The violence in Ashborne's streets was reaching a crescendo when reality tore open.
Not subtly, not gradually, but with the sound of breaking glass magnified a thousand times, as if the very fabric of existence had been shattered by a blow from something impossibly powerful. The fighting factions froze mid-conflict, weapons raised, staring at the rift that had appeared in the center of the settlement.
Through the tear in reality stepped a figure that made Selena's blood run cold.
A child. Or something that wore the shape of a child. He appeared perhaps twelve years old, with pale skin that had an odd translucence to it, as if light passed through him rather than reflecting off his surface. His eyes were too old for his face—ancient, knowing, carrying the weight of eons despite his youthful appearance. And his bones—Selena could see them through his translucent flesh, could see that they weren't quite right, weren't quite natural.
