“Another dead one?” Lyra’s voice cut through the haze of the forest. Rowan turned, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his blade. She stood a few paces away, her white hair catching the faint glow of a nearby pool. Her robes were simple but elegant, faintly shimmering with the same green light that suffused the Riftwood.

  Rowan’s expression didn’t soften. “What do you want, Lyra?”

  She smirked, stepping closer. “I should be asking you that. You’re the one disrupting the balance.”

  Rowan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Lyra had been a presence in the Riftwood as long as he could remember, appearing and disappearing without warning. She seemed to know the forest’s secrets, and her knowledge had saved him more than once. But he didn’t trust her. Not fully.

  “Another shard?” she asked, tilting her head toward his pocket.

  Rowan frowned. “It’s leading me somewhere.”

  Lyra’s gaze sharpened. “The Riftwood doesn’t give without reason. Whatever it’s leading you to, it’s not a gift. It’s a test.”

  Rowan’s grip on the shard tightened. “I’ve passed plenty of tests.”

  Lyra laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “You’ve survived. There’s a difference.”

  As they walked, Lyra spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “The Riftwood wasn’t always like this. It was a sanctuary once—a place where magic flowed freely, untainted by greed or war.”

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  Rowan glanced at her, his brow furrowing. “What changed?”

  “The gods,” Lyra said simply. “When they warred, their weapons scarred the land. The Riftwood became a dumping ground for their failures—creatures they couldn’t control, magic they couldn’t contain. Over time, it became what you see now: a prison, a graveyard, and a battleground all in one.”

  Rowan’s gaze shifted to the glowing pools and twisted trees. He had always sensed the wrongness of the Riftwood, but hearing its story gave it weight. It wasn’t just a forest—it was a wound.

  “And you?” Rowan asked. “Where do you fit into all this?”

  Lyra hesitated, her steps slowing. “I was born here,” she said finally. “My parents were exiles, cast out for using magic the gods deemed dangerous. They sought refuge in the Riftwood, but this place doesn’t take kindly to outsiders.”

  Rowan frowned. “What happened to them?”

  Lyra’s expression darkened. “They became part of the forest. Most do, eventually.”

  The shard’s pulse grew stronger as they approached a clearing. At its center stood a massive tree, its bark blackened and cracked, its branches stretching skyward like skeletal hands. The air was thick with magic, and the ground beneath their feet hummed faintly.

  “This is it,” Lyra said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Riftwood’s heart.”

  Rowan stepped closer, the shard in his pocket growing almost unbearably warm. He reached out, and the shard flared to life, its light illuminating the clearing. The shadows around him surged, coiling like living things.

  “What happens now?” he asked, his voice steady.

  Lyra’s gaze was unreadable. “That depends on you. The Riftwood is giving you a choice: stay, and become part of it—or leave, and carry its burden into the human world.”

  Rowan clenched his jaw, his mind racing. The Riftwood had shaped him, tested him, and nearly broken him. But leaving it felt like abandoning something vital—a part of himself he couldn’t fully understand.

  The tree pulsed faintly, its light dimming as the shard’s glow intensified. Rowan exhaled sharply and stepped forward, his hand closing around the shard. The air shimmered, and the clearing dissolved into light.