The Riftstorm howled like a dying god.
Kaelen stood beneath a sky split open by light that bled wrong. Red lightning cracked sideways. The clouds pulsed in jagged rhythms. The air tasted of metal and memory, as if the storm had devoured time and now vomited it back in fits.
His cloak snapped behind him in the wind. He didn't feel cold—not anymore. The mutation of his body post-escape had left him stronger, more refined. The pain of reshaping had faded, but the power remained. Still, even with his strength growing, this storm gnawed at the edges of his senses like invisible teeth.
He stepped forward, into the gale.
The landscape was treacherous—jagged stone ridges riddled with flesh-like veins. The terrain shifted when you weren't looking. Several times, Kaelen placed his foot on stable ground only to find it replaced by slippery glass or bone. The Riftwilds were mutating. Or remembering. Or both.
Then—movement.
A ripple in the wind. Too focused. Too silent.
Kaelen froze, eyes narrowing.
A presence.
His fingers curled, drawing power from the cracked Weave beneath. Matter began to stir. Stone roughened. Dust rose.
The presence struck.
A silver blur arced down from the cliffside.
Kaelen leapt back instinctively as a blade carved through the space where his head had been. A second strike followed, and a third—graceful, calculated, lethal. Whoever it was, they were fast. Faster than anything he'd fought since escaping the Spindle.
He parried the fourth blow with a makeshift stone shield that burst from the ground at his will. The impact cracked it.
Then, for the first time, he saw her.
She landed in a low stance, twin daggers drawn, breath steady. Her eyes were obsidian with silver flecks—inhuman and unreadable. Her body was lithe, armored in black leathers that shimmered with Rift-reflecting metal. A mask covered her lower face.
Aelira.
He didn't know her name yet. But something in the Weave did.
"You're... not from here," Kaelen said, voice low.
She didn't answer.
She lunged.
They clashed again.
This time, Kaelen didn't retreat.
He used the terrain, shaping rock beneath her feet, trying to break her rhythm. She adapted with terrifying speed. Her strikes bent reality—phasing slightly ahead of motion. A sign of Riftborn training, or worse—Void-tempered speed.
"You're not here to talk, then," he muttered, dodging a slicing arc.
Still no answer.
She came at him from the side—too fast. Her blade carved into his side before he could react.
Blood spattered the dust.
He staggered.
And then—
She paused.
Her head tilted. As if confused.
Kaelen grinned.
"You didn't expect me to bleed."
She didn't respond. But the pause cost her.
Kaelen gritted his teeth, slammed his hand into the dirt, and twisted.
The Weave shivered.
A ring of stone erupted in a circular cage. It wouldn't hold her for long. But it was enough.
"Talk," he growled. "Now."
She raised one hand—and pulled off the mask.
Her face was beautiful.
Unreasonably so.
Not just attractive—engineered. Sharp angles softened by grace, lips the color of dried rose petals, and a look that could command silence in a storm.
"You're better than I expected," she said, voice like silk dragged across steel.
"Who sent you?" he asked, holding his side. Blood dripped between his fingers.
"Someone who fears what you're becoming."
"That narrows it down to everyone."
Aelira smiled faintly.
Then did something Kaelen didn't expect.
She threw down her blades.
The Weave shuddered.
Kaelen felt it instantly.
Something clicked into place between them.
A line of thread—not visible, but felt. Like a nerve that shouldn't exist now existed.
"What did you do?" he demanded.
"I didn't mean to." Her voice was distant now, almost dazed. "When our blood touched the Weave—yours and mine—it responded. A resonance. It bound us."
Kaelen's eyes widened. He could feel it too.
A connection.
Soul-deep.
Tangled.
A mistake?
Or something the Weave wanted?
He tried to sever it. Reached out mentally, using all his control over Matter and Space.
The thread refused.
Worse—it pulsed back. Echoed with her heartbeat.
She staggered, clutching her chest.
"I—feel you," she whispered. "Every breath. Every thought at the edge."
Kaelen backed away.
This was wrong.
This was dangerous.
And it was permanent.
They sat in silence after the storm passed.
Neither spoke for a long time. Kaelen stared into the flame he had coaxed from shards of bone and sulfur. Aelira cleaned her blades. But her eyes kept drifting toward him, unwillingly.
"You were supposed to die," she said at last.
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Charming."
"I mean it. The order was clear. You escaped the Spindle. That made you unstable."
"You think I'm not?"
"I think I should have killed you the moment I saw you."
"But you didn't."
"No." Her voice trembled slightly. "Because I think... the Weave doesn't want me to."
Silence again.
Then she asked, almost reluctantly, "What are you going to do now?"
Kaelen looked up.
"To survive. Then to unravel everything they've built."
"You'll need help."
"I don't trust anyone."
Aelira leaned forward.
"You don't have to trust me. Just use me."
Kaelen's gaze narrowed. "Why would you offer that?"
"Because I feel you inside me now." Her voice was a whisper. "And I think... I want to see what you'll become."
Before dawn, Kaelen tested the bond.
It wasn't psychic. Not exactly.
But when he focused on her, he felt her.
Her fear.
Her curiosity.
Her arousal.
It was dangerous.
Too much.
He would have to control it.
Control her.
Or she would control him.
But for now—
He had a weapon.
One who had nearly killed him.
One who now walked behind him with blades ready for any enemy—but not for him.
Kaelen smiled bitterly.
The Weave had bound them.
And he would make sure it was for his gain.
As the two of them vanished into the horizon—one a shadow, the other a storm—the Riftwilds whispered.
The threads had twisted again.
And the gods, wherever they were, watched with held breath.