The sun was dying over the spine of the Riftlands, smearing red-gold streaks across the sky like the last breath of a wounded god.
Serai Solara tightened the reins of her mount and narrowed her eyes at the horizon. The sun never rose fully here. Not beyond this point. Not past the cracked bones of old temples and jagged trees that clawed the air like starving hands.
They called this place the Threshold of Dusk where day lost its grip and shadows reigned.
She hated how quiet it was.
"Stop staring, girl," Commander Rian muttered from his saddle beside her. "The Rift doesn't like being watched."
She didn't answer. Her fingers hovered near the hilt of her blade. Her breath misted in the cold. Even her flame magic, so responsive in the golden plains of the Dawn Empire, felt dulled here. Quiet.
Too quiet.
The wind blew in spirals, whispering through broken stone and twisted branches. Not a bird. Not a sound of life. Only the weight of something ancient and unseen pressing down on her skin.
Serai had trained her entire life to be unshakable. And yet, something about this place it wasn't fear. It was something deeper. Something that tasted like memory, though she'd never been here before.
"Scouts return in an hour," Rian barked, jolting her from her thoughts. "Stay in pairs. No one crosses the Riftline. The last thing we need is to provoke the Dusk dogs."
They dismounted. The others scattered through the shadows, moving between ruined walls and dark trees like ghosts. Serai moved alone.
She wasn't supposed to.
But the mark on her arm was pulsing again faintly glowing gold beneath her sleeve.
She didn't tell Rian about that part.
The deeper she moved into the ruins, the stranger everything became.
The ground cracked beneath her boots, the grass turning black and brittle. The trees bore no leaves, only ribbons of shadow that clung to them like cobwebs. Something buzzed in the air, like the edge of a storm that never broke.
And then, a whisper.
Not of wind.
A voice.
She turned sharply, drawing her blade. "Who's there?"
Silence.
And then movement.
A flicker of black on black. A figure. Cloaked. Watching.
She raised her sword. "Show yourself!"
The figure didn't flinch. He stood at the edge of the ruins, where the old sunlit stone faded into pure darkness. A ripple of silver light glowed beneath his hood eyes. Cold and unreadable.
She stepped forward. "Are you—?"
He vanished.
Not ran. Not ducked. Vanished.
The air trembled.
Then the beasts came.
They moved like shadows with teeth.
Three no, five emerged from the mist. Black, hunched, spined. Their eyes glowed crimson, and their limbs bent wrong, like puppets built by nightmares.
Serai took a defensive stance. Her blade flared with golden light, but it was dim. Her magic was weak this close to the Rift. She needed to end this fast.
The first lunged.
She twisted, slashing through its chest. Smoke exploded, but no blood.
The second bit into her arm before she could dodge. Pain shot up to her shoulder. She screamed and kicked it back, but two more were already circling her.
She was fast. She was trained.
But she was alone.
And the Rift swallowed magic like a hungry god.
The third beast pounced. She swung blindly, slicing its side, but her arm her sword arm was already weakening.
They closed in.
And then
They stopped.
Frozen mid-leap. Snarling. Trembling.
And behind them, a whisper of wind and shadow.
He was back.
The cloaked figure.
He lifted his hand—just a hand—and the beasts screamed. One by one, they disintegrated into ash.
Serai gasped for breath, blood dripping from her arm, blade shaking. "You…"
The man lowered his hand. His cloak billowed around him like mist. She couldn't see his face fully, only the curve of his jaw, the pale gleam of moonlight on his cheek.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
His voice was deep. Low. Rough from disuse. But it stirred something in her chest.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
She took a step forward. "You commanded them."
"They listen to me," he said. "They don't obey."
She blinked. "That mark… You're from the Dusk Realm."
He said nothing.
"You're him, aren't you?"
Still silence.
"The cursed prince."
He flinched. Only slightly. But enough.
Serai lowered her blade, just an inch. "Why did you save me?"
He turned. Shadows swallowed his face again. "Because… you didn't scream."
"What?"
"Everyone screams. When they see what's waiting in the dark. You didn't."
He began to walk away.
"Wait!"
She reached out instinctively.
Her fingers brushed his cloak.
The pain hit her like lightning.
A surge of cold. A flash of silver. Her arm went numb. She fell to her knees, choking.
He turned back, panic flashing in his silver eyes. "Don't touch me!"
"I didn't—mean—"
He knelt beside her but didn't reach out. "It's the curse. It reacts to contact."
She stared at her hand. Frost crept up her fingers.
He placed his palm just above hers hovering, never touching. "Hold still."
A wave of moonlight shimmered through the air, and the frost melted.
She gasped.
And then he was gone again.
When she returned to camp, Rian didn't ask where she'd been. He only stared at the gash on her arm and muttered something about her being lucky.
But she didn't feel lucky.
She felt changed.
The wound didn't stop bleeding for two days. And when it closed, it left behind a faint silver crescent. Like a moon.
She said nothing to anyone.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face.
Or at least, what she'd seen of it.
And those eyes silver, hollow, old.
Like he had seen the world burn a thousand times.
That night, her dreams turned strange.
She walked through a forest of glass trees. Above her, two moons fought for the sky—one golden, one silver. Her hand glowed with light, but the forest devoured it.
A voice called her name. Soft. Familiar.
She turned.
He stood there.
Auren.
Unhooded now. Pale skin. Black hair. Silver eyes. Barefoot in the snow.
"You can't save me," he said.
"I wasn't trying to," she whispered.
He reached for her. Their fingers touched.
And then the world shattered.
She woke up gasping, clutching her hand.
It was glowing again.
Silver and gold.
"Serai?" Rian stood at the flap of her tent, frowning. "We're breaking camp."
She hid her hand. "Coming."
Outside, the sky was overcast. The Rift loomed behind them like a threat unsaid.
They were pulling back. Orders from the capital. Something about rising tension.
But Serai knew the truth.
They'd seen the mark on her arm.
And they were afraid.
Not of her.
Of what she might become.
That night, as they rode away from the Riftlands, she looked back once.
And saw him.
Far on the ridge.
Watching.
Like he was waiting.
For her.