The sky had cracked open three nights ago, and the world hadn't drawn a full breath since.
Kael and Mira moved through a landscape that no longer obeyed its own rules. Rivers flowed uphill before turning to mist; trees bent away from the light; mountains cast shadows that stretched against the sun. The air shimmered faintly, heavy with the taste of iron and something older — the faint, bitter scent of burned time.
Mira wrapped her cloak tighter, glancing up at the rift — a jagged tear bleeding white light across the horizon. It wasn't sunlight. It pulsed, alive, as if the sky itself had been wounded and refused to heal.
Kael walked ahead in silence, his posture stiff, eyes fixed on the distant glow. The faint trails of light beneath his skin had not faded since the ruins. At night, they pulsed softly — like veins remembering a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
"Kael," Mira said quietly, her voice the only human sound for miles. "How far do you think it is?"
He didn't answer right away. "Farther than it looks," he murmured finally. "But it's calling. Every step we take, the pull grows stronger."
Mira frowned, pulling an old journal from her pack — leather cracked, its pages filled with careful ink lines. She began writing as they walked.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Recording," she said softly. "If the world's breaking, someone has to remember how it fell."
Kael glanced back, his expression unreadable. "You think anyone will be left to read it?"
She gave a small smile. "I think we will be."
The wind stirred, carrying the faint sound of chimes. But there were no chimes — only the empty plains stretching out before them. The sound grew louder, metallic and mournful, echoing like music from a memory. Kael paused, scanning the horizon.
That was when they saw it — a small settlement in the distance, half-buried under the earth, its buildings frozen mid-collapse.
They approached cautiously. What they found stopped them cold.
Bodies. Dozens of them. Not decayed — but paused. A woman pouring water from a jug that hung forever in midair. A child chasing a wooden hoop that never touched the ground. Their faces peaceful, untouched by time, caught between moments.
Mira's hand flew to her mouth. "Kael… what is this?"
He stepped closer, his voice low. "The rift's influence. It's warping time. Taking… pieces."
He reached out, hesitating, then brushed his fingers lightly against the frozen jug. The air shimmered. For a brief instant, he heard laughter — warm, human — then silence again.
"Souls," he whispered. "They're trapped in the moment they died."
"Can you free them?"
He shook his head. "If I tried… I'd have to consume them. They'd be gone."
Mira's eyes softened with pain. "Then let them stay."
They moved through the silent town without speaking again. The deeper they went, the colder it grew — though no wind blew. The rift's light painted everything in silver and white, and Kael began to feel the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing against his thoughts.
Then came the voices — faint, layered, distant, yet clear enough to sting.
"Kael… come home."
"The gate waits…"
"The Hollow God stirs…"
He stumbled, gripping a wall to steady himself. Mira rushed to his side.
"It's them again?" she whispered.
He nodded, jaw tight. "They're louder now. Closer."
"Then we have to move," she said. "If we keep going, maybe—"
He cut her off gently. "No. They're not warning me. They're guiding me."
Mira's blood ran cold. "Guiding you where?"
Kael turned his eyes toward the horizon, where the rift split the clouds in two. "To the place where gods died."
For a long time, they stood there in silence, the light from the rift painting their faces pale. Mira wanted to speak — to tell him he was still human, still himself — but the words wouldn't come.
Instead, she reached out and took his hand. His skin was cold to the touch.
"We'll face it together," she said finally.
Kael's expression softened, just for a moment. "Together," he echoed. But in his eyes, something else stirred — the faint shimmer of a soul that no longer belonged wholly to this world.
Above them, the rift pulsed once more. The clouds shuddered and turned inside out, and for the briefest instant, Mira swore she saw shapes moving within the light — colossal, winged silhouettes that didn't belong to anything mortal.
The Hollow Sky watched them move.
And somewhere deep within Kael's mind, Vael's voice whispered:
"The world is remembering you, Kael. All you must do is remember it back."
By the time night fell, the rift's glow had consumed the horizon. It was no longer light but a wound—bleeding across the stars, staining everything beneath it in shades of silver and blue.
Kael and Mira had made camp beneath the skeleton of a crumbled bridge. The river below was frozen, but not by ice—its waters hung mid-flow, still and glassy, reflecting the distorted sky above like a mirror of another world.
Mira sat close to the fire, her face pale and eyes heavy. The warmth barely reached her; the flames seemed to flicker slower here, as if time itself were tired. She looked across at Kael, who sat apart, his gaze fixed on the reflection of the rift below. The faint glow beneath his skin was brighter tonight, pulsing in rhythm with the light in the heavens.
"You're changing again," she said softly.
Kael didn't answer. His voice had grown quieter these past days, his tone distant, like someone speaking from the other side of glass.
Mira leaned forward. "Don't shut me out, Kael. Please. Whatever this thing is—Vael, the rift—it's feeding on isolation. The more you let it pull you, the less you'll—"
A sound cut her off.
Footsteps.
Dozens of them. Slow, deliberate, moving through the frost.
Kael rose immediately, hand at his blade. Mira followed, her breath catching as dark silhouettes emerged from the mist—men in armor marked with symbols she'd never seen before: a circle bisected by a blade of light.
At their head walked Garrick.
His armor was battered, his face lined by exhaustion and conviction. The old fire in his eyes had hardened into something colder—faith or fury, Kael couldn't tell.
"Garrick," Kael breathed.
The older man stopped several paces away. "You should have died back at the ruins," he said quietly. "Would've spared us all what came after."
Mira stepped forward, anger rising in her voice. "You left us! You ran!"
"I ran to warn them," Garrick snapped. "About him." He pointed his sword toward Kael. "The Veil Wardens have seen what he's done—what he's becoming. They say the rift opened because of him."
Kael's eyes darkened. "That's a lie."
"Is it?" Garrick took a step closer. "Everywhere you go, the world breaks a little more. Dead men rise, time freezes, the sky splits open. You think that's coincidence?"
The air trembled faintly. The glow from Kael's veins brightened with his pulse.
"I didn't choose this," Kael said, voice low.
Garrick's expression twisted. "No, boy. You didn't stop it."
He raised his hand, and the Veil Wardens behind him spread out—each holding silver chains etched with ancient runes. The metal shimmered with light that didn't belong to fire or moon.
Mira moved instinctively, stepping between them and Kael. "You can't do this. He saved us—"
"Saved?" Garrick barked out a bitter laugh. "Look at him! You call that saving? That thing standing beside you isn't a man—it's a vessel."
Kael's voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe I am. But I still bleed."
The chains flared, humming with power. Kael felt the energy slice through the air like cold steel through bone. It wasn't human magic—it was something older, divine, crafted in the age when gods still bled beside men.
When the first chain lashed out, Kael caught it with his bare hand. The rune-light seared his skin, smoke rising from his palm—but he didn't let go. He pulled, yanking the warden off his feet and sending him crashing to the ground.
The others surged forward.
Mira screamed his name.
Kael moved like shadow and lightning, every strike guided by instinct older than memory. The chains shattered under his touch, each fragment hissing with soul-fire as it hit the frozen ground.
Garrick charged, sword raised high. Their blades met in a burst of light that threw sparks into the night.
"Look at you!" Garrick shouted, forcing Kael back with raw strength. "You think you're still one of us? You think she can save you?"
Kael gritted his teeth. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Kael's eyes flashed white. "You still pray to gods who stopped listening."
Their swords locked again—steel screaming against steel. And in that moment, as the firelight flared between them, Kael saw what Garrick had become: not just an enemy, but a believer. A man who needed something to blame, something to kill, to make sense of the world's breaking.
The ground shuddered. A pulse of light rolled across the land, bright enough to turn the night into day. The Veil Wardens fell back, shielding their eyes.
Kael staggered, clutching his head as Vael's voice thundered through him—no longer a whisper, but a command.
"You cannot bind what was born free. Show them, Kael. Show them what power truly means."
"No!" Kael roared, forcing the light back, fighting the presence clawing through his veins. His skin cracked with divine fire, his shadow burning brighter than the flames around him.
Mira ran to him, screaming over the chaos, "Kael! Remember who you are!"
Her voice cut through everything—the noise, the pain, the god. For a moment, the light dimmed. Vael's laughter faded like a retreating tide.
Kael dropped to his knees, gasping. Around them, the Wardens had scattered. The rift above pulsed again, a single, massive heartbeat that made the stars tremble.
Garrick stared at the boy who had just defied something beyond mortal comprehension. For the first time, his eyes held not hatred—but fear.
Kael raised his gaze slowly, voice trembling. "It's not me the world fears, Garrick."
He looked toward the sky. The rift widened. The stars vanished. And for the first time since the dawn of man, something looked back from the other side.
"It's what's coming."