The village was quiet.
Not silent, not hollow like before—but quiet in the way things get after something awful has been healed. Stone by stone, laughter had begun to replace memory. The square had fresh planks where flame once raged. Children chased each other in the grass where ashes had settled. And at night, the fire didn't flicker with fear anymore.
Torian stood on the rise just beyond the well, the same spot where he'd first looked down at the ruins after returning from war, from fire, from gods.
Now, it was becoming something new.
Something worth protecting.
Behind him, Skarn let out a low huff—half-patience, half-pressure.
Torian glanced back. The beast already had his wings half-spread, muscles twitching with restless energy. He wanted to fly.
So did Torian.
"Alright," he said. "Let's hunt."
⸻
They took off at dawn, just as the trees began to glow gold.
Skarn's massive frame lifted clean from the earth with a single beat of his wings, launching them into the air with enough force to scatter birds from the treetops. Torian rode him bare, no saddle, no armor—just wind against his face and the smell of the forest lifting off the trees.
They soared eastward, high over the cliffs, then veered south toward the river basin.
It felt like freedom.
Not the kind you earned in war—the kind you forget you need until you taste it again.
Torian leaned low as Skarn banked hard left, spiraling over a sharp ridge. The beast grunted with effort, but he was smiling inside. Torian could feel it.
He hadn't felt this light in years.
⸻
They chased shadows for hours, dipping low into the trees, then rising again in long silent glides. Skarn snapped a branch off an old pine just for the satisfaction of crushing it in his jaws. Torian laughed, fire sparking faintly across his chest with each breath.
It was perfect.
Until it wasn't.
⸻
It started with a flicker—just above the treeline.
Torian saw it first. A shimmer in the sky, like a ripple in water reflecting something that shouldn't exist. Skarn slowed immediately, wings shifting.
Then the ripple split.
A line tore open above them—sideways.
Color drained from the air around it. Blue light bled out like a wound. And from that line, something stepped through.
It didn't fly.
It didn't fall.
It folded forward, as though space was peeling itself open to let it pass.
⸻
Torian's breath caught in his throat.
The creature was tall but without edges—its limbs trailing off like smoke, its body woven from black mist and jagged veins of pale crystal. Where its face should have been was only a sphere—dark, spinning slowly, like an eclipse that never ended.
No wings.
No flame.
No sound.
Skarn pulled hard, trying to veer away, but the air around them had thickened—bent—as if gravity itself had been rewritten.
Torian ignited instinctively. Flame burst across his arms, spiral lighting up his skin in a radiant pulse.
He flung a column of fire at the thing—
—but it didn't connect.
The fire bent.
Curved.
It missed.
No—it was redirected, as if the creature wasn't in the same space.
Skarn growled and dove. The thing moved without moving—its body seeming to slide sideways in a blink.
Then it reached out one long, jointless limb.
And reality broke.
⸻
A second tear opened beside them, this one wider—hungry.
It didn't flash.
It pulled.
Torian felt his flame recoil.
"Skarn!" he shouted, but the roar was already there—not in the air, but in his mind—a low, ancient pressure shoving against his thoughts.
Skarn dove, but it was too late.
The rift swallowed them.
⸻
They fell.
Not down.
Not through.
Between.
⸻
They weren't flying anymore.
They weren't even falling.
They were drifting through fragments of existence—broken worlds spinning like glass shards in a storm. Everything was colorless. Then too bright. Then gone.
Torian reached for Skarn—he was there, but farther than he should be.
They passed through flashes:
• A floating city carved from bones, orbiting a frozen star.
• A forest where lightning arced through trees like blood vessels.
• A sky filled with spirals—not just fire, but water, light, stone.
Each glimpse vanished before it could be understood.
Torian's spiral pulsed wildly.
It wasn't stabilizing him.
It was reacting.
To something bigger.
⸻
Then, in a single pull—they were yanked forward.
Faster than breath.
Faster than thought.
And the stars curved.
A world loomed below them.
Massive.
Alive.
⸻
It filled their vision: a planet so large it eclipsed the surrounding void. Its skies were alive with colored clouds and floating landmasses that drifted like islands caught in slow tidal pulls. Rivers of light moved through its canyons like veins.
Its atmosphere sparkled—not from sunlight, but from magic.
This world didn't just breathe.
It watched.
And they were falling into it.
⸻
Torian felt the pressure first.
His spiral twisted.
Skarn's wings flared, struggling to stabilize. They weren't falling clean—they were being dragged.
The air wasn't just thick—it was charged.
Their skin cracked with lightning.
Torian screamed—but the wind tore it from his mouth.
Skarn curled around him mid-fall, trying to shield him.
Flames burst along Torian's arms, trying to brace their impact.
But it wasn't enough.
⸻
They hit the upper canopy of an alien jungle at terminal speed.
Trees snapped.
Stone shattered.
Their descent tore through towers of vine-wrapped ruins, through glowing moss fields and burning branches. Fire streaked the jungle. Skarn slammed through the final layer of overgrowth and hit hard, his body twisting to keep Torian beneath him.
They smashed through a wall of ancient stone—
—and vanished into shadow.
⸻
When the dust settled, they were broken, but alive.
Torian blinked.
Everything hurt.
His ears rang.
His spiral glowed faintly beneath torn cloth.
Skarn lay beside him—bloody, bruised, breathing.
Still breathing.
They had survived.
Smoke drifted from Skarn's back in lazy coils.
Torian coughed once—sharp, wet—and dragged himself onto his elbows, face down in broken moss and shattered stone. His left shoulder ached from the impact. The spiral on his chest was dim but alive, pulsing faintly in sync with his breath.
Skarn groaned beside him.
Alive.
Torian reached out, fingers trembling, and laid a hand on the beast's chest. He felt it rise. Fall. Rise again.
"Skarn," he croaked.
The beast grunted, one eye opening. He looked half-dead—fur scorched, wings shredded, but breathing. Always breathing.
Torian leaned back against a chunk of stone and took in his surroundings.
They were inside what remained of a temple—or something like one. Vines hung from the shattered ceiling. Pillars once carved by careful hands now slumped under centuries of rot and magical erosion. The jungle had begun reclaiming this place a long time ago, but the stone still held power—glowing veins of purple and gold pulsed along the floor like forgotten lifeblood.
This place was waiting.
⸻
Minutes passed before either of them moved again.
Eventually, Torian forced himself to his feet. He winced as he stood, every muscle protesting. He staggered toward a wide crack in the far wall, where the outer jungle spilled through like a patient flood.
Outside, the sky was impossible.
There were three suns—one dim and red, barely visible behind a thick curtain of clouds; one yellow and sharp, casting their long shadows; and one greenish-blue, low on the horizon, glowing softly like an ember in its final breath.
Floating islands drifted lazily above the treetops, each as large as a village—some covered in trees, others in structures built from spiral-shaped towers. Lightning coiled across the sky without thunder. The jungle itself seemed to breathe.
Torian let out a long, quiet breath.
They weren't just in another world.
They were somewhere the flame had never prepared him for.
⸻
Skarn limped up behind him.
The beast looked rough—his wings hung low, one leg dragging—but he nudged Torian's arm with a grunt, ever defiant.
"We're alive," Torian said, voice low.
Skarn growled. Barely.
They moved carefully out into the open air. The jungle swallowed them instantly—not with darkness, but with density. The air was thick with warmth and light, like every breath contained fragments of magic. The ground was soft, pulsing. Almost alive.
Birds didn't chirp.
There were no animals watching.
But something was.
⸻
They pushed through massive fronds and vine-draped stone until they reached a wide clearing—an ancient circle surrounded by tall slabs of stone, each marked with deep spiral carvings.
Torian paused.
The carvings weren't like his spiral.
They were familiar, yes—but each slab depicted a different element tied to the spiral's shape.
He counted four total:
1. One wreathed in fire—cracked, faded, broken.
2. One etched with what looked like silver liquid, flowing upward instead of down.
3. One surrounded by jagged lines of light, as if lightning had scarred the stone itself.
4. One warped by gravity itself—the carving slightly sunken into the stone, as if pulled inward.
Torian stepped closer.
His spiral pulsed.
The fire sigil didn't respond. It was dim, decayed.
The others—alive.
Burning silently.
Skarn stood behind him, tail twitching.
Torian swallowed.
"There are others."
He didn't know what that meant.
Not yet.
⸻
They moved on, searching for food, shelter, anything.
Skarn stopped occasionally to sniff at the wind, but even he seemed off-balance—his senses dulled, confused by the overwhelming magic in the air.
Eventually, they found a half-buried structure—round and sunken into the ground, overtaken by roots but still intact. Torian pulled back thick curtains of moss and stepped inside.
Dark.
Cool.
Safe.
They could rest.
Skarn collapsed beside the far wall with a heavy grunt. Torian leaned against a pillar and finally sat down, letting the weight of everything catch up.
The stars were different.
The spiral felt wrong.
And yet, they were alive.
And they weren't done.
⸻
As Torian stared up through the broken ceiling, watching strange birds drift between alien branches and starlight dance across hanging moss, he whispered to no one:
"We're going to get home."
Skarn didn't reply, but he let out a quiet breath and curled beside him.
And somewhere deep beneath the soil, far under the ruins, a pulse echoed once—soft and old.
Like a heartbeat.
Waiting.