The sky was bleeding fire.
Kaelen stood on the shattered balcony of the Obsidian Spire, his cloak whipped by winds that howled with voices not born of this world. Below him, the last bastion of the free peoples burned—temples, towers, and homes crumbling under the weight of the demon tide. Shadows surged through the streets like ink in water, consuming all light. And above it all, a rent in the heavens pulsed, a gash torn into reality itself, from which poured the endless spawn of ruin.
He had failed.
His fingers trembled as he clutched the runestone pendant at his neck—a relic from a time when magic was strong, and hope still had weight. The runes were dull now. Spent. Just like him.
They had called him the Archmage of the Sixth Circle, Keeper of the Ley Codex, Protector of the Balance. Titles that meant nothing now. All the spells, all the wards, all the power he had summoned to hold back the darkness—it hadn't been enough.
But one spell remained.
Kaelen turned from the carnage and limped into the heart of the Spire. Its grand hall was cracked and burning, stained glass shattered into colorful daggers across the floor. At its center stood the Riftframe: a ring of obsidian and star-iron etched with spatial glyphs, long forbidden by the Codex. It had taken years to build, hidden even from the Council. A last resort.
He drew his staff—a polished root of silverwood fused with a shard of skyglass—and traced a glowing arc through the air. The glyphs on the Riftframe flared to life, one by one, pulsing with ancient power.
"Axis of being," he whispered, "bend. Thread of place, sever. Let the walls between worlds part…"
The ground shook. The Riftframe groaned, then shuddered with a low, keening wail. A portal bloomed within the ring—not like the raw wounds torn open by the demons, but a controlled fold in space. It shimmered with light—cool, unfamiliar, alive.
Behind him, the great doors burst inward. The shadow flooded in, coalescing into a monstrous figure—horned, eyeless, cloaked in writhing smoke. Kaelen didn't turn.
"I have no more time for you," he said quietly.
The demon lunged.
Kaelen stepped through the portal.
And fell.
He awoke gasping, chest heaving, lying on cold asphalt beneath a gray sky.
Cars were overturned. Buildings stood intact, but broken windows and scorched signs told of chaos. A scent of ozone and smoke hung in the air. Sirens echoed in the distance. And far above, barely visible, a crack of darkness lingered in the clouds like a cancer.
A girl—no older than twenty—stood nearby, palm outstretched, crackling with blue energy. She stared at him with wide eyes, breathing hard, as if she'd just finished a fight.
Kaelen tried to sit up. His limbs felt heavy, his magic like a dulled blade.
"Where…?" he rasped.
"You fell out of the sky," the girl said, her voice shaky. "Who the hell are you?"
Kaelen looked around. The city. The air. The people.
Another world.
Another chance.
"I am Kaelen," he said.