The city’s underground was a labyrinth of forgotten pathways, its air thick with the scent of decay. Victor and Maria moved cautiously through the abandoned subway tunnels, their headlamps cutting through the oppressive dark. The dampness clung to them, carrying the faint metallic bite of rust and something older, something long undisturbed.

  Maria’s voice was barely more than an echo in the void. "How far does this go?"

  Victor turned his head slightly, the dim glow of his pendant reflecting in his eyes. "Far enough that no one remembers it now," he said. "These tunnels were sealed off decades ago. But something down here… something doesn’t want to be forgotten."

  The pendant quivered against his chest, pulsing with light like a heartbeat. It had led them this far, and the deeper they ventured, the stronger its pull became. It was guiding them toward something—but whether that was salvation or damnation, Victor wasn’t sure yet.

  Then, the walls changed.

  At first, the engravings were faint, hidden beneath layers of grime and time-worn stone. But as Victor swept his flashlight across the surface, the markings became clearer—symbols. Not graffiti. Not idle carvings. These were deliberate, intricate, purposeful.

  He stopped in his tracks. "Look at this."

  Maria stepped closer, trailing her fingers along the delicate loops and patterns, her brow furrowing. "Same as what?"

  Victor exhaled slowly. "I’ve seen markings like this before. They were in the ruins near the first tear. And on the altar." His voice dropped lower. "They’re connected to the tears. To all of this."

  Maria’s fingers hesitated over one of the symbols. "Are they warnings? Or instructions?"

  “Maybe both," Victor muttered. He was about to trace the carvings when—

  The earth trembled.

  A deep, resonant rumble vibrated through the tunnels, sending loose stones skittering across the ground. Maria instinctively reached for Victor’s arm, her flashlight beam swinging wildly.

  "What was that?" she whispered.

  Victor’s expression darkened. "I don’t know. But we need to keep moving."

  They pressed forward, the tremors intensifying with every step. The air grew denser, almost electric, and the symbols on the walls—they were multiplying. More of them, spreading like veins, glowing dimly in the dark.

  Then the pendant shook violently, its pulsing light almost frantic now.

  "It’s taking us somewhere," Victor realized, his grip tightening around it. "We’re getting close."

  Maria opened her mouth—to question, to protest, maybe even to warn him—but then the ground collapsed beneath them.

  A rush of air, a weightless freefall—and then the plunge.

  They hit the water hard.

  Freezing. Deep. The shock of it stole the breath from Victor’s lungs as he fought his way to the surface, gasping. The cavern was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls jagged and slick with moisture.

  "Maria!" he shouted, his voice echoing.

  She surfaced a moment later, coughing, hair plastered to her face. "What the fuck just happened?!"

  Victor scanned their surroundings. The dim glow from the pendant revealed something beneath the water—a depthless abyss, its surface shifting like liquid glass, reflecting a sky that didn’t belong underground.

  "We fell through," Victor said, treading water. "The floor wasn’t stable. But this... this isn’t just a cave."

  They swam to the edge, hauling themselves onto a narrow ledge. The air here was warmer, almost humid, tinged with the sharp scent of metal. And ahead of them—

  An entrance.

  A gaping cavern mouth, its walls lined with statues.

  Maria sucked in a breath. "Victor... you see what I see?"

  He nodded, his pulse pounding.

  The statues towered over them, carved from the very rock, their expressions frozen in time. Some were winged, their faces serene and otherworldly. Others bore twisted, monstrous features, their stone eyes hollow and unrelenting.

  "It’s like something out of myth," Victor murmured. "Angels. Demons. But... not quite."

  Maria moved closer, her fingers hovering over the smooth stone of one figure’s face. "Maybe they’re neither. Maybe they’re something else entirely."

  Victor’s jaw tightened. "Or maybe we got it all wrong."

  The stories. The legends. The fear. Humanity had spent centuries turning these beings into something divine, something demonic. But what if they were just... beings? What if the tears were their home? What if they had been crossing into his world for centuries?

  "Victor," Maria said suddenly, her voice unsteady.

  At the chamber’s center stood a massive stone altar, its surface engraved with the same markings from the tunnels—only here, they glowed.

  Victor stepped forward, drawn by something unseen. The pendant burned against his chest, its pulsing now in perfect sync with the altar’s light.

  "This isn’t just ruins," Maria whispered. "It’s something more. It’s ancient."

  Victor reached out, placing his hand on the altar—and the world shattered around him.

  A vision

  Flashes of worlds colliding. Cities swallowed by light, creatures stepping through rifts in reality, their shapes twisting and shifting. An unseen force, ancient and incomprehensible, pulling at the fabric of existence.

  The tears weren’t accidents.

  They were deliberate.

  A merging, a convergence—a Great Conjunction.

  Victor ripped his hand back, stumbling. Maria caught him, her grip strong, grounding him.

  "What did you see?" she asked, urgency in her voice.

  He sucked in a breath, his chest heaving. "It’s not random." His voice was hoarse. "The tears... the worlds... they’re not just colliding. They’re being pulled together. Someone—or something—is making it happen."

  Maria’s grip tightened on his arm. "Then we have to stop it."

  The chamber rumbled again, dust cascading from the ceiling. The statues seemed to shift in the flickering light, their unblinking eyes watching.

  "We need to go," Maria urged. But her hand remained on his arm, her warmth anchoring him.

  Victor nodded, but his gaze lingered on the altar. "This isn’t just a ruin," he said, meeting Maria’s eyes. "It’s a message. Someone left this here to warn us."

  They turned to leave, but Maria hesitated.

  Slowly, she reached up, brushing her fingertips against Victor’s cheek. A small, fleeting gesture. A tether—to here, to now. To something real in the chaos.

  "We’ll figure this out," she said, her voice steady.

  Victor nodded, his hand briefly covering hers before he pulled away.

  As they climbed back toward the surface, the hum of something unseen followed them, vibrating through the walls.

  And as they ascended, one last glance back at the chamber revealed one final detail—

  The statues’ faces had changed.

  They were smiling.

  In another world, another time….Vyraleth

  The crimson grass beneath Tyvor’s boots was slick with the morning dew, but his footing held steady. Every step forward was a testament to how much he had changed. The weight of the past—his old name, his old world—no longer sat so heavily on his shoulders.

  Not Thomas. Not anymore.

  The training fields stretched before him like a vast sea of warriors in motion—each Elryndor apprentice moving with precise, fluid strikes, their bodies tuned to the rhythm of battle like instruments in a grand symphony. He watched them, taking in the way they wielded their weapons with effortless grace, each motion refined through decades of discipline.

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  And yet, despite all his effort, he did not belong.

  Not yet.

  Aldaryn, the Captain of the Guard, stood like a statue in the center of the grounds, his silver armor catching the golden light of the twin suns. His gaze swept over the gathered trainees like a blade, weighing each one’s worth. There was no warmth in his stare—only expectation.

  "You are not warriors," Aldaryn’s voice carried like a hammer striking stone. "Not yet."

  Tyvor stood among them, his hands clenched into fists. He had heard these words before—day after day, drill after drill. The repetition was merciless. But it was never meant to inspire. It was meant to break. To strip away weakness, doubt, hesitation—until all that remained was a soldier.

  Aldaryn paced in front of them, his piercing blue eyes scanning the line of apprentices. "To wear the crest of the Elryndor, you must become more than you are. You must become necessity itself."

  His voice was cold. Not cruel, not unkind—just truth.

  "Again!" Aldaryn barked. "Archery drills!"

  The apprentices rushed into formation, Tyvor among them. The bow he carried felt foreign, even after weeks of training. Unlike the simple wooden bows of his childhood, these were living things. Crafted from an iridescent metal that thrummed with energy, they felt weightless in his grip—until the moment he pulled the string, and suddenly, the tension was unbearable.

  He nocked an arrow, exhaling slowly. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled back, feeling the way the weapon fought against him.

  "Hold your stance," Aldaryn’s sharp voice cut through the air. "You fight the bow, Tyvor. That is why it resists you."

  Tyvor gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip, but it wasn’t enough. He loosed the arrow too soon, and it veered wide, missing the target by a shameful distance.

  A nearby apprentice snickered.

  Before he could react, a quiet voice spoke beside him. "You’re still fighting it."

  Kora.

  She stood at his side, her own bow at the ready, but her stance was effortless—as if the weapon was merely an extension of herself.

  Tyvor exhaled sharply. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

  Kora studied him for a moment before reaching over, adjusting his stance with a careful touch. "Don’t force it," she murmured. "The bow knows what it needs to do. You’re just guiding it. Let it breathe."

  Tyvor swallowed and nodded. He tried again, focusing not on forcing the bow but listening to it. When he loosed the arrow this time, it struck the outer edge of the target—not perfect, but better.

  Kora smiled faintly. "See? Improvement."

  He exhaled. "Still not good enough."

  "Nothing ever is," she said simply, stepping back into line. The lesson continued.

  The next drill was swordplay. The slender, twin-bladed weapons of the Elryndor were designed for precision—not brute force. Tyvor had spent his life learning to brawl, but this was something else. Here, power meant nothing without control.

  His opponent today was a seasoned apprentice named Vaelis. Tall, fast, merciless.

  Aldaryn circled them like a predator. "Begin."

  Tyvor barely had time to register the command before Vaelis moved.

  A flash of silver. The clash of steel.

  Tyvor staggered back, barely parrying the first strike. Vaelis was quick—too quick. His strikes came in a seamless, fluid assault, each one cutting through the air with impossible speed. Tyvor blocked two, three—then pain.

  A strike to the ribs sent him reeling, the blunt edge of the sword knocking the wind from his lungs.

  "Again," Aldaryn ordered, his voice void of sympathy.

  Tyvor gasped and forced himself back into position. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t fall again.

  Vaelis lunged—but this time, Tyvor moved differently. He wasn’t trying to overpower the attack—he let it flow past him, sidestepping at the last second.

  Vaelis overextended, and Tyvor struck.

  A hard kick to the side sent his opponent stumbling. The moment was brief, but it was his.

  He could see the flicker of something in Aldaryn’s cold stare. Approval? Perhaps. But it was gone just as quickly.

  "Enough," Aldaryn declared. "Again tomorrow."

  Tyvor exhaled. Not victory—but progress.

  That evening, as the warriors gathered around the fire, Tyvor sat in silence. The ache in his body was constant, but the ache in his mind was worse. Memories of another life still haunted him.

  "You’re quiet tonight," Kora observed, sitting beside him.

  Tyvor sighed. "Just thinking."

  She waited.

  "About home," he admitted finally. "About… before."

  Kora was quiet for a long moment before she spoke. "You can’t go back."

  Tyvor looked at her, something twisting in his chest. "I know."

  Kora tilted her head. "Do you?"

  His jaw tightened. "I have to find my sister. I can’t stop thinking about her. About what happened to my mother." His voice wavered slightly, but he steadied it. "I keep thinking—if I just fight hard enough, if I prove myself—maybe I can find a way back. Maybe I can fix it."

  Kora’s gaze didn’t waver. "That’s not how the world works."

  Tyvor let out a bitter laugh. "Then tell me, Kora—how does it work?"

  She met his stare, unflinching. "You either survive, or you don’t."

  The fire crackled between them.

  After a long silence, Kora stood. "Come on."

  Tyvor blinked. "What?"

  She gestured for him to follow. "Come."

  Curious—and perhaps desperate for a distraction—he did.

  She led him to the edge of the camp, where the crimson grass met the dark sky. The two moons overhead bathed the world in silver light.

  "Look," she said.

  He did.

  And for the first time in a long time, he saw.

  This world—the one that had been nothing but suffering and trials—was beautiful.

  "I know you still feel torn," Kora said softly. "Like you don’t belong. Like you don’t know who you are."

  Tyvor swallowed hard.

  "You’re looking for answers," she continued. "But maybe the real question is—who do you want to become?"

  He didn’t have an answer. Not yet. But for the first time, he wanted to find out.

  Elsewhere…

  The forest was unnaturally still as James and Barrow stood before the altar carved into the rocky outcropping. The strange markings etched into the stone pulsed faintly, like the slow heartbeat of something ancient. James hovered his hand above them, the energy thrumming against his skin.

  “You sure about this?” Barrow asked, arms crossed. “Last time you touched something like this, it nearly put you under.”

  James nodded, his breath steady. “I don’t have a choice, Barrow. The tears, the symbols, Eliza… It’s all connected. And if these markings hold answers, I have to know.”

  Barrow let out a slow breath, watching as James placed his palm against the cold stone.

  The world fractured.

  James gasped as his vision spiraled inward, colors bending and breaking like stained glass shattering in slow motion. He reached out, but his body felt distant—like he had been unmoored from reality itself.

  Then, he was somewhere else.

  A void of shifting colors. Shapes flickered into existence, then vanished. Cities made of light. Endless oceans hanging in the sky like liquid constellations. Worlds both beautiful and terrifying, stretching into infinity.

  James turned, and before him stood towering figures, beings of impossible grace, their forms shimmering and shifting, as if woven from the fabric of the universe itself. They raised their hands, bending fire into spirals of light, pulling rivers into the air with a mere thought, warping reality like it was clay in their hands.

  This is what the tears hide, a voice boomed, resonating through James’ bones. Bridges, not wounds. Pathways, not accidents. And you, James Caldwell, are the hand upon the gate.

  James staggered forward, his hands glowing with an unfamiliar light. He felt the weight of knowledge pressing against his mind—not just magic, not just power, but understanding. The very nature of existence was shifting around him, as if the universe itself was whispering its secrets directly into his soul.

  To restore balance, you must learn to control. To reshape time, to deceive perception itself. But beware… The power to heal is also the power to destroy.

  James' pulse thundered in his ears. The power to destroy…

  Before he could ask more, the vision collapsed.

  He snapped back into his body with a jolt, gasping for air. Barrow was kneeling beside him, his grip firm on James’ shoulder.

  “Damn it, James, talk to me,” Barrow said. “What the hell just happened?”

  James sat up slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I saw… something. No. Everything.” His hands trembled as he looked down at them. “I think I’ve been given something.”

  Barrow frowned. “What kind of something?”

  James rose to his feet, still unsteady. He reached toward the altar again, and the symbols flared to life—responding to him. With just a flick of his wrist, he willed the air to shift—and it did. The firelight around them bent, stretching, twisting into delicate patterns before dissolving into the night.

  Barrow took a step back. “Bloody hell.”

  James exhaled, his mind racing. “It’s not just power. It’s knowledge. I can see things differently now—how everything is connected, how the tears work, how they’re… alive.”

  Barrow studied him, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. “So what? You’re some kind of wizard now?”

  James shook his head. “No. Not a wizard. Something else.”

  Barrow had seen a lot in his life. But never this. He prided himself on knowing things—understanding the hidden world, the things most men feared in the dark. But now, he was changing too.

  At first, it was subtle. Flickers of movement at the edge of his vision. Shadows shifting where there were none. Whispers threading through the wind, too quiet to make out but too real to ignore.

  It wasn’t until now, as James bent light itself to his will, that Barrow realized what was happening.

  “You’re not the only one,” Barrow muttered, rubbing his temples.

  James frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Barrow exhaled sharply. “I’ve been seeing things. Not like you, not bending reality, but… glimpses. Shadows that shouldn’t be there. Echoes of places I’ve never been, but somehow remember. And now? I swear, I just saw that altar watching us.”

  James’ expression turned serious. “The tears. They’re not just changing the world. They’re changing us.”

  Barrow swallowed hard, but nodded. “And we have no idea what we’re becoming.”

  A silence stretched between them, heavy and full of unspoken thoughts.

  Then, James turned back to the altar, his voice quiet but resolute. “I don’t think I have a choice anymore. If this is what it takes to fix the tears and find Eliza, then I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Barrow sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I guess I’d better stick around. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you before you start tearing holes in the sky.”

  James grinned despite himself. “Oh, don’t worry. I’d patch them up after.”

  Barrow shook his head. “God help us all.”

  As they left the altar behind, James practiced—his fingers weaving small manipulations into the world around him. He slowed the descent of falling leaves, bent firelight into shapes, created echoes of his own memories in shimmering illusions.

  Each attempt drained him, but it exhilarated him, too. This was more than power. This was purpose.

  Barrow, ever the skeptic, found himself leaning into his role as the watcher. He wasn’t just seeing shadows—he was understanding them. Maybe they weren’t ghosts at all. Maybe they were glimpses of something else.

  As the forest stretched before them, dark and waiting, the weight of their journey settled over them.

  The world had shifted beneath their feet.

  And they were shifting with it.

  James and Barrow weren’t just travelers anymore.

  They were becoming something else entirely.

  And whatever lay ahead, they would meet it together.