The streets of Kethra grew quieter as night settled over the city. The magical lanterns above the main avenues shifted to a soft blue glow, their light casting long, rippling shadows across the cobblestones. Rowan moved through the city’s labyrinthine alleys, his steps light but deliberate.

  The shard in his pocket pulsed faintly, its glow barely perceptible now. It wasn’t leading him anywhere specific—just keeping its rhythm steady, as though waiting. Rowan had stopped relying on its urgency; he had learned to think ahead, to plan rather than react.

  Rowan slipped into a small alcove where the air was still and the noise of the city was muffled. He sat against the cold stone, his legs folded beneath him as he rested his back against the wall. The faint ripple of his shadow moved around him, sluggish and unresponsive outside the Riftwood’s influence.

  He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He didn’t need much sleep—two or three hours at most—but the need was still there, gnawing faintly at the edges of his awareness. Hunger was the same. His stomach tightened, reminding him that it had been too long since his last meal, but the sensation lacked the urgency it once had.

  These were the remnants of his humanity, dulled by the Riftwood’s magic. He hadn’t thought about them much while surviving its trials. But now, in the human world, they felt strange. Wrong, even.

  Rowan’s thoughts drifted as he sat, his body still but his mind restless. The shard’s faint pulse echoed through him, pulling at memories he tried to bury.

  A village. His mother’s laughter as she braided his sister’s hair. His father’s calloused hands, strong and steady as they worked the fields. The warmth of a hearth. The taste of freshly baked bread.

  The memories felt distant now, like a story someone else had told him. The boy who had lived that life was long gone. What remained was a man shaped by shadow, burdened by power he hadn’t asked for.

  What’s left of me? he thought, his jaw tightening. The Riftwood had carved away so much, leaving only fragments of the person he once was. And yet, the need for food, for sleep, for air—it tied him to a world he barely recognized anymore.

  Rowan opened his eyes, the faint light of a nearby lantern casting a soft glow across his face. His shadow flickered, responding to the shift in his mood. The shard in his pocket pulsed again, its rhythm steady.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The Riftwood’s whispers lingered at the edges of his thoughts, faint but insistent. It had chosen him, shaped him, and sent him into this world for a purpose. But that purpose felt like a noose tightening around his neck.

  He clenched his fists, his shadows curling around his hands. Power hummed faintly through him, weaker than it had been in the Riftwood but still present. It was a reminder of what he had gained—and what he had lost.

  The shard pulsed again, and Rowan exhaled sharply. “Not now,” he muttered, his voice low. He pushed himself to his feet, his movements fluid despite the weariness creeping into his limbs.

  Rowan moved deeper into Kethra’s lower districts, where the polished streets and glowing glyphs gave way to narrow alleys and flickering lanterns. The air here was heavier, carrying the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic.

  He passed groups of people huddled around makeshift fires, their faces drawn and their clothes patched. A drake-like creature with shimmering scales prowled through the shadows, its golden eyes watching Rowan with faint curiosity before it slinked away.

  This was the city’s underbelly—the place where magic didn’t reach as easily, and survival meant bending or breaking the rules. Rowan moved carefully, his sharp gaze noting every detail. This was a place where someone like him could blend in, but also where someone like him could be noticed too easily.

  The shard pulsed faintly as Rowan paused at the entrance to a narrow alley. The walls were lined with faint glyphs, their light flickering erratically. A low hum resonated through the air, and Rowan’s shadow rippled in response.

  He stepped inside, his boots silent on the damp stone. The air grew colder, the shadows around him deepening unnaturally. The shard’s pulse quickened, its light faintly illuminating the glyphs as Rowan moved deeper into the alley.

  At the end of the passage stood a door, its surface carved with intricate patterns that glowed faintly. Rowan reached out, his hand brushing the wood. The shard flared suddenly, its light momentarily blinding.

  Rowan stepped back, his breath catching as the door creaked open on its own. The room beyond was dimly lit, its walls lined with shelves overflowing with scrolls and artifacts. At the center of the room stood a pedestal, and atop it rested a faintly glowing orb.

  Rowan’s gaze narrowed. The shard in his pocket pulsed in time with the orb, the rhythm almost hypnotic. He stepped closer, his movements cautious.

  Rowan stopped just short of the pedestal, his shadows curling faintly around his feet. The orb’s glow was warm, almost inviting, but Rowan had learned to distrust anything that seemed too easy.

  The Riftwood’s whispers grew louder, threading through his thoughts like a warning. The shard pulsed again, and Rowan hesitated.

  “Not yet,” he muttered, stepping back. He didn’t trust the orb—or whatever power it held. Not without knowing more.

  Rowan turned and left the room, the door creaking shut behind him. The shard’s pulse slowed as he moved back into the alley, its light dimming. Whatever the orb was, it wasn’t his to claim. Not yet.