The world collapsed around him, though not in the manner Orren had imagined. He had expected walls to fall, buildings to crumble, and monsters to pour from the Shardlands. What he did not expect was that the very laws of reality would bend, stretch, and fold like tattered fabric, leaving him uncertain of what was solid and what was imagined.
Selith guided him without hesitation, weaving through streets that had folded upon themselves, staircases rising impossibly into the air before curling downward like ribbons of stone. The sky above no longer had a single direction; patches of it folded inward, mirrored by reflections in puddles that did not exist on the ground. Sunlight fractured into shards of color, painting the ruins in a kaleidoscope of unnatural tones. Orren's mind raced to comprehend it, but comprehension felt useless. Survival required adaptation, not understanding.
The first step across the threshold of this fractured reality was disorienting. The ground beneath him felt both solid and liquid, like wet sand underfoot that occasionally gave way into pockets of void. He stumbled, but Selith's hand steadied him before he fell entirely.
"You will learn to trust it," she said, her voice calm amid the chaos. "Your Lock will guide you. It responds to the world around you, and now it is awake. Do not fight it."
Orren tried to focus, feeling the faint warmth in his chest that he had noticed yesterday, now growing stronger, spreading along his limbs. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, yet he sensed something new — a subtle connection to the shifting environment. He could feel the fractures, the distortions, the way the air bent and swirled. It was as if the world had hands and fingers, and his Lock was brushing against them, feeling their structure, probing for weakness.
It was frightening. And intoxicating.
The first creatures came again, but differently this time. In the Shardlands, Orren had learned to anticipate danger: hulking shapes, claws, predictable behaviors within the limits of physical law. These were not bound by law. Their forms flickered, appearing as jagged silhouettes one moment, then dissolving into mist the next. Some were impossibly tall, their limbs bending at unnatural angles. Others were tiny, darting like shadows, sharp and silent. They did not roar; they whispered in echoes of sound that seemed to originate from everywhere and nowhere.
Orren's first instinct was to run, as always. But instinct alone was not enough here. He felt his Lock stir in response to the creatures — a pulse, subtle at first, then stronger, as though the creatures themselves were reading him, and he them. His mind raced: he could control this. He had never believed it possible. Yet now, he sensed a thread of influence over the reality around him, slight but undeniable. A loose railing bent slightly under his grip. A fragment of stone hovered briefly before dropping in place. His heartbeat quickened, and with it, the feeling of possibility.
This was power. And power terrified him.
Time itself had lost meaning. Orren's legs burned, but fatigue seemed irrelevant. Seconds stretched and compressed without warning. One moment, he and Selith ran across a collapsed bridge over a bottomless chasm. The next, they were standing in a courtyard that looked like a city square from decades past, cobblestones intact, fountains flowing, yet everything shimmered, slightly out of focus, as though viewed through a warped lens. He wanted to call out, to question how such things could exist simultaneously, but the air swallowed his words before they formed.
Selith's eyes never wavered from the path ahead. "Do not pause," she said. "Even thinking is dangerous here. Focus on moving. Focus on surviving."
Orren nodded, pushing forward. And yet, he could not stop noticing: the world here was alive. The buildings seemed to breathe, their walls pulsing with faint energy. The streets curved unnaturally, the shadows stretching and retreating without cause. And in every corner of his vision, he glimpsed movement — creatures, fragments of reality, echoes of cities long destroyed, yet fully present.
He felt both awe and terror, a simultaneous recognition of the beauty and danger of the Fracture.
As they advanced, Orren noticed that fragments of the world were layered upon one another. A street from one city ran directly into the ruins of another. The same walls appeared twice, overlapping, yet slightly out of alignment. He realized that the Fracture did not simply break reality — it layered it, creating a patchwork of memories, architecture, and time. A single corner could house a cafe from decades ago, a collapsed apartment from yesterday, and a ruin from centuries past, all within reach.
It was disorienting, but not entirely chaotic. Patterns existed. The world was still governed by rules, though they were alien rules. Orren's Lock seemed to perceive them instinctively. When he reached out with his mind, he felt a resonance with the structures, a subtle pull guiding him toward solid ground, away from danger. The creatures avoided him when he projected that influence, as if recognizing his presence as something more than human.
Fear surged, but alongside it came a dawning clarity: he was no longer just a runner. He was becoming something else. Something the Fracture recognized as a participant, not merely prey.
Hours—or what felt like hours—later, they reached the center of a fragmentary cityscape, where streets from multiple cities converged. The buildings here were impossibly tall, blackened towers that seemed to defy gravity, leaning in ways that should have toppled them, yet remained steadfast. The air hummed with energy. Orren felt it in his bones. Every heartbeat resonated with the pulse of the Fracture itself.
And then he saw it: the Blacktile Core.
It was an obsidian monolith, impossibly smooth and dark, reflecting nothing yet absorbing light, energy, and presence around it. It towered above everything else, yet no single vantage point allowed Orren to see its entirety. It was as though the Core existed in more than one place simultaneously, bending reality around it. The creatures of the Fracture gathered near it, but they did not attack. They seemed to worship, or perhaps fear it.
Selith's voice broke the moment. "That is why the Fracture exists. That is why the Core exists. And that is why you are here."
Orren turned to her, confusion and fear in his eyes.
"You are not merely a survivor," she continued. "You are a key. The Fracture responds to you, shapes itself around you. If you learn to wield your Lock, if you accept it… you can control the path forward. Or you can let the world burn."
The weight of her words pressed against him. He had survived countless threats, outrun monsters, and navigated impossible terrain. Yet nothing had prepared him for this. Not survival, not instinct, not skill.
Everything depended on him.
The first true test of his Lock came moments later. A creature surged from the shadows of a collapsed tower, its form flickering between solidity and mist. Its eyes burned like molten cores. Orren's first instinct was to flee, as always. But something in his chest stirred, a warmth spreading, coiling like a serpent of energy. He reached out with his mind, allowing the Lock to resonate with the fractured reality.
The creature froze mid-leap. Its form quivered and then solidified partially, enough for Orren to see its body in detail — jagged, asymmetrical, alien. The Lock hummed in response, and Orren realized with a shock: he could influence it. Not kill it, not destroy it — not yet. But he could control its movement, its focus, even if briefly.
His breath came in ragged gasps. This power was terrifying. It was exhilarating. And he had only just begun to understand it.
Selith watched silently, her expression unreadable. "Do not waste your energy," she said. "You will need more than this. The Core will test you. The Fracture will test you. And the world beyond… it will change forever."
Orren nodded, the realization settling into him like ice. The world he had known — walls, safety, simple survival — was gone. In its place was something alien, impossible, alive. And he, for better or worse, had become central to it.
He took a shaky breath, gripping the reins of his cart — still intact despite the impossible terrain — and stepped forward. One foot. Then another. Each movement an assertion of presence, of determination, of life. The Fracture pulsed around him, responding, resonating, awakening.
And Orren Veylar understood, for the first time in his life, that he could never go back.