The Riftlands had not settled. Days after the clash between Callan and the Immortal Sovereign, mana storms still roared across the horizon, reshaping land and sky at random. Trees of crystal bloomed overnight. Rivers of flame diverted their paths. Creatures whispered into existence simply because the ambient magic dreamt them up. Nothing stayed still.
And yet, within that chaos, something new was forming—something deliberate.
In the very center of it all, the city was rising.
They called it Ashhold—a bastion forged from the ruins of the old Abyss and the will of the new Sovereign. At its heart stood the Black Spire, a monolith carved from the very same obsidian Callan's armor had once been made of. It rose higher with each day, absorbing ambient mana like a beacon. It wasn't just a fortress.
It was an anchor.
Callan stood on its highest balcony, arms crossed, watching the horizon where Riftborn moved like ants below. They constructed the city with fluid grace, weaving stone and flame as if they were silk. Human hands could not match their speed, nor their alien elegance.
"Fifty-two hours without sleep," Solenne said from behind him, arms folded. "You're either trying to impress the Riftborn or punish yourself."
"I'm rebuilding a world," he replied. "That doesn't leave much time for rest."
She walked beside him, hair bound tightly, her robes marked with sigils of protection. Ever since the battle, her power had changed too. The Flame had kissed her, if only briefly, and she now walked with an aura of calm that soothed even wild mana.
"Even gods need to breathe," she murmured.
Callan didn't answer.
She stepped closer. "The Flame is quiet, isn't it?"
He turned to her. "For now. But silence doesn't mean peace. It's waiting."
"For what?"
"For whatever broke the Immortal in the first place."
Below them, a section of the city erupted in cheers. The first human settlers from the northern provinces had arrived safely through the stabilized portal corridor. Dozens of battered wagons rolled in, each guarded by armed escorts and accompanied by children, scholars, and artisans. The Riftlands were dangerous—but they also offered opportunity.
Callan descended the Spire's internal staircase, emerging into the city proper. As he walked among the people, some stared in awe. Others averted their eyes. A few dropped to their knees.
He hated it.
He didn't want worship. He wanted allies.
Ren caught up to him near the marketplace—a strange blend of Riftborn kiosks and human stalls selling raw mana, enchanted bones, and ember fruit that sang lullabies when held.
"Message from the eastern watchtowers," Ren said, handing him a scroll. "Something's moving in the Deep Rift. Big. Fast. They couldn't get a clear look."
"Let me guess," Callan said. "More anomalies?"
Ren's face darkened. "No. Not anomalies. Something with direction."
They made their way to the tower's command chamber, where a spherical model of the Riftlands hovered in the air—updated live with mana threads. One quadrant flickered red.
"Three hours ago, a Riftborn patrol disappeared in this region," a Riftborn tactician reported, her voice like glass chimes. "We sent a search party. No response."
Callan studied the map. "Any readings?"
"Unstable mana spikes. Consistent with high-order magic—older than the Flame's influence."
Ren swore under his breath. "Then we're not alone in this domain."
They prepared a reconnaissance force immediately—Callan at the front, despite protests. He moved with quiet determination, accompanied by Ren, Solenne, and a handpicked strike team of human warriors and Riftborn sentinels.
As they entered the designated quadrant, the landscape shifted again.
Gone were the vibrant colors and drifting islands. Here, everything was gray. Bleached trees. Dust-choked air. The sky hung like lead.
Callan's blade was drawn before they even reached the clearing.
The corpses were waiting.
Dozens of Riftborn lay dismembered, their crystalized blood staining the ground in pale blue pools. But it wasn't just the violence that disturbed them—it was the way the bodies were posed.
Kneeling. Heads bowed. As if in prayer.
Solenne whispered, "Who could do this to Riftborn?"
Callan crouched beside one and placed a hand to its chest. No soul remnants remained. No echoes. They had been emptied.
A vibration ran through the earth.
Then came the whisper.
It was not a sound. It was a presence, curling along their spines, pressing against their thoughts. Callan's flame armor snapped into place of its own accord.
From the shadows emerged a figure.
She walked barefoot, her gown made of living feathers, her hair woven from threads of night. Her eyes were eclipses—circles of absolute darkness.
The team raised their weapons. She raised a hand, and time staggered.
"Put them down," Callan ordered, though even he felt his voice tremble.
The woman stepped closer, her voice like a lullaby laced with knives. "I come not to war, Sovereign... but to warn."
"Who are you?"
She smiled. "I am Memory. The last of the Old Weavers. The last of those who once designed worlds like this."
Ren blinked. "You're a... what?"
"A Weaver," she said again. "Long ago, before mortals named gods, we shaped the lattice of reality. When the Immortal Sovereign rose, we fled. Now, one returns to see if this seed you've planted blooms into hope... or poison."
Callan stepped forward. "Then why kill my people?"
"I didn't." She turned, her voice quieter. "They did."
The Rift opened behind her—not the kind Callan had conjured, but a fissure of void. Something moved within it. Something vast.
Callan gritted his teeth. "You brought it here."
"No," Memory whispered. "You did."
A shadow stepped through. Humanoid. Tall. Wrapped in cloths that writhed like serpents. No face. No sound. Just presence.
The flame inside Callan screamed.
Whatever this being was—it wasn't born of mana. It wasn't even part of this realm. It had no tether to any natural law. It was null. Anti-existence.
It tilted its head, and the ground around it decayed into nothing.
Callan stepped between it and his team. "Fall back. Now."
The shadow moved—and was suddenly in front of him.
He struck reflexively. His blade connected.
Or it should have.
Instead, his sword passed through it.
Then, it placed its hand on his chest.
And Callan fell.
Not backward. Not forward. Inward.
The world became a blur. Voices vanished. Sensation faded.
He opened his eyes, and there was only darkness.
Not absence, but compression. A pressure that crushed thought.
He tried to speak. Nothing came out.
The shadow's voice slithered in—not from outside, but from within.
"You wield a flame not meant for your kind. You disrupt the wheel. You claim a throne built from stolen power."
Callan snarled. "I earned it."
"You borrowed it," the voice replied.
In the black, a shape formed—his reflection, but twisted. Its armor cracked. Its eyes bleeding. Its blade rusted.
"This is your fate," the voice hissed. "Sovereignty always comes with a cost."
Callan clenched his fists. "Then I'll pay it."
The reflection lunged. They collided—mind against mind, memory against memory.
Every battle he'd fought. Every death he'd witnessed. Every time he'd doubted himself—they returned in waves, battering his will.
But something else burned brighter.
Faces.
Ren. Solenne. The Riftborn child who had brought him a wildflower. The people of Ashhold. The ones who believed in a future.
He screamed—and the Flame answered.
It erupted outward, shattering the black, obliterating the voice. When he opened his eyes again, he was on the ground, gasping, flame curling from his fingertips.
The shadow had vanished.
So had Memory.
Only the team remained—shaken but alive.
Solenne helped him up. "What happened?"
Callan looked up at the sky. "Something old has woken up."
Ren scanned the clearing. "So what now?"
"We prepare," Callan said. "The Flame made me its Sovereign. That wasn't just for this world."
He looked toward the east, where the void still pulsed faintly.
"It's for every world that shadow tries to consume."