Rift Hollow

The sky was overcast when Shin left Nevernight the next morning. Mist clung to the rooftops and dew glistened along the cobbled streets like old tears. His cloak hung damp against his shoulders, but he didn’t mind. The cold kept his thoughts clear.

He walked east, toward the shrine.

The forest was hushed. Birds stirred but did not sing, and the wind weaved only faint murmurs through the trees. The world felt paused somehow—as if even time waited to see where he would go.

As he followed the river path past Ghostwood, the air grew heavier. Not with threat, but with memory. The kind that clings to bark and soil. The kind that never quite fades. Trees stood like sentinels along the trail, their trunks gnarled with age, leaves trembling as if holding back secrets.

He passed the quiet watch posts on the outskirts, then the outer farms now mostly empty in the early chill. A few goats wandered along a broken fence. Somewhere far behind him, a crow called once—and fell silent.

By the time he reached the river crossing, the sun had begun to climb, burning mist off the surface of the Ghostwood. Shadows withdrew reluctantly, revealing mossy stones, roots like reaching fingers, and the vague outline of forgotten paths beneath his feet.

The shrine came into view just beyond the bank. It was small. Old. Most of it had crumbled into ruin. Moss covered the base stones, and the pillars leaned precariously, as if they were holding each other up in fatigue.

But the symbols etched into the stone were unmistakable.

Shin knelt by the markings, brushing away ivy to reveal a fading spiral symbol—one he’d seen in the old journal. A sliver of the same energy that had stirred in his chest during the fight with the demon beast.

They weren’t just decorations. They were warnings.

He stood in silence for a long while, letting the weight of the place settle over him like an unseen hand on his shoulder. Then he reached for the map again. His gaze drifted to the red circle. Rift Hollow.

That name. It stuck in his mind like splinters. He opened the journal again, flipping between worn pages. Several entries referenced a ruin to the south of the shrine, beyond the Ghostwood ridge. A place called Rift Hollow.

His breath caught.

He’d been there before.

Alone.

Before he ever met Kael, or Reina, or the rest. Before the Iron Lily.

That first mission. The strange pull. The ruined place where the silence had felt alive.

The place where something inside him first shifted.

He was going back.

---

The road bent through increasingly narrow trails, roots coiled like veins across the ground. The forest thickened with each step. Mist returned in patches, drifting low like ghosts with nowhere left to haunt.

By mid afternoon, the wind grew still.

And then, he saw it again.

The ruin sat hidden among cliffs veiled in vines. It had no name on modern maps, but the journal had called it Rift Hollow—one of the lost temples abandoned after the old wars.

The same ruin he’d stumbled into weeks ago.

It stood as it had before—its blackened spires twisted and cracked, leaning against the sky like broken fingers. The circular well at the center yawned open, dark and still. No breeze touched this place. No birds circled overhead. Even the insects avoided it.

It had not changed.

But he had.

Shin stepped across the shattered threshold.

His boots made no sound against the stone floor. The halls beyond were damp with moss and shadow. A memory flickered behind his eyes—of walking this same corridor alone, the first time, pulse echoing like war drums.

He ran his hand along the wall, where moss parted under his touch to reveal carvings. Then, he pushed beyond where the first collapse had stopped him. Fallen stones had been cleared—likely by time, or perhaps by someone who came before him. The passage continued, curling like a serpent’s spine into the earth.

Deeper.

Carvings lined the walls. Not just symbols now—but murals. Depictions of men and beasts, flames and voids, eyes drawn as endless spirals. Some were almost childlike. Others so intricate they seemed to shimmer when torchlight passed over them.

Shin moved slowly, taking it all in.

Eventually, he found a door.

It was made of blackened metal, untouched by rust, sealed with a symbol he recognized immediately.

The mark that had burned into his arm the night the Abyss stirred.

His pulse quickened.

He hesitated—just once. Then he placed his hand to the door.

The metal warmed beneath his touch. Lines of silver light spread from his palm, tracing the grooves in a slow, glowing spiral.

With a soft hiss, the door slid open.

The chamber beyond was circular and hollowed from obsidian stone. The air inside was thick, not with dust, but presence. Something unseen stirred faintly—as though the room itself was aware.

At its center sat a stone pedestal.

Upon it—a single book.

Shin approached cautiously. Every step echoed in the chamber like whispers caught in stone.

The book’s cover was worn, but the spine remained intact. Faint glyphs glimmered along its edge, like stars on a dark sea. He hesitated, then opened it.

The first pages were written in careful script—notes on elemental theory, the balance between core disciplines: fire, wind, stone, water, and light. Shin flipped further—pages described sigils, incantation patterns, breathwork, even stance alignment during channeling.

But near the middle, the writing changed. It became fractured. Jagged. Almost fevered.

> “The Fifth Flame does not answer like the others.”

“It lives.”

“It remembers.”

“It is not summoned. It chooses.”

Shin’s breath caught.

Another line:

> “They sealed it in flesh, not stone. That is the price.”

And a final one, scrawled near the edge of the page:

> “He who wakes the Forgotten Flame must never sleep again.”

He stared at those words.

They made no sense.

And yet, they did.

They rang true in a way that defied logic. Something primal stirred in him—not fear, but recognition. As if the words were not being read for the first time, but remembered.

As he turned the final pages, more detail emerged. It wasn’t just a grimoire. It was a chronicle. A record of something called the Abyss Flame—a magic born from the first war between skyfire and void, a remnant of an ancient balance broken.

Not evil. Not good.

But vast. Sentient. And once sealed.

Only those who were marked could hear its whispers. Only those who endured its trials could survive it.

And those who failed… didn’t die.

They became it.

The last page read:

> “It does not choose the worthy.

It makes them.”

Shin remained still, torchlight dancing on the chamber’s walls.

Then he sat.

And for the first time, he did not fight the presence inside him.

He listened.

When he emerged from the ruin, the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the clearing. The air felt thinner. The world quieter.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

The journal now lay beside the newly found tome in his pack. Between them, threads of knowledge were beginning to form a web. A pattern. A warning. A promise.

He didn’t have answers yet.

But he had a path.

And tomorrow, he would begin.

That night, back in his modest room above the potter’s shop, Shin sat at his desk under flickering candlelight. The city outside was quiet—only the distant clink of metalwork and the low hush of sea wind filtering through alleyways.

He copied diagrams from the ancient book. Focus sigils. Breath timing for mana control. A pattern described as "vein-root tracing" used to sense inner flame. He traced each line as if committing it to memory—not just on paper, but into the rhythm of his own breath.

He drew each symbol with care.

And beneath the last one, he wrote:

> I will master this.

Not for power.

But to understand.

Not to destroy.

But to protect.

He closed the book.

The candle flickered once. Then steadied.

And for the first time in days, the presence inside him was quiet.

Not gone.

Just listening.

Waiting.

Hey everyone,

I just wanted to let you know that there won’t be a new chapter for a few days. I’m currently going through a bit of a tough time, and I need a little space to rest and breathe. I hope you understand 💛

This story is really close to my heart, and every comment, read, and silent support means the world to me. Even when things feel heavy, thinking about how far this story has come keeps me going.

Thank you for being patient. I’ll be back with more soon—stronger, clearer, and with chapters that’ll (hopefully) be worth the wait.

Until then, take care of yourselves too, okay?

With love,

—Author ✨