A building loomed ahead, a fractured shadow against the dark horizon. Its cracked walls and shattered windows jutted out like jagged teeth, while dark vines, thick and pulsing as though alive, crept along its surface. The building stood as a monument to something long dead, a relic of a life swallowed by the rift’s darkness.

Roran led us forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his posture stiff with vigilance. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, every movement deliberate.

“This’ll do for the night,” he muttered, his voice low but resolute. “It’s defensible.”

Defensible. The word hung in the air, but everything about this place felt wrong. The gaping doorway seemed less like an entrance and more like a hungry maw waiting to devour us. Darkness spilled out, not just a void of light but a force that pressed against my senses, whispering its unease. My feet faltered at the threshold, but Roran’s steady glance cut through my hesitation. I followed him inside, my grip tightening on my sword.

The air inside was stifling, a mixture of stale rot and thick dust that clung to the back of my throat. Broken objects were scattered across the floor—metallic skeletons of unknown devices, shattered black screens, and strange, rectangular contraptions that were cracked and hollow. Time had gnawed at everything, leaving only fragments of whatever this place had once been.

“What… is this place?” one of the mages whispered, their voice a mix of awe and unease.

Roran ignored the question. “Check for threats,” he said firmly. “Then gather in the central room.”

We fanned out, our boots creaking against the floorboards as we moved cautiously through the ruins. I stayed near the back, the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders, making my limbs feel sluggish. Despite the silence, the tension was visible, every shadow threatening to come alive.

In one corner, debris was piled high—splintered furniture, shards of glass, and twisted metal. As I stepped closer, something caught my eye: a leather-bound book, half-buried beneath the rubble. Its cover was cracked and worn, its faded color hinting at a once-pristine object now lost to time.

Curiosity gnawed at me, and I crouched to retrieve it. The brittle pages resisted as I opened it, the faint scent of mildew rising from within. The writing was intricate but indecipherable, symbols and letters that meant nothing to me. Still, something compelled me to keep turning the pages, my fingers trembling slightly with anticipation.

Midway through the book, the text gave way to sketches. My breath hitched. The drawings were crude yet terrifying, depicting monstrous creatures with elongated limbs and jagged features. Darkspawn. Or at least, something disturbingly similar.

One sketch stopped me cold. A massive creature towered over what appeared to be a city, its shadow swallowing everything in its path. Boxy structures lined the streets, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the beast. My stomach churned as I imagined something like that emerging from the rift, unstoppable, inevitable.

I turned the pages faster, a desperate need to uncover more driving me. Near the end of the book, a small object slipped free and fluttered to the ground. I picked it up carefully.

It was a panting —smooth, glossy, and unnervingly vivid. A man and a woman stood arm in arm, smiling warmly, while a child clung to the man’s shirt. The sight was a sharp contrast to the desolation around me. It spoke of life, of warmth, of a world that had been alive before the darkness consumed it.

I slid the art back into the book, tucking it into the center. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I couldn’t leave it behind. Maybe someone at Ravenspire would understand the language, the symbols. Maybe the answers were there, waiting to be discovered.

The others were gathered in the central room, its cracked walls surprisingly intact. Broken furniture had been pushed to the edges, leaving an open space in the center where the group had settled.

Roran stood by the doorway, his sword leaning against the wall. His sharp gaze swept over me as I entered, but he said nothing. The warrior sat on a chunk of rubble, methodically sharpening his broadsword, the scrape of metal on stone filling the silence. The two mages were seated cross-legged near the center, their postures deceptively relaxed but their gazes sharp.

One of the mages, a wiry man with sharp features, raised his eyes to meet mine. “If we’re going to fight together, we might as well know who we’re fighting with,” he said, his voice calm but probing. “What’s your name?”

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“Kael,” I said, my voice steady despite the scrutiny.

The other mage, a heavyset man with a scar cutting across his face from temple to jaw, gave me a once-over. “He’s green,” he muttered to the warrior, his tone dismissive.

The warrior snorted, not looking up from his blade. “Doesn’t matter. If he’s made it this far, he’s got something to him.”

Roran’s voice cut through, sharp and firm. “Enough. He’s here, same as the rest of us. If he wasn’t capable, he’d be dead already.”

The wiry mage gave me a faint nod, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Tarn,” he said simply, introducing himself.

The scarred mage grunted. “Jorik,” he added, his tone gruff.

The warrior finally looked up, his expression unamused. “Dren. Not that it matters. We’ve all seen how this goes.”

Their words carried the weight of bitter experience, and I nodded, saying nothing. The group fell into a tense silence until Roran shifted, his gaze sweeping over us.

“All right,” Roran said, his tone commanding as he crossed his arms. “We’ve got to stay alive long enough to reach the heart of the rift. That’s the only way this ends. We don’t know what’s waiting for us, but we do know it’ll get worse the closer we get.”

He gestured toward the door. “If those things hit us in force again, we’ll need to know how to work together. Let’s lay it out, what you can do, what you’re good at.”

Tarn leaned back slightly, his sharp gaze flicking between the group. “I’ll start,” he said, his voice calm. “Lightning affinity, tier 3. I can handle groups of enemies with chaining spells, and I’m decent at crowd control. As long as we’ve got backup to cover me, I can keep the pressure on.”

Jorik nodded curtly, his tone gruff but measured. “Ice affinity, also tier 3. My spells are better for defense and slowing enemies. I can put barriers in place or freeze the bastards if they get too close, but I need time to set it up.”

Dren set his broadsword down, his fingers brushing over its worn handle as he spoke. “Body talent,” he said simply. “Tier 4. I heal fast, faster than most, and I can boost my strength when things get ugly. Keeps me in the fight longer than most.”

Roran’s expression remained unreadable as he addressed the group. “I’m a body and water talent, tier 5,” he said, his tone steady. “I can enhance myself physically and manipulate water for offense or defense. My strength and stamina make me the front line, but I’ve got enough range to support if things go sideways.”

The others nodded at his words, their expressions shifting slightly with respect. Tier 5 wasn’t common, In Elderwood anyway, and it was clear Roran’s experience wasn’t the only reason he was the one giving orders.

The silence stretched until I realized all eyes had turned to me. I hesitated, the weight of their gazes pressing down on me.

“I’m… a body talent,” I said finally, my voice steadying as I continued. “Tier 1. I can enhance my strength, speed, and awareness.”

Tarn gave me an appraising look, his sharp features softening slightly. “Speed and awareness can make all the difference,” he said. “It’s not always about raw power.”

Dren shrugged, his expression neutral. “Tier 1 or not, you’ve held your ground. We’ve seen worse out here.”

Roran nodded, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he turned back to the group. “Good. Now we know what we’re working with. Keep those abilities in mind when we’re in the thick of it. Cover each other’s weaknesses, and don’t break formation. If we can stay coordinated, we’ve got a shot.”

Jorik leaned forward slightly, his scarred face illuminated by the faint glow of mana lingering at his fingertips. “What about the big one we fought earlier? That thing was stronger than anything I’ve seen so far. Are we expecting more of those?”

Roran’s jaw tightened. “Probably,” he said bluntly. “The closer we get to the rift, the worse it’ll get. We’ll see more, and possibly worse. We’ll need to hit them hard and fast before they have a chance to overwhelm us.”

Tarn nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Then we’ll need to conserve mana. No wasting it on smaller threats.”

“Agreed,” Roran said. “Pick your moments. If you can save your mana for the bigger threats or anything else that stands out, do it. Dren and I will hold the front line as long as we can. Jorik, Tarn—focus on covering our flanks and controlling the flow of enemies.”

The mages exchanged glances before nodding in agreement.

“What about him?” Dren asked, nodding toward me.

Roran glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Kael’s fast. He’ll stay flexible. Support where you’re needed—fill in the gaps. But don’t get reckless. You’re no use to anyone if you burn yourself out or get yourself killed.”

The words were harsh, but I nodded. He wasn’t wrong.

“Anything else?” Roran asked, his gaze sweeping over the group.

No one spoke. The weight of the plan settled over us like a heavy blanket.

As the night wore on, no one slept. Tarn leaned against the wall, his head nodding slightly, while Jorik sat with his back to the room, keeping watch. Dren remained seated, his broadsword resting across his lap as his eyes darted to every shadow. Roran sat near the doorway, his expression distant but vigilant.

I stayed awake, the journal resting on my lap. My fingers traced its edges absently, my thoughts turning over and over in my mind. The painting lingered in my memory, its warmth a stark contrast to the desolation around me. What had happened to that family? What would Roran’s world look like if this darkness wasn’t stopped?

A faint growl echoed from somewhere far away, a reminder of the darkspawn lurking just beyond our fragile refuge. I tightened my grip on the journal, forcing myself to focus.

Since coming here, one truth had settled into my bones: strength was the only thing that mattered. If I wanted to survive—if I wanted to make any of this count—I needed to be stronger.

I leaned my head back against the wall, letting out a slow breath. The answers weren’t coming tonight. For now, all I could do was prepare for what lay ahead. The rift’s heart waited, and we had to reach it—no matter the cost.