The world was breaking.
Ethan stood at the center of a shifting storm of unreality, the air warping as the Rift's power surged uncontrollably. The ground beneath his feet cracked—not with the familiar groan of stone or the crumble of soil, but with a crystalline dissonance, as though reality itself was splintering apart. Fractals of time shimmered beneath him, glimpses of shattered futures and pasts flickering like dying embers in a fire.
A child laughing. A battlefield soaked in blood. A quiet grave under a sky too still.
None of it made sense, yet all of it felt achingly familiar.
And beyond the chaos, the voice spoke again.
"You were never meant to be, Riftborn."
The words cut into him like ice—sharp, unyielding, sinking past his defenses. Ethan gritted his teeth, his chest heaving as he clenched his fists. The Rift-light pulsed at his fingertips, flickering uncertainly, like even his power—his one constant—doubted its own existence in the presence of this entity.
