The wind on the plateau smelled of metal and thunder.
Haraza stood still, letting the air rush over him, eyes fixed on the impossible horizon. There was no sun overhead, only a scattering of luminous rivers in the sky, pouring light from unseen stars. They shimmered in rhythm, as if pulsing to a forgotten heartbeat.
In the far distance, the spire rose like a needle of divine will—too vast to be made by mortal hands. It gleamed in hues that bent color itself: golds that shimmered with grief, blues that whispered forgotten names, reds that pulsed like veins. The silver script wrapped around it writhed like serpents, and every now and then a single glyph would flare and fade—as though the spire breathed.
Haraza's boots crunched over gravel etched with circular runes as he began to move.
There was no clear path—only shattered bridges that floated without anchors, chunks of land stitched together by light, and narrow threads of crystal walkways that spanned across yawning chasms of shadow.
The glaive hummed again, like it remembered this place. Like it feared it.
And Haraza, despite himself, smiled.
He wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
As he crossed the first crystal arch, a figure appeared in the distance—standing alone on a platform of levitating basalt. Cloaked in robes that moved like water, holding a staff wound with chains.
The figure did not speak.
It simply raised a hand and beckoned.
Haraza moved closer, carefully. The terrain here seemed stable, but the wind sometimes screamed in words, and at times the air would shimmer with things he wasn't meant to see. Ghosts of cities rising, falling, burning. None of them his.
But when he reached the figure, it turned to face him fully.
She was tall, maybe six-foot-two, with skin the color of polished dusk and eyes that burned with twin points of blue fire. Her hair floated as if underwater. She wore no mask, no sigils. Only a pendant hung at her throat, etched with Earth letters.
Latin script.
OMEGA-9.
Haraza stared.
("You're from Earth,") he said.
She studied him with slow, eerie calm. ("Were. Long ago.")
He stepped forward, cautiously. ("Then you—then you know what this place is.")
("I do.")
("What is it?")
She tilted her head. ("A prison. A forge. A memory. A god that ate itself and dreams of being whole again.")
("Is it alive?")
("Are you?")
The words hit like ice.
He gripped the glaive tighter. ("I'm Haraza Genso. Born on Earth. Rift-marked. I came through the Gate to find answers.")
("You came through,)" she said, as if surprised. ("That means the Rift chose you.")
("No. I chose myself.")
A pause. Then a nod.
("That is rare.")
She stepped aside and pointed toward the spire.
("That is the Vault of Chains. The First Lock. What lies behind it remembers everything. If you wish to go further, you will need more than weapons and courage. You will need an anchor.")
("And you're offering to help?")
("I'm offering to witness. To see if you survive.")
He narrowed his eyes. ("You still haven't told me your name.")
("I lost it,") she said. ("But some call me Kaveth. The one who waits. The one who watches the broken become sharp.")
With a wave of her staff, the basalt platform extended—a bridge forming from threads of silver light.
("This path leads you through the Expanse. Time will bend. Memory will betray. If you fall, you do not die. You scatter. And pieces of you may walk on without you.")
Haraza exhaled. ("Sounds simple.")
Kaveth smiled, faint and distant. ("Then walk.")
He did.
The Rift Expanse was not a place—it was a test.
The first bridge led him through a storm of forgotten names. Winds screamed in a dozen languages. Words tried to force themselves into his ears, some of them his own voice. Each time he ignored them, a shard of memory broke loose in his mind.
He forgot his father's face.
Then his mother's voice.
By the time he reached the next platform, only the rook-cloth tied to his glaive reminded him he'd ever had a home.
Kaveth said nothing.
The next path curved through a field of obsidian statues—all of them himself. Hundreds. Thousands. Each carved in different postures: standing proud, dying in battle, weeping, laughing, kneeling before a throne or sword or flame.
Some wore crowns.
Some had no eyes.
One reached toward him—and whispered:
("You could have been more.")
He slashed it down.
The statue shattered.
But he felt nothing.
That frightened him most.
Later, in the Field of the Forgotten, Kaveth finally spoke again.
("You've done well to hold together.")
("Did I have a choice?")
("No. But few ever make it this far.")
They stood on the edge of a cliff, wind roaring upward. Far below, black seas churned and voices cried out in languages that had no vowels.
Kaveth faced him fully.
("You need to understand this before you reach the Vault. The Rift does not care about your past. It is not here to punish or reward. It asks. And it gives. But what it gives always comes with shape—and that shape becomes you.")
("I'm not afraid of changing," )Haraza said.
She looked at him sadly.
("Then you've never truly changed.")
They reached the final approach by dusk, if such a thing could be measured in a realm where stars moved sideways.
The spire loomed.
The ground beneath them now pulsed with glyphs that burned blue-white, symbols carved into the earth itself.
Haraza stepped forward.
Kaveth raised her staff.
("You will be alone beyond this point. But remember—whatever you see, whatever you hear, the Rift is listening. If you lie to it… it will lie back.")
He nodded.
The glaive pulsed. The rook-cloth stirred.
Haraza Genso, Rift-marked wanderer, stepped onto the spiral stairs that led up into the Vault of Chains—and the unknown.