The Weight of Power
The morning mist still clung to the earth when the first villagers stumbled upon the body.
The Riftborn corpse lay sprawled in the clearing like some grotesque monument, its insectoid frame charred and cracked from the inside. Faint smoke still hissed from the rents in its armor-like shell, the stench of scorched chitin heavy in the damp air. Even in death, it was monstrous—its jagged mandibles frozen in a half-snarl, its many black eyes reflecting dull shards of dawn light.
By the time Ryven arrived, leaning heavily on his staff, nearly the whole village had gathered. Farmers with dirt still clinging to their hands. Hunters with their bows slung over their backs. Children peeking from behind their mothers' skirts. Their voices wove together in a thick knot of fear and awe.
"By the stars, look at its size…"
"It's… it's bigger than any beast I've hunted."
"Don't get too close! Who knows if it's really dead?"
"Smells like death and fire. What killed it?"
Ryven stayed a little apart from the crowd, his chest still sore where the creature's claw had slammed into him. Every breath reminded him of the battle, the terror, the desperate surge of power that hadn't felt like his own. Beneath his tunic, faint warmth pulsed from the shard tucked against his skin—a reminder that it hadn't left him.
The villagers' eyes followed him even when they pretended not to. Some were curious. Some cautious. A few outright suspicious. Ryven tightened his grip on his staff but said nothing.
A small voice broke through the murmurs.
"Did you really fight it?"
Ryven blinked, lowering his gaze. Standing near his feet was Liora, the baker's son. A boy of maybe eight, with tousled brown hair and flour still smudged across his cheek as if he'd run straight from the ovens. His wide eyes shimmered, not with fear, but with something dangerously close to admiration.
"Liora!" his mother hissed, yanking him back by the arm. She clutched him close, casting Ryven a wary glance as though he were as dangerous as the corpse. "Don't talk to him. Don't even look."
The rejection stung sharper than any wound.
Before Ryven could respond, the crowd shifted, parting for the slow, deliberate steps of the village elder. Old Garrek leaned on his cane, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's, cutting straight to the corpse. He bent low, running a gnarled hand across the cracked carapace.
"This…" His voice was grave, carrying easily over the hush of the crowd. "This was no accident."
The villagers pressed closer, anxious murmurs bubbling up.
Garrek tapped the corpse with his cane, the hollow shell echoing dully. "Riftborn do not appear here without cause. For one to cross into our lands means the fracture above us is growing wider."
Gasps rippled through the villagers. Someone muttered, "The sky crack…" Another clutched his head. "If another comes—"
"We barely survived this one!" a woman cried, her voice breaking. "If not for the Guardians, we would all be ash!"
The word Guardians ignited more noise. Hopeful voices pleading for their return. Fearful ones doubting they'd come at all. Panic threatened to swallow the clearing.
"Silence!" Garrek's voice boomed, silencing them with authority that even age hadn't dulled. "Fortify the homes. Hunt no farther than the riverside. Post lookouts day and night. We will endure until the Guardians return."
The crowd muttered, uneasy but obedient.
Then Garrek's gaze shifted. It landed squarely on Ryven.
"And you…"
The whispers immediately died down, like dry grass in the path of flame. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, heavy, questioning, suspicious. Ryven's throat tightened.
Garrek's voice cut through the mist. "Tell us, boy. What did you do to fell this creature?"
The words struck like a blow.
Ryven hesitated, his mind flashing back—the desperate swing of his staff, the heat searing his arms, the way the shard had flared and turned his veins into rivers of fire. He forced down the memory and swallowed.
"I… I just fought," he said, voice unsteady. "Like anyone else would."
It sounded weak even to his own ears.
A murmur stirred the crowd. Disbelief. Unease.
Nova stepped forward before the tide could turn. Her arms crossed, her eyes hard as steel. "He stood his ground when no one else did. That thing would've slaughtered us if Ryven hadn't fought back."
But her words rolled off the villagers like rain on stone. Their gazes lingered on Ryven—on the faint scorch marks across his sleeves, the strange way his skin seemed to glow faintly under the morning light.
One farmer spat into the dirt. "No normal boy fights with fire in his veins."
Another muttered darkly, "Maybe he brought it here. Maybe that thing inside him called the beast."
Mothers clutched their children tighter. Even little Liora, eyes wide with confusion, was pulled farther away, his mother glaring at Ryven as though he were diseased.
The shard pulsed hot against his skin.
Ryven's chest clenched. He wanted to shout, to deny it, but the warmth spreading through his veins felt like a cruel answer. What if they were right? What if the shard hadn't saved them… but doomed them?
Garrek's eyes softened slightly, but his tone carried the weight of stone. "Whatever power you hold, Ryven, learn to master it. Or it will master you."
The mist thickened around them, silent and heavy.
---
Burning From Within
The crowd did not disperse quickly. Even after Elder Garrek's words, the villagers lingered in the clearing, circling the corpse like moths around a flame. Whispers flitted like insects, each sting pricking at Ryven's ears.
"Something's wrong with him…"
"No ordinary boy glows like that."
"If he draws the Riftborn here, we'll all burn with him."
Ryven's grip on his staff tightened until his knuckles blanched. His mouth worked, but no words came. How could he defend himself when even he wasn't sure of the truth? The shard pulsed again in his chest, as if mocking him.
Nova moved closer, planting herself at his side. Her expression was sharp, daring anyone to step too near. She spoke louder this time, her voice cutting clean through the muttering.
"You all saw it. Ryven fought when the rest of you froze. He bled for this village."
A ripple of silence spread for a moment, but it didn't last. One of the hunters stepped forward—a broad-shouldered man with a scarred cheek. His name was Darrek, known for his skill with a bow and his temper that ran as quick as dry brush in summer.
"Bled, aye," Darrek spat, his lip curling. "But beasts don't just wander in from the fracture. They're drawn. And what do we have now? A boy who burns with fire that isn't his own." His gaze drilled into Ryven, cold and accusing. "What if he's a beacon? What if his curse brings more of them down on us?"
A few villagers murmured in agreement. Someone clutched their child closer. Another made a warding sign with their hands.
Ryven's stomach twisted. Beacon. Curse. The words carved into him deeper than claws ever could.
"I'm not—" he started, but his voice faltered. He swallowed, trying again, stronger this time. "I'm not a curse. I only—"
But Darrek cut him off with a bark of bitter laughter. "Then prove it. Next time one of these monsters comes, don't just survive—save us all. Or admit you're the reason it's here."
The villagers' eyes weighed heavily on him, pressing down like iron chains.
Before Ryven could answer, Nova stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of one of her blades. Her voice was sharp as a blade's edge.
"You talk a lot for someone who was hiding behind a cart when the beast tore through the square."
Darrek's face darkened, and for a moment Ryven thought he might lunge at her. But the elder's cane struck the earth with a loud crack, silencing them all.
"Enough," Garrek said, his voice carrying the authority of age and experience. "Fear makes fools of us all. Darrek, put your anger where it belongs—toward the Rift, not the boy. And you, Nova, sharpen your tongue elsewhere. It cuts no monsters."
Nova huffed but stepped back, still glaring daggers at Darrek.
Garrek turned his gaze once more to Ryven. His eyes, though stern, were not unkind. "The power inside you is no small thing. It may be gift, it may be curse. That choice rests in how you wield it."
Ryven dropped his gaze, shame and determination warring in his chest. His hand drifted unconsciously to his pocket, feeling the shard's faint, living thrum.
The elder continued, his tone heavy. "If you let fear guide you, it will consume you. If you let anger lead, it will devour all around you. Learn control, boy. Learn discipline. Or the day will come when even Nova cannot stand at your side."
The words struck harder than Darrek's accusation. Ryven felt his chest tighten until breathing hurt.
"I'll… I'll master it," he forced out, though his voice shook. "I swear it."
Some villagers turned away, unconvinced. Others lingered, whispering still. But the weight of the elder's decree left no room for argument. Slowly, the crowd began to drift, mothers tugging children back home, hunters shouldering bows, farmers murmuring grim prayers.
Yet not everyone left quietly. As Ryven turned, he caught sight of little Liora again. The boy lingered at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden behind his mother's skirt. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, there was no fear in the boy's gaze—only awe.
But then his mother tugged him away, snapping the thread of connection. Ryven's chest hollowed.
---
The village returned to its routines in fragments. Fires were relit in hearths, barricades were reinforced, and lookouts stationed at the edge of the fields. But the air was heavy with tension, and every glance cast toward Ryven carried an unspoken weight.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, Ryven found himself walking the outskirts of the village alone. His ribs still ached with every step, and his arms throbbed where faint ember-like veins glowed beneath his skin. He pulled his tunic tighter, as if to hide it from the world.
Nova trailed behind him, unbothered by the stares of villagers they passed. At one point, when Ryven slowed, she kicked his heel lightly.
"Don't let them get to you," she muttered. "They're scared. Scared people say stupid things."
Ryven stopped, gripping his staff so hard it hurt. His voice came out hoarse. "What if they're right? What if the shard really did draw that thing here?"
Nova blinked, surprised at the raw edge in his tone.
He turned to her, eyes dark. "I could feel it, Nova. When the beast attacked… the shard wanted it. It called to it. And now it won't stop burning inside me. What if I can't control it?"
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the distant clatter of tools as villagers repaired fences. Then Nova stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest, right above the shard's pulse.
"Then you fight it," she said firmly. "You fight it until it bends to you. Until it learns who's in charge. You're Ryven. The boy who swore he'd be the strongest Guardian one day. You don't get to break your promise just because some villagers muttered at you."
Her eyes burned with conviction, fierce enough to make him look away.
He let out a shaky laugh. "You make it sound so easy."
"It isn't," she admitted, folding her arms. "But that's why I'll be here. To make sure you don't give up."
Ryven stared at her, words caught in his throat. The ember-pulse in his chest eased, just a little. Enough to breathe again.
"The Weight of Power"
---
That night, when Ryven finally returned to his small home, he found himself standing by the window, staring at the faint crack in the night sky. It pulsed faintly, a wound in the stars. The shard in his pocket pulsed back, in rhythm.
He clenched his fist. "I'll master it," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "No matter what it takes."
But the shard's glow only seemed to thrum in reply, like a heartbeat laughing at his resolve.