The clearing was empty, the faint light of the Riftwood’s heart dimming as the echoes of Rowan’s departure faded into the forest. Lyra stood at the edge of the tree, her pale hair catching the faint glow of the surrounding pools. The shard’s pulse was gone now, leaving a strange stillness in its wake.

  She exhaled slowly, her breath misting in the cold air. The Riftwood’s whispers were louder than ever, their voices a cacophony of unease. It wasn’t just the loss of the shard or Rowan’s departure—something had shifted, and Lyra could feel the forest’s tension pressing against her.

  “You’ve made your choice,” she murmured, her voice soft but steady. “Let’s see if he can carry the weight of it.”

  Lyra moved through the forest, her steps quiet on the soft, pulsing ground. The Riftwood was alive with energy, its shadows writhing in the corners of her vision. She didn’t need to hear the whispers to understand their meaning. The forest was restless, its magic roiling like a storm.

  The Riftwood had chosen Rowan for reasons Lyra didn’t fully understand, but she knew it wasn’t an act of benevolence. The forest didn’t give without taking something in return, and Rowan’s journey would leave its mark—on him, on the human world, and on the Riftwood itself.

  She paused at the edge of a glowing pool, her reflection rippling faintly in the water. The Riftwood’s magic made her image blur and distort, as though it couldn’t decide what to make of her. Lyra crouched, dipping her fingers into the cool water.

  “What are you trying to show me?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  The pool’s glow intensified, and an image began to form. It was Rowan, walking through a bustling city. His shadow rippled unnaturally, drawing wary glances from passersby. But the scene shifted quickly, the edges of the image blurring and darkening. Rowan stood alone in a crumbling ruin, the shard in his hand glowing fiercely. The shadows around him surged, coiling and writhing as if alive.

  And then the image dissolved into blackness.

  Lyra withdrew her hand, her expression grim. “You’re worried,” she said aloud, addressing the forest. “He’s not ready, is he?”

  The Riftwood didn’t respond, not in words, but the tension in the air deepened. Lyra straightened, her fingers curling into fists. The forest had chosen her as its keeper, but even she couldn’t control its will. She could only try to interpret its warnings—and those warnings were clear.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Rowan’s path wasn’t just dangerous. It was catastrophic.

  Lyra returned to her sanctuary, a hollowed-out tree that pulsed faintly with the forest’s magic. Shelves carved into the bark held books and artifacts, remnants of the Riftwood’s history that she had gathered over the years. She lit a lantern, its green flame casting eerie shadows on the walls.

  She pulled an old tome from the shelf, its cover worn and cracked. The language inside was one she had painstakingly learned over decades, the symbols dense and ancient. She flipped through the pages until she found the passage she was looking for.

  “Shadow-bearers,” she read aloud, her voice low. “Chosen by the Riftwood to carry its burden. To balance the scales between light and dark.”

  Her gaze lingered on an illustration of a figure wreathed in shadows, their features indistinct. The text below described their power as both a gift and a curse—a tether to the Riftwood that could never truly be severed.

  Lyra closed the book, her mind racing. The Riftwood didn’t choose lightly, and its selections were rarely altruistic. Rowan’s power wasn’t just a tool—it was a fragment of the forest itself, sent into the world with a purpose that even he might not understand.

  But what would happen if he failed?

  Lyra set the book aside and sat by the faintly glowing embers of her hearth. The Riftwood’s whispers were quieter here, but they never truly ceased. She had spent her life interpreting its will, trying to understand its secrets. But this time, the forest’s intentions felt more opaque than ever.

  “Why him?” she murmured, her voice soft. “Why now?”

  The shadows flickered in response, their movements chaotic. Lyra’s eyes narrowed. The Riftwood wasn’t just restless—it was afraid.

  That night, Lyra dreamed. The Riftwood rarely allowed her the peace of sleep without interference, and this night was no different. She stood in a vast, empty expanse, the ground beneath her feet pulsing faintly with light.

  The sky above was black, streaked with crimson cracks that seemed to bleed into the void. Shapes moved in the darkness—massive, hulking figures that radiated a sense of dread. Their voices were low and guttural, their words incomprehensible, but the intent was clear.

  Destruction. Chaos.

  Lyra turned, and Rowan was there, standing at the edge of the void. His shadow rippled wildly, stretching toward the crimson cracks as though drawn to them. He held the shard in his hand, its light flickering like a dying flame.

  “Rowan!” Lyra called, her voice echoing in the emptiness.

  He didn’t turn. The shadows consumed him, and he vanished into the void.

  Lyra woke with a start, her chest heaving. The Riftwood’s whispers were louder now, their voices urgent and insistent. She rose, pacing her sanctuary as her mind raced.

  The forest’s warning was clear. Rowan wasn’t just a shadow-bearer—he was a catalyst. And if he couldn’t control the power the Riftwood had given him, the world would pay the price.