Ashes of Doubt
The morning after the tremor dawned gray and heavy, as though the sky itself carried a wound. The fracture above the world had widened again. Thin crimson veins streaked the clouds, faint but impossible to ignore—like a scar across the heavens.
The villagers gathered in the square, restless and afraid. Some whispered, some prayed, some simply stared upward with hollow eyes.
Ryven kept to the edge of the crowd, his staff grounded in the dirt. His ribs ached from training, his palms raw and blistered. But the true weight came from the way their eyes slid toward him—sharp, suspicious, uneasy. The shard pulsed faintly in his pocket, its rhythm like a second heartbeat. He wondered if they could hear it too.
The elder raised his hands for silence. His voice carried across the crowd, worn with age yet still steady.
"The tremor we felt last night was no accident. It was the rift calling. And when the rift stirs…" His gaze lifted to the crimson scar above. "Creatures follow."
The villagers' voices broke into fearful chatter.
"Another beast will come?"
"Are the Guardians returning?"
"We can't survive another attack…"
And then a sharper voice cut through them all.
"It happened when that boy was training."
Darrek, the farmer, stepped forward, face twisted with anger sharpened by fear. He pointed at Ryven as though casting a curse. "Every time he swings that cursed staff, the rift burns brighter. Every time he breathes, it pulls them closer. He's the reason they come!"
The villagers' murmurs swelled like a storm. Mothers pulled children close, men nodded grimly. Fear fed on fear, and soon their whispers turned into open condemnation.
Joren, the small boy, tugged at his mother's sleeve. His voice trembled, but he spoke anyway. "He saved us from the bug monster. Don't forget that."
The boy's mother hushed him quickly, pulling him back as though Ryven might burn him by touch alone.
Ryven's throat tightened. He wanted to defend himself, but his voice failed him. The shard pulsed hot in his chest, mocking his silence.
Nova stepped forward, eyes flashing like steel. "If you're so desperate to blame someone, blame the Riftborn. Ryven's the only one here fighting them. The rest of you hide behind walls and words."
Her defiance cut through the noise, but Darrek spat back instantly. "He's cursed. And curses spread. The longer he stays, the more he'll doom us."
The elder's sharp voice silenced them again. His eyes fixed on Ryven, steady but heavy. "Whatever power you hold, boy, it will shape your future and ours. Learn to master it, or it will master you."
The weight of those words sank deep into Ryven's chest. For the first time, he wondered if Darrek was right.
---
The First Shadows
That night, the village was restless. Torches burned along the walls, their flames flickering nervously against the vast black of the forest.
Ryven sat outside his home, staff resting across his knees. He hadn't slept. His mind circled endlessly: the villagers' fear, Darrek's hatred, the elder's warning. And beneath it all, the shard's pulse—slow, steady, insistent.
Nova approached, settling beside him in the dirt. "You're brooding again."
He kept his gaze on the sky. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm drawing them here. The shard… it doesn't just burn inside me. It calls. What if I'm the reason for all this?"
Her hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Listen. The Riftborn were coming anyway. At least now we have a chance. Don't you dare put this on yourself."
He almost believed her. Almost.
Then—a sound. Soft at first, like a branch snapping. The torches along the wall flickered, one after another, as though something moved just beyond their reach.
The night stilled.
Ryven rose to his feet, staff in hand. "It's here."
From the treeline, the Riftborn emerged. Smaller than the insectoid, but more terrifying for it. Its body was sleek and half-formed, its edges blurred as though it slipped between worlds. Crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
The guards loosed arrows, but the creature melted into shadow, reappearing in the square a breath later. Villagers screamed, scattering.
Ryven lunged, fire sparking along his staff. He swung—
The creature vanished.
"Behind you!" Nova's voice snapped.
He spun, barely deflecting claws that screeched against his weapon. Sparks burst, and the shard's fire surged wildly through him, begging for release.
Again, the creature vanished. It reappeared near the elder, only for Nova to slash across its chest. Black ichor sprayed, sizzling where it touched the dirt—but the wound sealed almost instantly.
The thing laughed, a guttural sound that wasn't quite human.
Ryven's fire lashed wildly, too wide, too hot. The Riftborn slipped through it like smoke, reappearing at his flank, claws raking across his shoulder. He bit back a cry, swinging again with desperation.
But it wasn't trying to kill him. Not yet. It was testing him. Watching him.
At last, as the elder's torchlight flared, the creature retreated, dissolving into the night.
Silence fell over the square, broken only by the panicked breaths of villagers. Then Darrek's voice rose like poison.
"You saw it! It came for him! It fought only him! He's the reason it's here!"
This time, no one stopped him. The villagers' fear had found its target.
"Banish him!"
"Send him away before it kills us all!"
"He's cursed!"
Their cries carried like flames, and Ryven felt the shard burn hotter with every word.
---
A Village Divided
The mob pressed closer, their anger feeding on their fear. Ryven stood frozen, staff lowered, crimson glow flickering faintly along his arms. Their gasps turned to screams.
Nova stepped between him and the villagers, blades raised high. "Touch him, and you answer to me."
The elder tried to shout over the chaos, but his words drowned beneath the tide. Darrek's cries echoed: "Drive him out before he destroys us all!"
And then a small figure broke free of the crowd. Joren.
The boy stood in front of Nova, trembling but firm. "Stop! He saved us! He's not cursed!"
The mob faltered, just for a moment. His mother grabbed him back, sobbing, and the moment passed.
Ryven's chest twisted. He wanted to promise he wasn't a danger, but the shard pulsed violently, crimson light crawling across his veins. The sight of it only deepened their fear.
He had no words left.
Nova's voice cut the air. "If you cast him out, you doom yourselves. Without him, the Riftborn will kill you all before dawn."
The elder's roar finally silenced them. "Enough!" He turned to Ryven, his voice heavy as stone. "Boy. If you leave, the Riftborn will still hunt us. If you stay, you may bring greater danger. You must decide. What path will you take?"
The words pierced him. His fists clenched, his breath ragged. He saw Joren's fearful but trusting eyes. He saw Nova's unflinching defiance. He saw the rest—the suspicion, the hate, the fear.
"Maybe…" His voice cracked. "Maybe I should go. Before I hurt you all."
The words tasted like ash.
Nova spun on him, fury blazing. "Don't you dare."
He met her eyes, guilt flooding him. "You saw what happened. I couldn't control it. They're right—I might bring worse than that thing down on us."
Her hand struck his cheek, sharp and stinging. "Coward." Her voice shook with rage. "You think running will save them? The rift doesn't care where you hide. The only choice you have is whether you stand and fight—or let it consume you."
Her words hit harder than her blow.
The elder's eyes lingered on him, weighing him. "So. Choose."
---
Shadows and Betrayal
That night, Ryven sat on the village edge, staring at the scarred sky. Nova's words burned in his chest, heavier than any wound.
Coward. Stand and fight.
The shard pulsed, not violently this time, but steadily, like it was waiting for his answer.
Footsteps approached. Nova sat beside him. For a long while, she said nothing. The night wind rustled the trees, carrying the faint smell of pine and smoke.
Finally, her voice broke the quiet—softer than before. "I hit you because I was scared. Not of you. For you. You think you're cursed, but I see you fighting every second just to hold the fire back. That's not a curse. That's strength."
He looked at her, startled.
She smirked faintly. "Besides, if you do burn down the village, I'll just stab you myself. Problem solved."
Despite everything, Ryven laughed. The sound was shaky, but real.
Before he could answer, a horn blared across the night. Urgent. Villagers screamed, rushing to the walls.
Ryven and Nova ran with them. From the treeline, shadows poured—Riftborn, dozens this time, crimson-eyed and hissing. The torches barely held them at bay.
Ryven gripped his staff. The shard surged, answering the threat. This time, he didn't resist. He shaped it. Fire coiled along his weapon, steady and sharp.
"Stay close," he told Nova.
She smirked, blades gleaming. "I was about to say the same thing."
The battle erupted—fire and steel clashing with shadow. Ryven moved with control he'd never felt before, each strike sharp, each surge focused. The shard pulsed with him, not against him.
For the first time, he felt not cursed—but chosen.
But the Riftborn were endless. For every one cut down, another slipped from the rift's edge. Nova's breath grew ragged, her strikes slower. Blood smeared her arm where claws had grazed her. Ryven's ribs screamed with each movement, his fire scorching his veins.
The villagers could only watch, praying from behind the walls.
At last, the largest of the Riftborn emerged from the dark—a towering beast, its form jagged and shifting like stone and shadow fused. Its eyes locked on Ryven as though it had been waiting for him.
The shard within him answered, burning hotter than ever.
Ryven's knees trembled. Nova tightened her grip.
And as the monster advanced, Ryven understood: this fight would decide more than just the village's survival. It would decide whether he was truly cursed—or truly chosen.
The sky bled red. The Riftborn roared. And Ryven raised his staff one more time.