The Divide stretched endlessly black stone spires jutting upward like the ribs of some long-dead god, fractured histories and nameless souls clinging to their edges like rotting moss. Each step Zalthorion took echoed across the hollow, reverberating into a silence too absolute to be natural. Here, even forgotten memories screamed.
Amid the ruin, a pristine table sat as if untouched by the entropy around it. White porcelain cups gleamed faintly, steam curling from the kettle's spout as a faceless humanoid poured tea. Across from it, Xytheron lounged with deceptive ease, his presence a quiet storm, his smile as sharp as the Divide itself.
Zalthorion said nothing, only drew closer, his coat brushing against jagged stone until he pulled the chair opposite and sat. The humanoid filled his cup without a word. He lifted it, took a measured sip and agony flooded him. Veins seared, his body convulsed as though dissolving from the inside out. For a heartbeat, it seemed the Divide itself was unmaking him.
Then it ended.
Zalthorion adjusted his suit with casual precision, not a crack in his voice as he murmured in a tone of sheer boredom:"You truly believe a Consumer's poison can harm me, Xytheron?"
Xytheron spread his arms, laughter spilling out into the hollow."I knew you'd already adapted to it. I just wanted to see if it weakened you at all."
Unimpressed, Zalthorion lifted a folded letter from the table, turning it over once in his gloved hand."While I do appreciate the theatrics of finding mysterious letters on my path, could you at least be clearer about why I'm here?"
Xytheron chuckled again, leaning back."Can't old friends talk without pretense?"
Zalthorion's eyes narrowed, posture shifting subtly defense layered in restraint.
"I'm not your fool," he said flatly.
Xytheron's grin faltered, his tone softer now, though still tinged with mischief."You know I haven't recovered from that fight. In this state, I couldn't defeat you even if I tried. So stop being so defensive."
◇◇◇
The rift snapped shut behind him with a thunderclap of silence, leaving the shadowy being staggering across fractured stone. His body felt heavy too heavy. He lifted a trembling hand and froze.
It was no longer smoke and mist.
The fingers stretched long, tapering into claws like shards of obsidian. The skin if it could still be called that gleamed black, polished and solid, not the vaporous wraith-flesh he had always known. He pressed a clawed palm to his chest, expecting the hollowness of ribs and void. Instead, he felt something… whole. A chest that beat faintly, as though mocking a heart it did not yet have.
He snarled, but the sound cracked half human, half abyss. Memories flickered unbidden across his mind, scenes that weren't his: a child's laughter, the stench of iron and rain, the warmth of a hand he had never held. They crawled into him like parasites, burrowing deeper than his will could resist.
His vision swam, then sharpened with brutal clarity. Every scent, every whisper of movement within miles bled into him. The world was louder, clearer, merciless.
Then
A scream tore through the distance, ragged and terrified. It was followed by a roar deep, primal, monstrous, shaking the very bones of the earth.
Once, he would have ignored it. Once, he would have let predator and prey play their meaningless game.
But now… something inside him twisted. A strange, unwelcome urgency pulled at his chest, dragging him toward the sound.
And before he could stop himself, he was already moving.
"Shit—shit—shit!"
The man's lungs burned as his boots slammed against the dirt, every breath tearing his throat raw. Behind him, the night itself seemed to ignite, claws pounding after him with the weight of an avalanche.
He risked a glance over his shoulder.
The beast was there bigger than a tank, sabertooth fangs glowing molten, fur rippling like it had been set ablaze. The ground sizzled wherever its paws struck, leaving scorched craters in its wake.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" he shouted, nearly tripping over a tree root. "Why the hell did it have to be a Sabyr and a fucking Pyre Type-mutant on top of it?!"
His words tore through the night, half prayer, half profanity. The Pyre Sabyr roared in answer, a sound like burning stone splitting open, hot air searing the back of his neck.
He could already smell the singe of his jacket.
The man's legs were giving out when the world exploded.
A thunderous impact slammed into the Pyre Sabyr's side, the beast letting out a howl that shattered the treeline. The runner skidded to a halt, chest heaving, wide eyes snapping back.
What he saw rooted him in place.
The sabyr was on the ground, thrashing, claws gouging trenches in the dirt as something someone was on top of it. A figure black as obsidian, carved from shadow and stone, its body gleaming in the firelight. The man couldn't make out a face only the monstrous length of claws, each strike followed by the wet, sickening sound of tearing flesh.
Glowing blood sprayed in arcs, sizzling as it splattered across the ground. The Pyre Sabyr roared, a sound full of hate and fire, but each attempt to fight back was met with another rending blow. A chunk of its flaming hide ripped away. Another. Another.
The beast's fire guttered with each wound, flames sputtering out until its radiant fur dulled to ash. What remained were only its fangs, jagged and cracked, glowing faintly like magma cooling in stone the last mark that it had ever been a Pyre Mutant at all.
Relief washed over him first he had survived. The Sabyr was gone. He was saved.
But the relief didn't last.
The figure crouched over the dying flames of the beast, and then… it ate. The runner froze as wet, sickening tearing sounds filled the air. Flesh disappeared into the obsidian claws, and the creature moved with a hunger that was impossible to understand. His stomach churned, and horror replaced relief as his supposed savior consumed what moments ago had threatened his life.
Time stretched in a grisly silence broken only by the echo of wet tearing. The Sabyr was gone nothing remained but scorched earth and glowing streaks of blood. Finally, the figure stood, massive and terrifying, claws dripping, its obsidian form catching the dying firelight.
The man's mouth went dry. He tried to stay silent, hoping to disappear into the shadows.
It turned.
Faster than his eyes could follow, faster than anything natural. Its head snapped toward him at breakneck speed, and he saw for the first time the mouth sharp rows of fangs glinting with the last traces of molten blood.
He tried to speak, to plead but nothing came out.
Then, before he could react, the figure vanished and immediately reappeared directly in front of him. The sudden presence made him topple backward onto his butt, heart hammering, eyes wide in terror.
The man scrambled backward, hands digging into the dirt, heart hammering in his chest. The figure loomed over him, an impossible shadow against the smoldering remains of the Sabyr.
Then a voice.
Raspy, guttural, like gravel sliding across steel. It came from the obsidian being itself.
"Where… am I?"
The man sat frozen, every muscle locked, unable to tear his gaze away from the being's glowing purple eyes. They burned into him, unblinking, alien… alive. He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe properly.
The obsidian figure lifted a hand. Slowly. Deliberately.
Panic surged through him. It's going to kill me.
He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving, and let out a terrified cry.
"You… you're in the Ashveil Forest!" he shouted, the words trembling through his fear.
He braced for the strike, for the tearing claws, for the agony
But it never came.
Instead, a voice drifted over him. Still raspy, but smoother now, carrying something that almost resembled control.
"What… is the closest city?"
The man's breath hitched. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open, his whole body trembling. Those purple eyes still glowed down at him, patient, waiting.
"I–I…" He swallowed hard, words catching in his throat. "Th-the city of Grayden… it's the closest. Just east of here."
"Take me there," the figure said, voice smoother now, less broken stone and more like a low command.
The man sat stunned, still caught in those glowing purple eyes. For a moment, it was as if nothing else existed just him and the presence before him, heavy as a mountain.
Then his gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, to the figure's mouth.
The fangs were gone.
In their place was a smile if it could be called that. Perfect, white teeth gleamed in the dim light, too flawless, too many. For a moment he swore he counted forty, each one too straight, too uniform, too unnatural to belong to anything human.
His breath hitched, the sight leaving him dazed, almost hypnotized.
Then his survival instincts screamed, breaking through the haze. This was the thing that had torn apart a Pyre Sabyr like paper if it wanted him dead, he'd already be a corpse.
He scrambled to his feet, legs unsteady but moving, not daring to test the patience of this… man—no, this being.
"R-right," he stammered, forcing a nod. "Grayden's east. I'll… I'll take you there."