat.
A flicker of steel.
A wet gasp.
Then—silence.
Lira moved like a shadow, slipping through the gaps in the camp, past sleeping warhorses, past murmuring soldiers, past the tent where Lord Brenn sat plotting his next move.
He had given her a choice.
She had made hers.
And it wasn't his war she would fight.
But as she stepped beyond the last torchlight, as the cold night air swallowed her—she felt it again.
That pull.
That whisper.
That lingering presence in her thoughts.
The Rift had touched her.
And she was not the same when she left that cage.
----
Lira did not stop running.
She ran past the noble camp.
She ran past the shattered battlefield where the Riftborn still stood in eerie silence.
She ran past the outskirts of Velmiris, her feet pounding against the stone, her breath sharp in her lungs—
And then she stopped.
Because there was nowhere left to go.
The Riftmarked would not trust her.
The nobles would kill her.
And Aelthar—
She did not know what he would do.
Lira hunched forward, pressing her hands against her knees, her mind racing.
She needed a plan.
She needed—
"You already know your path."
Lira whirled.
Nothing.
Just wind.
Just the dark.
But she felt it.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
Something that had called her name before she had ever heard it herself.
She was not meant to be part of this war.
But she was no longer a bystander.
She exhaled slowly.
Straightened.
And turned toward the Rift.
Because if she had no side left—
Then, she would make her own.