Three weeks passed since Seren disappeared beyond the patrol lines. The world above continued its march toward war, but down here, time breathed differently.
She lived in the liminal dark now—among jagged rocks and frost-choked crevices that formed the upper skin of the Rift. Not truly below. Not truly surface. The in-between. She had hollowed a narrow den beneath a leaning outcrop of stone and woven a curtain of moss and frostleaf to hide the glow of her crystal light. In the deep watches of night, she studied the walls—etched faintly with signs even Velmoran doctrine had purged from its oldest archives.
She was not here to defy Velmora. She was here to save it.
But they didn't see it that way.
The Rift breathed beneath her. A pulse of old magic echoed through the rock. Runes shimmered faintly when she touched them—sometimes warm, sometimes cold. The first layer was only the threshold. A warning. And something waited below.
Something alive.
She had planned to descend soon, deeper. But then she heard voices.
Seren froze, one hand on her sword, the other dimming the crystal light at her side. Footsteps echoed down the cliffside trail—controlled, careful. Military. Velmoran. She pressed herself against the stone, hidden by shadow.
"She was seen near the ridge," came a familiar voice.
Seren's breath caught.
Elen.
They were here for her.
Seren couldn't breathe for a moment. It wasn't just a patrol. It wasn't an expedition. It was a hunt.
"I don't like this," another soldier muttered. "The Rift isn't meant for search parties."
Elen's voice was colder than Seren remembered. "Seren disobeyed orders. She crossed the threshold, acted on her own, and refused recall. You know what that makes her."
"Dead?"
"No," Elen said, too calm. "Worse. A liability."
The word stung sharper than any blade.
Seren slipped backward, deeper into the rocks, moving slowly. Quietly. She had to put distance between herself and the hunting party. Elen was no fool—she would know the terrain. She would find signs if Seren left any trace.
She backtracked toward a narrow crevice she had marked days ago. If she could cross the fissure there, it might mask her trail. Behind her, voices echoed again—closer.
"She's not far," someone said.
Damn. They had a tracker.
Seren reached the fissure and leapt. Her boots scraped the far ledge, loose gravel tumbling into the chasm below. She crouched, breathing hard, then scrambled beneath a low shelf of rock. There she waited.
The silence stretched. No sound of pursuit. No voices.
But she knew better.
They were still out there.
Elen was still out there.
She hadn't meant to become a ghost. She hadn't meant to be alone. But the Rift had shown her things—signs of something waking, something neither nation could control. Velmora refused to listen. And Kael'Thar hunted her out of paranoia or prophecy.
Now, she had no homeland.
Only the Rift.
She looked down into the dark below, where frost and shadow danced together like breath. Somewhere down there, answers waited. Not just about magic. Not just about the Rift.
But about herself.
Seren stood and moved again—quieter now, deeper. Away from her old camp, away from the voices, toward the descent she had delayed for too long.
Let them hunt.
She would find what they were afraid of.
And when she returned—if she returned—she would make them see the truth.
Even if it meant walking alone.