The figure stood perfectly still, rain dripping from its hood, staff planted firmly in the mud.Hassan's grip on his hoe tightened. His father always said a farmer's first weapon was his eyes — to see danger before it reached the field. But no amount of watching could have prepared him for this.
"You know my name," Hassan said, voice low.
"I have known it for longer than you have lived," the figure replied. "The Rift chose you, as it chose your bloodline before you."
The words sank into Hassan like seeds into fresh soil. Bloodline? The Mahamat family had been farmers for generations — nothing more.
"You've got the wrong man," Hassan muttered. "I till the land, grow food, fix my roof when it leaks. That's all."
The figure stepped closer. Its feet didn't splash in the puddles. Its presence pressed against him, not with threat, but with a weight — like standing in the middle of an oncoming storm.
"You till the land," it said, "but you also guard it. Every seed you plant carries a spirit. Every harvest is a pact between the living and the unseen. I am here to awaken what you have always been."
Before Hassan could answer, the rift behind the figure shivered. A faint golden shape slipped through — small, no larger than a goat, with delicate limbs and wings like transparent leaves. Its eyes were round and bright, reflecting the violet light of the portal.
It landed in the mud in front of him and tilted its head. Rain hissed where it touched the creature's skin, evaporating instantly.
"This is Patrick Abakar," the figure said. "Your guide."
The little spirit fluttered forward, wings whispering against the rain. A warm breeze rolled off it, chasing the chill from Hassan's shoulders.
Hassan knelt slowly, more out of instinct than trust. "A guide for what?"
Patrick's voice was high and musical, like a flute played over running water. "For surviving what's coming. The Rift never opens without reason. Others will follow — some to bless your land, others to burn it."
From the corner of his eye, Hassan saw more ripples in the rift. Shapes moved within, some bright, some darker than night.
The hooded figure's voice dropped to a murmur. "This is your first day as Guardian of the Rift. And the first day of your last season as a mere farmer."
The wind shifted. Somewhere deep within the glowing portal, a roar echoed — long, low, and hungry.
Patrick's wings fluttered once. "We need to get you ready before they arrive."
Hassan glanced back at his farmhouse, then at the endless expanse of his fields. This land had always been his world. But now, his world had grown far larger… and far more dangerous.
The rift pulsed again, and the first drops of a new kind of rain — shimmering, silver, and warm — began to fall.