The streets of Kethra whispered secrets as Rowan moved through them. The city was alive with motion, its heart beating in time with the Nexus Spire’s faint hum. But Rowan’s focus wasn’t on the bustling markets or the glowing glyphs adorning the buildings. His thoughts churned, the shard’s faint pulse aligning with the questions that plagued him.

  He ducked into an alley, the shadows welcoming him like an old friend. They coiled around his boots, faint and sluggish outside the Riftwood but still responsive. He leaned against the cool stone wall, his sharp gaze scanning the street beyond.

  Rowan exhaled slowly, the weight of the shard in his pocket grounding him. He had made it this far by being careful, calculating. But the Riftwood’s whispers were louder now, threading through his thoughts like ghostly echoes. They reminded him of what he had done to gain this power—and the boy he had been when he made the choice.

  The memory of that night in the Riftwood was as vivid as it was haunting. A boy, young and desperate, kneeling before a shadowed figure. The firelight of his village’s destruction still burned in his mind, seared into his soul. He had been weak then, powerless to stop the raiders who took everything from him.

  Rowan clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists. He had sworn to never feel that helpless again, to never kneel before anyone. The Riftwood’s power had granted him strength, but it came with questions he hadn’t dared ask in the beginning.

  What does this power mean? What does it make me?

  He wasn’t a hero. He didn’t wear his scars for glory or seek to save anyone. But he wasn’t a villain either, no matter how many times his shadows had struck down those who stood in his way. He was something in between—a man carrying a burden he didn’t yet understand.

  The shard pulsed again, its faint glow drawing Rowan’s attention. It was weaker now, more subdued, but it still guided him. He could feel the pull toward the Nexus Spire, its power resonating with the shard in a way that felt both foreign and familiar.

  Rowan moved cautiously through the city, his steps silent as he navigated narrow alleys and crowded squares. The people here didn’t notice him—or pretended not to. He was just another shadow passing through, one of many in a city teeming with life.

  The Riftwood’s whispers grew louder as Rowan approached a small plaza. He stopped at its edge, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. A group of merchants argued over the price of enchanted goods, their voices rising above the hum of the city. A pair of guards patrolled the far side of the square, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

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  But it wasn’t the people that held Rowan’s attention. It was the glyph etched into the center of the plaza’s fountain. The shard pulsed sharply as he stepped closer, its light faintly illuminating the glyph’s intricate lines.

  Rowan knelt by the fountain, his fingers brushing the cool stone. The glyph’s magic hummed faintly, and for a moment, the shard’s glow intensified. Rowan’s shadow rippled, reacting to the surge of power.

  “Curious, aren’t you?”

  Rowan’s head snapped up, his hand instinctively going to his blade. A man leaned against a nearby column, his arms crossed and a faint smirk on his face. His robes were simple but marked with faint glyphs, and his sharp eyes glinted with amusement.

  “Relax,” the man said, holding up his hands. “I’m not here to stop you. Just wondering what someone like you finds so interesting about a public fountain.”

  Rowan straightened, his gaze cold but steady. “I don’t recall inviting company.”

  The man chuckled, pushing off the column. “You didn’t. But you’re not exactly subtle, either. Shadows moving where they shouldn’t… you’re bound to attract attention.”

  Rowan’s grip on his blade tightened, but he didn’t draw it. “Who are you?”

  “Call me Coren,” the man said, his smirk fading. “And before you ask, I’m not with the guards. Or the mages. I just… notice things.”

  Rowan’s eyes narrowed. Coren’s casual demeanor set him on edge, but there was something in his tone—something knowing. “What do you want?”

  “To give you some advice,” Coren said, his voice dropping slightly. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Kethra’s not kind to people who don’t know how to keep their heads down.”

  Rowan’s lips twitched in a faint, humorless smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Coren studied him for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the shard in Rowan’s pocket. He nodded once, as though coming to a decision, and turned to leave.

  “Watch yourself, shadow-bearer,” Coren said over his shoulder. “The Nexus Spire doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

  Rowan didn’t move as Coren disappeared into the crowd. His chest tightened at the man’s parting words. The Nexus Spire didn’t tolerate mistakes, and neither did the Riftwood. The shard pulsed faintly, a reminder of the balance he was walking—a balance he couldn’t afford to break.

  Rowan slipped back into the shadows, his thoughts churning. Coren’s words echoed in his mind, but it wasn’t the warning about the city that troubled him. It was the way he had looked at the shard, as though he knew what it was. As though he knew what Rowan carried.

  The Riftwood’s power was a gift and a curse. It had saved him, made him strong. But it had also made him a target. In Kethra, that strength wasn’t enough. He needed to understand the shard, the Nexus Spire, and the power that connected them.

  Rowan stopped in a quiet alley, his shadow pooling at his feet. The Riftwood had marked him, shaped him. But it hadn’t given him answers.

  “Not yet,” Rowan muttered, his voice cold. He straightened, his gaze sharp. If the Riftwood’s power had a purpose, he would find it. And if the city stood in his way, it would learn what the Riftwood had made of him.