The roar rolled through the valley like thunder torn from the earth. Birds scattered from the oak, shrieking. Jorn screamed, clinging to Nalia's neck.
The survivors froze, their faces pale in the firelight.
Elara's sun-eye flared. The fissures writhed beneath the soil, twisting, splitting wider. Golden threads tangled into knots of red, and in that shifting lattice, she saw movement.
Chains grinding. Flesh forming where there should be none.
"It's coming," she whispered.
The ground cracked open at the far ridge.
At first it was only light — raw and molten, bleeding from the fissure. But then it moved. The glow coalesced into a shape, a hunched silhouette dragging itself from the split earth.
It was enormous. Twice the height of a man, its limbs too long, bent at unnatural angles. Its skin was pale, translucent, threaded with the same golden-red veins as the fissures. Where its face should have been was only a hollow, a mouthless void.
The roar had not come from it.
It came from the earth itself, echoing through the fissures like a chorus of chains.
Jorn buried his face against Nalia, trembling.
Marek's voice was low, steady. "Weapons. Now."
Seris already had her bow drawn. Her arrow trembled, but her hand did not.
Elara's sun-eye burned so hot her vision blurred. The creature's threads writhed against hers, trying to latch on, to pull her into its lattice. She staggered but steadied herself.
Tomas grabbed her arm. "Stay with me."
The fissure-beast shrieked — a sound like tearing metal, like silence itself screaming. The oak trembled. Stones tumbled down the ridge.
Then it lunged.
Marek shoved Seris aside as its arm, long as a spear, slammed into the ground. Soil exploded. The survivors scattered.
Elara raised her hands instinctively. Golden light burst from her sun-eye, a flare so bright it seared the night. The beast reeled back, its veins thrashing.
"Now!" Marek bellowed.
Seris loosed her arrow. It struck the creature's chest, sinking shallowly, but the beast shrieked again and staggered.
Tomas seized a burning branch from the fire, swinging it with grim determination. The flame licked across the beast's arm, and where fire touched it, the veins recoiled.
"It fears light!" Elara cried. "Light burns it!"
But there was not enough fire.
The beast recovered, slamming Tomas aside with a sweep of its arm. He hit the earth hard, coughing blood. Elara screamed, rushing to him, but the beast loomed over them, its void-face gaping wider, threads clawing at her vision.
She raised her sun-eye.
It burned like a star, tearing at her skull, but she forced it wider. Golden light poured forth, a lance of brilliance that split the night. The beast shrieked and reeled, clutching its head.
For a heartbeat, Elara thought it would shatter.
But then the fissures pulsed harder, feeding it, dragging strength up from the earth.
It lunged again.
Marek roared, hurling a stone as large as his chest. It smashed into the beast's side, staggering it. Seris shot again, her arrow driving into its arm.
Nalia clutched Jorn, crouched beneath the oak, whispering frantic prayers.
Elara dropped to her knees beside Tomas. His breath was ragged, but his eyes burned with stubborn fire.
"Don't stop," he rasped. "Don't you dare stop."
Her hands trembled. Blood ran from her nose. But she lifted her gaze once more.
The sun-eye blazed.
This time, the light split into threads — weaving around her, around Marek, Seris, even Tomas. A fragile net of gold, holding them against the void.
The fissure-beast roared and faltered, its limbs thrashing.
And for the first time, the survivors fought together.
They drove it back inch by inch. Arrows pierced its veined flesh. Stones smashed its limbs. Fire burned its lattice.
And Elara's light held it at bay, threads binding the air with fragile brilliance.
Finally, with a shuddering cry, the beast staggered toward the fissure. Its limbs cracked, its body unraveling into streams of red and gold.
It collapsed back into the crack, shrieking until the earth swallowed it whole.
The valley fell silent.
The survivors stood shaking, faces pale, breaths ragged. Tomas leaned on Elara, blood on his lips but fire in his eyes.
Seris lowered her bow. Marek stood, chest heaving. Nalia clutched Jorn, tears streaking her face.
And Kael—
He was not there.
Elara's sun-eye dimmed, but the glow of the fissures remained, faint and ominous.
She knew this was only the first.
The Hour was not finished.
It had only begun to rise.
The fissure sealed with a crack like bone snapping, the molten glow dying down until only faint veins pulsed across the valley floor. The night was suddenly, unnaturally quiet.
Elara swayed where she knelt, her sun-eye fading from blinding gold to a dull ember. The world around her swam in double vision — threads and flesh overlapping, too bright, too tangled.
Tomas caught her before she fell, though his body shook with the effort. His shirt was soaked with blood where the fissure-beast had struck him, but his eyes blazed with a stubbornness she could not help but love.
"Easy," he whispered. "It's gone."
Her voice cracked. "No. That was only… the beginning."
The survivors huddled close, no longer a ragged collection of strays but something bound tighter — by fear, by blood, by firelight.
Marek leaned against the oak, wiping grime and sweat from his brow. His chest heaved, and for the first time, Elara saw fear in his eyes.
"That thing," he muttered, spitting into the dirt. "If more come—" He stopped, his jaw locking.
Seris paced in tight circles, bow still clutched in her hands. Her arrows were gone, spent. She cursed under her breath, over and over, each word a sharp stone.
Nalia sat rocking back and forth with Jorn in her lap. The boy had cried himself into hiccuping silence, but his small fingers clung fiercely to his mother's dress, unwilling to let go.
"Where's Kael?" Seris asked suddenly, stopping her pacing. "He should've been here."
Her voice carried accusation, sharp and brittle.
Silence spread through the circle. The absence loomed larger than the fissure itself.
Elara closed her eyes, opening her sun-eye just a fraction. Pain lanced through her skull, but the threads returned — faint, glowing, restless.
She searched the valley, then the ridges, then further. And then she saw him.
Kael stood far from the oak, a shadow at the ridge-line. His sword glimmered faintly, still sheathed. He had not fought.
Her chest tightened.
He turned slowly, as though feeling her gaze. Their eyes met across the distance — hers golden, his dark and sharp.
And then he stepped back into the night and was gone.
Marek swore under his breath, punching the tree trunk hard enough to split the bark. "Coward."
But Elara's stomach twisted. Cowards ran. Kael hadn't run. He had watched.
Later, when the fire had burned low and the survivors had slumped into uneasy sleep, Elara sat awake beside Tomas. His breathing was shallow but steady, his hand warm against hers.
The fissures still glowed faintly, a network of veins across the valley floor. They pulsed like a heartbeat.
She opened her sun-eye again, unable to resist.
Threads lit up the sky, brighter now, weaving patterns she had never seen before. Some tangled into shapes like wings. Others twisted into faces, screaming.
And beneath it all, far deeper than the fissures, she felt a pull. A vast, hollow silence waiting to be filled.
The beast they had faced had not been alive. It had been a fragment, a shard of something greater — a dream given shape.
And dreams could rise again.
She closed her sun-eye with a cry, blood streaking her face.
Tomas stirred, squeezing her hand weakly. "What is it?"
She swallowed hard, her voice shaking.
"The Silent Hour," she whispered, staring into the fire. "It's not broken. It's waking."
The flames guttered. Somewhere in the night, far beyond the ridges, another fissure roared.