The wind carried a faint chill as Rowan walked, the ruins of the old outpost fading into the horizon behind him. The shard in his pocket pulsed weakly, its light flickering like a dying ember. He clenched his jaw, the weight of its silence pressing against his thoughts. Outside the Riftwood, the shard felt… different. Its guidance was erratic, its power diminished.

  So was his.

  Rowan stopped at the edge of a small grove, his breath misting in the cooling air. The sun was setting, and the long shadows cast by the trees stretched toward him, rippling faintly as if recognizing their master. He crouched, resting his hand on the ground. The shadows responded, coiling around his fingers like living threads.

  But they were weaker, slower. The connection felt frayed, as though the Riftwood’s absence had severed a vital link.

  “Not enough,” Rowan muttered. He closed his eyes, focusing on the shadows, willing them to obey.

  The first thing Rowan summoned was a blade. The shadows twisted and coiled, taking the shape of a longsword in his hand. Its edge was jagged, its surface rippling as though alive. He stood, swinging the blade experimentally. It sliced through the air with a faint hiss, leaving a trail of black mist in its wake.

  But the strain was immediate. The shadows pulsed erratically, the blade faltering in his grip. Rowan growled, his focus tightening. The weapon stabilized, but he could feel the energy it demanded, pulling at the edges of his willpower.

  He released the blade, letting it dissolve into smoke. His hand trembled as he flexed his fingers. “Weaker,” he said to himself. “But it’ll have to do.”

  He turned his attention to the shadows at his feet. In the Riftwood, they had been an extension of him, responding to his thoughts without hesitation. Now, they were sluggish, reluctant. He stepped into a patch of darkness, willing himself to vanish into it.

  For a moment, it worked. The shadows enveloped him, and he felt the familiar pull of movement through the void. But halfway through, the connection snapped. Rowan stumbled forward, emerging from the shadows a few paces from where he started. His breath came in sharp gasps, the effort leaving him momentarily drained.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, gripping his knees as he steadied himself. The Riftwood had been a crucible, its magic feeding his powers. Out here, he was cut off from that strength. He wasn’t helpless, but he was vulnerable—and he hated it.

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  Rowan rested by the grove as the sun dipped below the horizon. The stars emerged, their light faint against the deepening dark. He leaned against a tree, his mind racing. The Riftwood’s whispers had followed him even here, threading through his thoughts like ghostly echoes.

  They weren’t words, not exactly. More like impressions—faint warnings, fragments of urgency. Lyra’s voice lingered among them, her parting words etched into his memory.

  “The Riftwood chose you for a reason.”

  Rowan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had never asked for this power, never wanted it. But he couldn’t deny what it had made him. Strong. Dangerous. A survivor. Yet now, with the Riftwood’s influence diminished, he wondered if even that was enough.

  The shard pulsed faintly in his pocket, pulling his thoughts back to the present. Whatever it was guiding him toward, it felt important—urgent. He couldn’t afford to linger in doubt.

  The sound of footsteps snapped Rowan from his thoughts. He rose silently, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his blade. The shadows stirred at his feet, sluggish but ready.

  A figure emerged from the darkness, their movements slow and deliberate. It was a woman, clad in patched leather armor, her bow drawn and an arrow trained on Rowan. Her eyes glinted with caution, her stance steady.

  “You’re far from any village,” she said, her voice low and sharp. “What’s your business out here?”

  Rowan didn’t answer immediately. He stepped forward, the shadows curling protectively around him. The woman’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t lower her bow.

  “None of your concern,” Rowan said coldly. His voice carried an edge that brooked no argument.

  The woman hesitated, her gaze flicking to the shadows that writhed at Rowan’s feet. “You’re… one of them, aren’t you? A shadow-weaver.”

  Rowan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond, but the tension in the air thickened. The woman’s arrow wavered slightly, her grip faltering.

  “Move along,” Rowan said, his tone even. “Unless you want to find out what that means.”

  The woman swallowed hard, lowering her bow but not relaxing. “Careful, shadow-weaver. Not everyone in these lands will fear you. Some will hunt you.”

  Rowan said nothing, his cold gaze holding hers until she stepped back. She disappeared into the night, her footsteps fading into the distance.

  He exhaled slowly, his hand releasing the hilt of his blade. The encounter had left him unsettled, but not because of the woman’s warning. It was the way she had looked at him—with a mixture of fear and recognition.

  The world knew of shadow-weavers. And that meant he wasn’t as invisible as he thought.

  Rowan resumed his journey as the night deepened, the stars guiding his steps. The shard pulsed faintly, its rhythm steady and insistent. The city lay ahead, a place of answers—or more questions. He didn’t know what he would find there, but he knew one thing.

  The Riftwood had sent him for a reason. And whatever awaited him, he would face it, shadows and all.