The Riftwood pulsed faintly as Rowan stood at the edge of the clearing, the shard’s light casting jagged shadows across the forest floor. Lyra lingered nearby, her pale features illuminated by the eerie glow. She watched him, her expression unreadable.

  “Before you go,” Lyra began, her voice calm but tinged with something Rowan couldn’t place, “there’s something you need to understand.”

  Rowan turned, his brow furrowing. “About the Riftwood?”

  “About me,” Lyra said, stepping closer. “And about what waits for you outside this place.”

  Lyra gestured to the twisted tree at the heart of the clearing. Its bark shimmered faintly, as though alive with memories. “The Riftwood exists because of the gods. It’s a scar left by their arrogance.”

  Rowan crossed his arms but didn’t interrupt. Lyra rarely spoke of her past or the Riftwood’s origins, and when she did, her words were always weighted with caution.

  “They were not the benevolent creators the stories make them out to be,” she continued. “They were powerful, yes, but flawed. Greedy. They warred among themselves for eons, each seeking to claim dominance over the others.”

  She pointed to a nearby pool, its surface glowing faintly. “They created weapons to destroy one another. Magic so potent it warped reality. Creatures so dangerous they couldn’t control them. And when their war finally ended, they cast their failures here, hoping the Riftwood would bury their mistakes.”

  Rowan glanced at the pool, his jaw tightening. He had seen the remnants of those mistakes—the creatures twisted by magic, the traps that seemed to have a will of their own. He had fought them, survived them. But the idea that they were the product of divine arrogance filled him with a quiet rage.

  “And the gods?” he asked. “What happened to them?”

  Lyra’s gaze darkened. “No one knows. Some say they destroyed each other. Others believe they fled, abandoning this world to clean up their mess.”

  Rowan shook his head. “If they’re gone, why does it matter?”

  “Because their war isn’t over,” Lyra said. “The weapons they left behind still linger. And the power they unleashed didn’t die—it’s waiting. Growing.”

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  Rowan studied Lyra, his eyes narrowing. “You said you were born here. That your parents were exiles.”

  Lyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They were scholars. They came here to study the Riftwood, to understand its magic. They thought they could harness it.”

  “And they failed,” Rowan said bluntly.

  Lyra flinched but nodded. “The Riftwood consumed them. It doesn’t tolerate greed or weakness.”

  “And you?” Rowan pressed. “Why are you still here?”

  Lyra hesitated, her gaze flicking to the shard in his hand. “Because I made a choice,” she said finally. “The Riftwood isn’t just a prison—it’s alive. It… listens. It offered me a deal: stay and protect its secrets, or leave and forget everything.”

  Rowan frowned. “And you chose to stay.”

  Lyra nodded. “Someone has to. The Riftwood holds more than the remnants of a war—it holds the keys to power that could destroy the world. If the wrong person finds those keys…”

  She trailed off, but Rowan understood. He had seen what unchecked power could do. He carried it within himself.

  The shard pulsed again, brighter this time. The air around them grew heavier, the whispers of the forest rising to a deafening crescendo.

  “The Riftwood is trying to push you forward,” Lyra said, her voice steady despite the chaos. “It doesn’t want you to linger.”

  Rowan’s grip on the shard tightened. “And you? What happens to you if I leave?”

  Lyra smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll stay. This place is part of me, just as it’s part of you. But you have a chance to do what I can’t.”

  Rowan’s jaw clenched. “And what’s that?”

  “To stop what’s coming,” Lyra said, her voice quiet but firm. “The gods’ war may be over, but their weapons are still in play. The Riftwood chose you, Rowan. It gave you power for a reason.”

  Rowan’s chest tightened. He had spent years surviving the Riftwood’s trials, never questioning why it had spared him when so many others had fallen. But now, the weight of that question felt heavier than ever.

  The shard’s glow intensified, and the twisted tree at the heart of the clearing began to pulse in time with its light. The ground beneath Rowan’s feet trembled, and the air shimmered with raw magic.

  Lyra stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on Rowan’s arm. “Whatever the Riftwood is sending you to find, it won’t be easy. But you’ve survived this place. You’ll survive whatever comes next.”

  Rowan met her gaze, his expression hard but not unkind. “Why do you trust me?”

  Lyra’s smile returned, softer this time. “Because you’re not like the others who came here. You don’t crave power for its own sake. You fight for something real.”

  Rowan didn’t respond. He turned toward the tree, the shard in his hand glowing brighter with every step. The Riftwood’s whispers grew louder, filling his ears until they were all he could hear.

  He stopped at the base of the tree, his breath steadying. Whatever lay beyond this moment, he would face it. The Riftwood had shaped him, broken him, and remade him. Now, it was sending him into the world to finish what it had started.

  Rowan took a deep breath and stepped into the light.