Rowan emerged from the Riftwood into a land caught between dawn and uncertainty. The sky stretched wide and open above him, its pale blue a stark contrast to the oppressive canopy he had left behind. The ground beneath his boots was solid, dry, and achingly real, but it felt alien after years of the Riftwood’s pulsing, breathing terrain.

  He adjusted his cloak, pulling it tighter against the chill wind that swept across the open plain. The shard in his pocket was silent now, its guidance subdued. Rowan glanced back once, his eyes lingering on the dark line of the Riftwood at the horizon. Its twisted trees and faint glow seemed distant, almost dreamlike. But the forest’s influence clung to him like a shadow, its power coursing through his veins.

  Rowan turned and began walking.

  The plains stretched endlessly, dotted with clusters of wildflowers and the occasional copse of trees. Rowan’s steps were steady, his pace unrelenting. The human world was quiet compared to the Riftwood, its dangers subtle rather than overt. But Rowan knew better than to let his guard down.

  He passed remnants of villages long abandoned, their wooden frames weathered and crumbling. The gods’ war had left scars here, too. A toppled statue lay half-buried in the dirt, its once-proud features eroded by time. Rowan paused, studying the statue’s face—or what remained of it. The faint outline of a crown marked it as one of the old gods.

  “Even here,” he muttered, shaking his head. The gods had left their mark everywhere, their arrogance etched into the bones of the world. Rowan stepped over the statue and continued on, his shadow stretching behind him like a living thing.

  By midday, the plains gave way to rolling hills, their slopes dotted with grazing animals. Rowan’s stomach tightened at the sight of a herd of deer, their sleek forms moving gracefully through the tall grass. He hadn’t eaten since leaving the Riftwood, and the hunger gnawed at him.

  He unslung his bow, a crude but reliable weapon he had fashioned in the Riftwood. The shadows stirred at his feet, their movements eager, but Rowan forced them to still. He drew an arrow and notched it, his steps silent as he approached the herd.

  A sharp crack of a branch broke the silence, and the deer bolted. Rowan spun, his arrow trained on the source of the noise. A figure emerged from the brush, their hands raised in a placating gesture.

  “Easy there,” the man said, his voice calm. He was middle-aged, his clothes patched but well-kept. A long staff rested in his hand, and a satchel was slung over his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Rowan lowered his bow slightly but didn’t relax. “You’re far from any settlement.”

  The man smiled faintly. “So are you. I’m a wanderer—searching for herbs, mostly. The plains have their treasures, if you know where to look.”

  Rowan didn’t respond, his gaze steady. The man’s easy demeanor set him on edge. People didn’t survive alone in the wilds without being dangerous.

  “You heading to Kethra?” the man asked, nodding toward the east. “The city’s a few days’ walk from here.”

  Rowan’s brow furrowed. “Kethra?”

  “Aye. It’s grown since the wars. They’ve got markets, taverns, even a smithy that works with enchanted steel.” The man tilted his head. “You’ve got the look of someone who could use a place to rest.”

  Rowan tightened his grip on his bow. The shard’s faint pulse returned, its light barely perceptible through the fabric of his cloak. It was pulling him east—toward this city.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Rowan said, slinging his bow over his shoulder.

  The man nodded, though his gaze lingered on Rowan for a moment too long. “Be careful on the road. Not all wanderers are friendly.”

  Rowan watched as the man disappeared into the hills, his shadow trailing after him. The shard pulsed again, stronger this time, and Rowan exhaled sharply.

  “Kethra,” he muttered. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The road to Kethra was rough, winding through hills and valleys that seemed endless. Rowan traveled mostly by night, his steps silent as he moved through the darkness. The stars above were bright, their light unfamiliar after years under the Riftwood’s oppressive canopy.

  The shadows were his constant companions, responding to his every thought. He used them sparingly, wary of drawing attention, but their presence was a comfort. They lashed out when predators grew too bold, coiling around the necks of wolves or striking at serpents hidden in the grass. Rowan felt their hunger, their desire for more, but he kept them in check.

  At night, the whispers returned. Faint echoes of the Riftwood’s warnings, threading through his dreams. He saw Lyra’s face, her pale features shadowed by concern.

  “Not all burdens can be carried alone,” she had said once.

  Rowan dismissed the memory, his jaw tightening. He didn’t need allies. He had learned that lesson long ago.

  On the third day, Rowan came across the ruins of an ancient outpost. Its crumbling walls and broken towers were overgrown with ivy, but faint carvings marked it as a relic of the gods’ time. He approached cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

  The shard pulsed faintly, its light flickering as he entered the ruins. Rowan knelt by a crumbled wall, brushing away dirt to reveal a faint inscription. The symbols were unfamiliar, but their power was palpable.

  “Another reminder,” he muttered, his voice cold.

  The gods’ influence was everywhere, even in their absence. Rowan rose, his gaze sweeping over the ruins. This place had been abandoned for centuries, yet the air was thick with magic. He felt it prickling against his skin, a faint echo of the Riftwood’s energy.

  Rowan turned and continued east. The city of Kethra was close now, and whatever the shard sought, it was waiting for him there.