The bolt rattled again.
Kael's breath caught. His back pressed harder against the far wall, knees weak, one hand clutching the shard so tightly its edges cut his palm.
Three slow raps. Not hurried. Not frantic. Patient.
The sound didn't belong here. Nobody came to his door. Nobody even noticed him. For years, Kael had lived half-invisible among Drosyn's crowds, slipping between alleys and smoke. Never called. Never summoned.
And now—someone was knocking.
The shard pulsed once, violently, answering the rhythm.
"Who's there?" Kael croaked, though the sound barely reached his lips.
Silence.
The fogged window beside him trembled as though something vast exhaled against the glass. The air thickened, pressing into his lungs until every breath felt stolen.
His gaze darted to the bolt. It shivered, clattering against its socket, though no hand touched it. The wood groaned, straining.
Kael squeezed the shard tighter. Its glow spread up his arm, veins streaking violet beneath his skin. He hadn't meant to call it, but the hunger inside leapt before thought, drawing strength from its pulse.
"Stay out," Kael whispered. But the words were hollow. Because he wanted it—wanted to see, to know. Fear wrestled with hunger.
The silence stretched.
Then, soft as paper tearing, came a whisper through the wood.
"Kael Ardyn."
Not Seliora's voice. Not his own. Something layered, broken, spoken through a thousand mouths.
His stomach clenched. His knees buckled. Blood filled his mouth where he bit back a cry.
The bolt stilled.
For a moment, silence. Then—footsteps. Slow. Retreating. Fading into the stairwell.
Kael collapsed to the floor, chest heaving.
But the hollow inside him didn't ease. It burned deeper. Because he knew: whoever had spoken hadn't needed the door. They knocked because they wanted him to hear.
Because they wanted him to know.
He was seen.
–––
The shard refused to dim.
Kael sat at the table long after the footsteps faded, the crystal cupped in trembling hands. Its glow hollowed his face, violet shadows sinking into the skin beneath his eyes.
He tried to tell himself it had been a dream. Fever. Delirium. But dreams didn't rattle bolts. Fevers didn't know his name.
Custodians.
He'd never seen one, only heard whispers. They didn't knock. They didn't speak. They appeared. And then people vanished.
Yet the voice had called to him. Patient. Almost gentle. Almost intimate.
Why?
Kael pressed the shard to his forehead, shaking. Images spiraled through his mind: the fractured eye, the mirrors, Seliora's midnight smile. He remembered the bargain. He remembered the kiss stolen from him. He remembered the void.
And he remembered power.
The thought stilled him.
They may be watching. They may come for me. But if I learn before they do—
The hunger surged, drowning fear.
Kael set the shard on the table, spread his fingers above it, and reached.
–––
The first attempt buckled him.
Shadows tore free from corners, twisting into shapes too tall, too thin, their joints bending wrong. Their mouths were only holes. They leaned close, whispering in his ear.
Kael screamed, flinging the shard away. It clattered against the wall, glow stuttering. Shadows collapsed into dust.
He crouched, gasping, sweat streaking his face.
The shard dimmed.
But the taste lingered.
–––
The second attempt came minutes later.
Kael dragged the shard back, setting it trembling in his palm. He forced his mind still. Focus. Hunger alone would drown him. He had to master it. Shape it.
He inhaled slowly, exhaled more slowly, and imagined threads. Invisible lines strung through the room, binding lamp, chair, even air.
The shard hummed. The lines shimmered.
Kael pulled.
The lamp's flame bent sideways, stretching like a ribbon of liquid fire. Dust froze mid-air. His heartbeat echoed louder, as though the threads in his own body answered.
The shard throbbed, demanding more.
Kael let go.
The world snapped back.
The lamp spat sparks. Dust fell. Kael slumped in the chair, nose bleeding, hand trembling.
But his lips curved.
"I can do it," he whispered.
–––
He practiced until his body rebelled. Hours slipped like sand through broken glass. By the third attempt, he could hold the ripple longer—freeze the world in strained suspension. By the fifth, he bent the flame into a spiral, holding it until his focus broke.
Each attempt cost him. His skull throbbed like splitting stone. His vision swam. His memory bled away.
He tried to recall his mother's face. Nothing. The street where he grew up. Empty.
The shard was feeding. Feeding on him.
But power flooded him too. And that, Kael realized, was the trap.
Every loss was a bargain he would make again.
–––
Night fell unnoticed.
The shard glowed steadily, warm against his chest beneath his shirt. Outside, fog pressed against the window, swallowing lamps whole.
Kael sat slumped at the table, body wrung dry. His eyes burned. His hands shook.
The knock came again.
Three raps. Slow. Patient.
Kael jolted upright, chair screeching. His pulse thundered.
The shard blazed under his shirt.
"Go away," he rasped, though he knew it was useless.
Silence.
Then—the bolt turned.
Kael staggered back, mouth dry. The door creaked open.
No one stood there.
Fog rolled through the frame, violet-tinged in lamplight. It curled across the floor, swallowing the room.
Kael's hand closed on the shard before thought.
The fog coiled upward, shaping into a figure without edges. Tall. Bent. Faceless—only a hole ringed in violet cracks.
Kael's heart seized. Across its chest burned the fractured eye.
A Custodian.
The figure leaned into the room. Air buckled under its weight. The shard pulsed frantically in Kael's hand.
He staggered back, pressed to the wall, clutching the fragment like a blade.
The figure did not advance. Did not speak.
It only watched.
Kael's breath broke into sobs. Fear clawed at him.
But beneath it—the hunger whispered.
Try. Use it. Bend it.
Kael raised the shard. Violet bled across the walls. The air trembled on the edge of fracture.
The Custodian tilted its head, curious.
Kael screamed, pulling .....