A Dimensional Rift is a rare phenomenon that occurs when tears emerge in the fabric of space, manifesting under very specific conditions.
While its appearance in controlled domains is virtually nonexistent, in natural or border zones, where reality's fabric is already under extreme strain, its presence becomes disturbingly plausible.
These anomalies typically arise from two main triggers:
The first, more volatile, occurs when two or more Spatial Laws enter into direct conflict, causing a distortion in the space-time continuum, which may result in the sudden opening of a rift.
The second, more gradual but no less dangerous, emerges when high concentrations of Vis, the primordial energy that responds to the Laws, accumulate beyond tolerable thresholds. This buildup can be spontaneous or induced, often as a byproduct of prolonged wars, environmental catastrophes, the collapse of magical or technological infrastructure, or the degradation of zones where civilization has lost control.
Such environments become epicenters of cosmic tension. Vis, when left unregulated or improperly neutralized, acts as a catalyst, rendering space unstable and prone to rupture. Lesser Laws bend; greater ones fracture. And when collapse occurs, what forms is a bridge between the comprehensible… and the unfathomable.
These places vary widely in form and nature:
Degraded Urban Zones, like the Grayfloors of Illíade, where constant pollution, almost ritualistic bloodshed, prolonged exposure to corrosive compounds, and socio-structural chaos elevate Vis levels to critical thresholds. There, reality is a veil stretched to its limits. Space flickers. Time stumbles. And the improbable slinks in like a living presence.
The Lost Lands: forests, deserts, oceans, and any unnamed territories where nature no longer acknowledges human sovereignty, often conceal points of instability. In these wild places, Vis is abundant, as are the dangers it brings.
Ruins of the Old World: ancient laboratories, cities, temples, or forgotten war zones where experiments with the Laws were once conducted without oversight. These sites, are open scars in reality, places where the past still pulses, and where time refuses to flow in just one direction.
Even in regions considered "civilized", territories under human dominion and, in theory, protected by stabilizing barriers, containment protocols, and constant monitoring, there persist zones where reality falters.
Some have been forgotten over time. While others… deliberately hidden to prevent public panic.
Ezra had just passed through one such degraded zone. And whether by cruel or fortunate twist of fate, he had fallen into one of these dimensional rifts.
It was like walking through an invisible wall. A sudden chill crept down his spine. The hair on his arms stood up without warning. His skin prickled, and his stomach turned inward, as if something was tugging from within, twisting his body in directions the eyes couldn't follow. The world didn't break, but it folded around him, like crumpled paper in invisible hands.
A dense nausea rose in his throat, his body screaming against what his mind couldn't yet grasp.
Then came the fall. Not abrupt, like a drop, But slow, silent… perverse. Gravity itself seemed to flicker in erratic pulses: pulling him gently, treacherously… then leaving him weightless in the void, like a forgotten marionette.
There was no ground. No sky. Only absence. Total disorientation, where direction was a relative concept, and the sound of his own heartbeat became the only tangible anchor.
Disjointed images flickered at the edge of his vision: distorted symbols, fragments of memory not his own, echoes of voices whispering words never meant to be heard.
When the fall finally ended, Ezra couldn't tell whether he'd landed on the ground… or if the ground had risen to meet him.
The only certainty was the prickling sensation beneath him, as if he lay on something uneven, tense, and malformed. There was no warmth. No softness. Only dry rigidity, with angles pressing up beneath his spine.
It wasn't stone. Nor soil. But something between the shattered and the straight, something that might once have stood tall… and now lay bent, waiting to be noticed.
"I don't know whether to be grateful… or furious," Ezra whispered hoarsely.
The air was thick, unnaturally so, as if he were breathing through the nostrils of another creature. "But one thing's certain: crossing a dimensional rift remains firmly at the top of my never again list."
"And yet," Mazzareth's voice rasped behind him, distant and dry, "this rift saved you… one way or another."
"I Agr—"
Krrrrchh…
Ezra froze. Something interrupted him.
It began softly, not cries, something more like cracks. Like the rough hiss of something brittle being forced to move. Like old bones tightening from within.
Then came the moans. Long. Wet. Guttural.
He opened his eyes fully. And only then did he realize, they weren't alone. The sound wasn't from a predator. Nor an enemy lurking nearby.
The sound came… from the trees.
They were watching him.
And from the rising tension in their creaking voices, they weren't pleased.
✦ ✦ ✦
Back to the Present
Ezra was surrounded on all sides.
In front of him, the trees groaned, a twisted lament, the sound of living wood forced beyond its limits.
Some began to form what resembled faces: split mouths, like crudely carved jack-o'-lanterns; pointed eyes glowing faintly in the grain of their bark.
Others twisted into even more grotesque shapes, as if writhing in agony to remember what they once were.
Then… the ground trembled.
It started softly. A deep trembling that rose through the soles of his feet like a rooted shiver. But it intensified, fast. As if something colossal were approaching from beneath the earth.
And it was.
The trees ahead began to close in, slowly but with predatory precision. Trunks leaned inward, canopies intertwined like the fingers of a vast, dark hand. An arch of shadows and leaves formed ahead, cutting off any chance of escape.
Then came the legs. Or something like them.
Roots burst from the soil, cracking and twisting at strange angles. They flexed like spider limbs, searching for leverage, then stabbed back into the damp ground.
Then, a new sound. Sharp. Dry. Guttural. It didn't come from the earth, or from the trees. It came from above.
Ezra looked up.
Something was watching him, though he couldn't see or sense what it was, not in the state he was in. So he ignored it. Whatever it was could wait. First, he had to survive what stood before him.
He panted. Sweat streamed down his face, colder than the air around him. He turned, Nothing.
To the sides. The same.
The path narrowed like the throat of a wooden beast, lined with moss and climbing vines, vegetal serpents weaving together, spiraling slowly through the branches.
"Damn it… why did I have to land right on a newborn ent?"
But before he could curse his luck, the wind changed.
A chill gripped the back of his neck, and then, Mazzareth's voice roared:
"Down!"
Swoosh.
Ezra dropped instinctively, knees scraping against wet soil.
A trunk, or something like one, swept overhead with a sharp, high-pitched crack, like a whip made of living wood.
Had he hesitated for a second, his chest would've been split in two.
The beast had caught up to him. And it wasn't alone.
The trees, until now menacing in their approach, attacked.
Vines shot forward like living spears. Trunks twisted. Razor-sharp branches slashed the air like primal blades.
Ezra could barely breathe. But with every strike, every missed blow, he noticed something:
They avoided hurting each other.
Even in chaos, there were limits. An instinctual programming, perhaps. Restrictions rooted in a vegetal code carved from centuries of collective survival.
And that… was something Ezra could use.
He dove to the side, dodging a branch that came down like an axe. A piercing vine stabbed from above, he rolled, thorns grazing his shoulder like living splinters. He seized the moment of hesitation from a nearby tree, spun his body, and slipped between a tangle of roots, through a living gap.
This was a game of reflexes and pattern recognition. And of turning the forest against itself.
Each strike revealed a rhythm. A delay. A movement constraint.
Ezra exploited it all with surgical precision: When a vine lashed out, he pulled back, letting it whistle past his face and tangle itself in a neighboring branch. When a trunk spun in a wide arc, he ducked,
using its momentum to slide between two narrow stalks.
The forest wanted him dead. But it followed rules, twisted, yes, but real.
"If I were you, I wouldn't underestimate them… especially the big one." Mazzareth's voice rasped in his mind, distorted by the space around them.
But Ezra didn't answer. His focus was absolute. His eyes swept every form. His mind calculated angles, openings, and reaction times. Every failed attempt to trap him, was translated into opportunity.
He danced through the assault like a blade between blades. He leapt, pushing off an exposed root,
vaulted from the curved trunk of a fallen tree, dodged two crossing vines mid-air, rolled upon landing, his body soaking the soft soil.
'Now.'
The opening had revealed itself. The trees… hesitated. Or aligned. The moment was his.
Ezra ran.Branches lunged to close in front of him, but he twisted his body, sliding beneath an arch of tangled roots, his shoulder scraping against jagged bark. He pushed forward, faster now, almost reaching a clearing where the sky broke through like a gasp of air.
He was only meters away.A few steps.
And that's when he felt the tremors again. Deep. Rhythmic. Closer.
"That damn thing was toying with me…"