Chapter 2 – Into the Shattered Light

Ash returned home, pushing open the door to the warm scent of cooked vegetables and herbs drifting through the cabin.

“I’m back,” he called, brushing the cold from his shoulders as he stepped inside. “So—what’d you cook up?”

Iris glanced over from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Some vegetables and fruit from the garden were ready to pick today. We’ll be eating that—with a bit of frozen meat from the ice box.”

Ash nodded and made his way to the sink, washing the grime and blood of the hunt from his hands and face. The cool water refreshed him, rinsing away the weariness of the day.

He pulled out a chair at the small, circular table and sat down. A few moments passed in quiet before Arcea’s voice broke the silence.

“So, Dad,” she said between bites, “can I come with you? I wanna fight a beastman too—like the ones Toby talked about!”

Iris set her fork down with a sharp look. “Absolutely not. You’re too young. You don’t understand the dangers outside this forest.”

Arcea slumped, her horns casting small shadows over her downturned eyes. She began quietly poking at her food.

Ash watched her for a moment, then sighed.

“Your mother’s right,” he said. “You’re still too young… and you haven’t learned to control your strength yet.”

Arcea didn’t look up.

“But,” Ash added, his tone softening, “if you keep training hard, and show me real improvement—maybe I’ll consider it.”

Her eyes lit up instantly. “Really?!”

Ash chuckled and nodded. “Yeah. It’s a promise. All three of us can go—on a little family trip. Maybe have a picnic on one of the high mountains, where you can see the core clearly.”

Arcea’s grin returned like sunshine through a storm.

Iris smiled faintly. “When are you leaving?”

Ash leaned back and thought for a moment. “First thing tomorrow. I’ll pack up and head out early. Want to reach Bernswick before the first giant Night Stone rises.”

Iris nodded. “Then I’ll make sure lunch is ready for you before you go.”

After dinner, Arcea stood up from the table. “I’m done! I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

She paused at the edge of the hallway, glancing back once—then darted off into her room. As she shut the door, a mischievous grin spread across her face.

“Sorry, Dad… but I’m not getting left behind. This is way too exciting to miss,” she whispered. “Time to get ready for an adventure.”

Back in the kitchen, Ash and Iris talked a while longer. Eventually, Iris began clearing the dishes.

Ash stood and stretched. “Guess I’ll get a few things ready before it gets dark.”

Iris glanced over her shoulder, a teasing smile curling at her lips. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

Ash smirked. “I won’t. I’ll finish up quick.”

He stepped outside. The chill of approaching night clung to the air. To his right, propped against the wall, rested the old hunting rifle— He picked it up and made his way toward the shed.

The shed was plain and weathered, its modest frame covered in moss and rust-streaked hinges. But inside, it was deceptively smaller than it appeared on the outside—intentionally so.

Ash stepped in and shut the door behind him. The scent of dust and oil filled his nose. Tools hung on pegs, dull blades stacked beside crates of spare parts. In the back corner, partially obscured behind a barrel of scrap, he found what he was looking for.

He dragged the barrel aside, revealing a narrow seam in the wall. With practiced hands, he pressed in one of the boards. A hidden door creaked open, swinging inward into a shadowed chamber.

His armory.

It was kept hidden not just from strangers, but from Arcea as well. If she ever discovered it, she'd treat the weapons like toys—swinging heavy axes and tools with reckless delight, not realizing how easily her strength could turn play into disaster, turning the beam blades into playthings. One slip, and she could hurt herself or worse. Keeping it secret was the only way to protect her from her own curiosity and strength.

This space was his own—fortified, hidden, personal. The walls were lined with mounted weapons: axes and blades, some dulled with age, others still bearing dried flecks of blood. Most belonged to Iris—when she wasn’t using her beam blades, she favored one-handed axes. Practical, brutal.

He crossed to the center rack and paused. Hanging in the middle, perfectly centered, were two crescent-shaped weapons. Beam blades.

Each had a long, black grip running the length of the crescent. At both ends were dormant emitters, smooth and unblemished. They didn’t hum with energy like they did when active. But they pulsed faintly beneath the metal casing, ready to be awakened.

Ash ran his fingers slowly along one of them, tracing the curve of the grip. As he touched the cold alloy.

These weren’t like the mass-produced RUIN beam weapons—the short swords and spears they issued to every field unit. These were something else. The design was unique, the craftsmanship unmistakably personal. Iris never said where she got them. Only that they were hers. One of a kind.

He opened the drawer beneath the weapon mount and saw it—the old combat outfit Iris had worn the day they met. Black, torn in places, reinforced leather pauldrons stitched onto the shoulders. It was faded now, cracked with age and battles.

She never talked much about her past.

But she didn’t need to.

Ash stared for a long moment, the silence thick around him.

Then, slowly, he reached up, brushed his hand along the beam blade again—and let the memory take him.

He was on his way home after a long day in his secret tunnel that he was digging near Bernswick village. The Night Stone had already moved into position, plunging the world into its unnatural darkness. As Ash walked the edge of the forest, he heard voices—distant, muffled, and angry.

Then came a scream.

He crept toward the treeline, careful not to snap a branch or rustle a leaf. Peering out from behind a thick trunk, he saw a disturbing scene: RUIN nobles, dressed in their opulent coats and primitive armor, mounted on tamed beasts. Five in total—Bernswick among them. Several guards stood on foot nearby, forming a loose perimeter. And at the center of it all lay a collapsed green-skinned figure—barely moving, with three arrows piercing her body—one lodged in her shoulder, another in her leg, and the third buried deep in her side.

Bernswick knelt over her, face twisted in rage and smeared with soot. His hands were raw and bloodied from repeated strikes. An arrow—piercing a human eyeball—was lodged in the dirt beside him. He kept swinging, screaming curses that didn’t even make sense anymore.

Ash's vision blurred with rage.

For a moment, all he could see was the face of the man responsible for his parents' deaths. The memories surged—the quiet nights shattered by fire, the hollow ache of loss, the burning hatred that never truly faded.

He didn't hesitate.

Ash charged without thinking. His pickaxe came down like thunder, aimed straight at Bernswick’s skull—raw fury driving every muscle. But just before the strike landed, his personal guard lunged forward, trying to shove Bernswick aside. The guard wasn't fast enough. The pickaxe veered slightly off-course and slammed deep into Bernswick’s calf with a sickening crunch.

Bernswick howled in pain, collapsing to the forest floor clutching his leg, the pickaxe still jutting from his calf. Blood soaked the grass beneath him. One of the mounted nobles cursed and pulled his reins, already turning to flee.

“Get him out of here!” a guard shouted. “Now!”

Ash yanked the pickaxe free with a wet shlck, raising it high for another swing—when a sudden volley of arrows sliced through the air toward him.

He instinctively dove to the side, rolling through the dirt and coming up in a crouch, ready for another shot—

But nothing hit.

He blinked, scanning around. One arrow stuck in a tree far behind him. Another bounced off a rock. The rest were scattered in the grass.

Only then did he realize—he hadn’t needed to dodge at all.

Four of the nobles had fired in blind panic, their hands trembling as they loosed wild, unfocused shots. They looked like warriors in their tailored cloaks and gilded bows—but they shot like they'd never trained a day in their lives.

Ash scoffed quietly. Pathetic.

His eyes snapped back to the center of the clearing. Two of the guards were hauling Bernswick to his feet, slinging his arm over their shoulders. Blood poured down his calf, soaking the stirrups of a nearby mount.

“Sir, we need to move—now!” one barked. “You're wounded!”

Bernswick’s face twisted in pain and disbelief. His flesh was blistered and blackened down one side—raw, cracked skin still weeping from whatever had burned him earlier. One eye was nearly swollen shut beneath the scorched mess.

As the guards hoisted him onto the mount, he locked eyes with Ash, dazed and horrified. “How... how are you still alive?!”

Ash didn’t answer. He just smirked—a cold, slow curl of the lips. Seeing Bernswick in agony stirred something deep in his chest. Not joy. Not satisfaction. But a momentary sense of justice. Even if it wasn’t enough.

Because Bernswick was getting away.

That burned more than anything else.

“Get him out of here—now!” one of the guards barked. “The rest of you, ride! We’ll hold him off!”

The nobles spurred their mounts and vanished into the trees, leaving Ash staring down the last four guards as the sound of hoofbeats faded into the night.

He adjusted his grip on the pickaxe. His smirk faded. There was still blood to spill

The four guards began to move, spreading out in a crescent formation—three closing in from the front, one holding position in the rear. Ash gritted his teeth. Outnumbered, outgeared, and armed with nothing but a chipped, rust-spotted pickaxe.

They knew it too.

The man in the back raised a short metal rod, tipped with a glowing blue crystal—the unmistakable flicker of an Ice Core shard pulsing with unstable power. A thin mist coiled from its tip, and a sharp chill crept across the clearing. The temperature dropped fast—enough for Ash to see his breath. Frost dusted the grass and bark nearby, creeping outward in delicate patterns.

Ash’s eyes narrowed.

A caster. That shard wasn’t just for show—the man had a real magical affinity. Rare. Dangerous. Elemental shards were worthless in most hands. But with affinity, they became lethal weapons. Ash couldn’t afford to underestimate that one.

The other three guards began closing in from the front, their formation tight and deliberate. One bore a thick two-handed axe. Another stood with bare fists clenched like hammers. The third held a humming white beam dagger, the blade buzzing faintly through the cold air.

Ash adjusted his grip on the pickaxe and waited.

Then—he heard it.

A sharp crackling, like bones under pressure. Faint at first… then surging. The hairs on his neck stood up.

Something's coming from behind.

He twisted just as a jagged spike of ice erupted from the earth, shrieking upward with a blast of frost. It nearly skewered through his spine.

Ash dove, the frozen spike grazing behind him—and landed hard—just in time to see the axe wielder stepping into position, towering over him with the massive weapon already mid-swing.

WHUMP!

The axe came crashing down, splitting the dirt where Ash’s head had been. He rolled right, breath ragged, and pushed up into a crouch.

The axe wielder grunted and yanked the massive blade free from the earth—but it had sunk deep. As he heaved it upward, his weight shifted awkwardly, momentum dragging him just off balance.

Ash saw the opening.

In one swift motion, he slid the broken pickaxe low between the man’s legs. With a sharp twist and pull, he caught behind the guard’s knee and yanked hard.

The brute, still mid-lift, had no way to counter. His footing failed, and he toppled sideways with a heavy thud, his weapon crashing into the ground beside him.

Then—he heard it again.

That sound. A sharp, crystalline crackling just behind his left side.

Ash didn’t hesitate.

He rolled, just as another ice spike erupted from the ground where he’d been crouching. It sheared upward in a blast of frost, cold mist slicing across his shoulder as he barely avoided it.

The air was getting colder by the second.

His foot clipped a frozen patch as he scrambled up—his bootlace stiffening instantly, crackling with frost.

Then came a new threat.

A beam dagger slashed toward him.

He raised the pickaxe just in time. FZZZKT! The plasma blade sliced clean through the wooden haft, severing it with precise energy. A hot burn flashed across Ash’s chest, the edge of the blade branding his flesh and fabric.

He staggered, breath catching—but didn’t back down.

He let the broken haft fall from his hand, splinters still warm in his palm.

Then he lunged forward, caught the dagger-wielding guard’s wrist in a crushing grip, and pivoted him directly into the path of the unarmed guard, who already had his fist cocked back, ready to deliver a punch.

The strike collided—off-target, slowed.

The unarmed guard flinched, his momentum thrown off.

That was enough.

Ash drove the jagged head of the broken pickaxe into the dagger-wielder’s chest. Blood spurted from the wound as the man choked and sagged forward.

Ash ripped the beam dagger from his failing hand just in time to turn—

THWAM!

The axe came down again, faster this time.

Ash reflexively raised the old pickaxe—what was left of it.

The axe smashed into it with devastating force, tearing it from Ash’s hands and sending it clattering across the dirt. The shock tore through his arm—splinters sliced his palm open.

He staggered back, the dagger now his only weapon.

The axe wielder pressed forward, swinging again—Ash lurched sideways, the dodge clumsy and off-balance, barely avoiding the sweeping blow. His ribs screamed in protest, but he forced himself forward, driving the dagger toward the man’s ribs.

But just as he closed the distance—

A heavy boot slammed into his ribs from the side. The unarmed guard had flanked him, driving a brutal kick into his side.

CRACK!

Ash hit the ground hard, rolling and coughing. Something deep in his ribs fractured.

And then—he heard it again.

Crackling. The sound of death. Right behind him.

The caster had stabilized. His Ice Core rod pulsed brightly now, frost swirling from its tip. His boots were rimed with ice. His lips moved in a slow, measured chant.

Ash couldn’t move.

This is it.

But before the spell could be unleashed—

VRRRZ-KTTZZT!

The caster screamed.

His legs—gone. Sliced clean at the ankles by a sudden blue flash.

He crumpled forward in agony, landing in a twisted sprawl. The Ice Core rod clattered beside him, inert.

Lying behind him on the ground, flat on her back, was The green-skinned woman—barely conscious, one arm limp and the other struggling to hold the weapon aloft. Her beam blade flickered and hissed, its blue plasma casting ghostly light over the blood-slicked earth.

With the last of her strength, she swung again—clumsily, from where she lay.

FZZZZZZZZZT-KRAK!

The blade carved straight through the caster’s shield. Through armor. Through his chest and spine.

His body jerked once—then went still, a line of scorched flesh glowing through his torso. For a moment, he twitched… then his upper half peeled open along the cauterized cut, blood and steam hissing where the plasma had split him in two.

Ash’s breath caught. But the two remaining guards were just as stunned.

He didn’t hesitate.

In one smooth motion, he hurled the beam dagger—spinning, humming—toward the stunned unarmed guard. The man turned just in time to see it before it plunged straight through his eye and into his skull.

The blade didn’t just pierce—it boiled his brain, the plasma hissing as flesh melted. The guard collapsed, twitching, until the weapon shut itself down and clattered to the dirt beside him.

Ash stood slowly, chest rising and falling, his fingers still trembling from the dagger throw.

Only one guard remained—the axe wielder.

He let out a roar and charged again, swinging wildly. Ash ducked, sidestepped, pivoted—barely avoiding the whirling death strokes. He was fast, but the axe was heavy, and Ash had no weapon left.

Then a thought hit him.

He slowed down. Let his shoulders sag. Feigned a stumble. Hunched over like he was ready to collapse.

The axe guard grinned and raised his weapon.

Ash smirked, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He dragged his sleeve across his chin, smearing it red, then looked up at the guard with defiant eyes.

“You’re the last one,” he said, voice strained but steady. “One more to go… then I get to go home.”

The guard snarled and charged—axe lifted high, ready to cleave Ash in half.

Ash didn’t run. He waited. Just as the axe came down towards his side, Ash rolled forward beneath the swing.

The axe wielder snarled and turned sharply—just in time to feel the impact of Ash’s shoulder as he slammed into him, tackling him with full force. The collision knocked the guard backward, staggering his footing as the momentum of his missed swing left him wide open.

SHHK!

The spike of ice still jutted from the ground behind him—the one he’d dodged minutes ago.

The axe wielder never saw it.

It rammed up into his back, piercing through his ribs and out his chest. Blood spilled down the frozen shard in thick, steaming globs. His mouth opened in a final gasp, blood running down his chin as he glared at Ash in disbelief.

“Bastard…”

Then his eyes rolled back, and his body slumped against the spike—dead.

Ash stood amidst the dead and dying, his chest heaving. Blood dripped from his own chest and hands. Around him, the corpses of four men cooled in the forest night.

And not a single one had survived.

He turned to leave—but then stopped.

The green-skinned woman was still breathing.

Her face was almost unrecognizable, swollen and bloodied beyond recognition. Arrows jutted from her side, her leg, her shoulder—deep punctures that hadn’t stopped bleeding. One of her arms twitched slightly, fingers curling weakly against the moss.

Ash hesitated only a moment.

Then he stepped forward and scooped her into his arms—carrying her in a princess hold, careful not to jostle the embedded shafts. She was light, unnervingly so, her body limp against his chest. Her blood smeared across his torn shirt as he turned from the carnage and began the long walk home.

Through dark woods and chilled air, he carried her.

to his home.

Ash blinked and found himself back in the shed, standing silently before the open drawer. He exhaled through his nose and slid it shut.

He moved briskly now—gathering what he needed. From the upper shelf, he took a pair of core orbs and tucked them into a worn pouch at his hip. A small dagger followed, its hilt wrapped in old leather. He dug through a lower drawer and pulled out a thick, ragged cloak—faded and stitched in places from years of use.

Then came the travel pack, hanging on the far wall, and a rolled-up bedroll lashed beside it. He slung both over his shoulder.

Satisfied, he reached over and flipped the light switch. The shed dimmed, only shadows remaining.

He stepped outside.

Above, the sky had shifted. The glowing core was now hidden—its pale light swallowed behind the slow, grinding movement of the Night Stone. The land was wrapped in darkness, save for the faint shimmer of stars and frost clinging to the trees.

Ash turned toward the cabin, the pack heavy against his back.

Inside, the faint glow of a lantern spilled through the window. Iris was waiting.

He exhaled and walked toward the door, ready to return to her before dawn came.

The Next Morning

Ash awoke to an empty bed. Pale light filtered through the cabin shutters—the second day cycle had just begun. He sat up, stretched, and dressed quickly, the aches of yesterday still lingering in his joints.

Stepping out of the room, he found Iris in the kitchen, already busy. The soft clatter of plates and the scent of cooked fruit and fried vegetables filled the air. She was preparing breakfast—and carefully packing his lunch for the road.

Ash approached quietly, then wrapped his arms around her from behind. He kissed her cheek and held her there for a moment, eyes half-closed, savoring the warmth.

Then he pulled away to finish packing. He checked through his travel gear, inspecting every strap, pouch, and tool.

That’s when the ground trembled beneath him—just slightly. But enough to know exactly who was responsible.

Ash stepped outside, the crisp morning air hitting his skin. The forest glowed with faint blue corelight through the trees, and a low mist clung to the grass.

He glanced across the deck, scanning the workbenches and crates for anything else he might need. Nothing urgent. He continued toward the training grounds.

And sure enough, there it was—a shallow crater smoking in the dirt.

He sighed.

“Make sure you fill in that crater before the end of the day,” he called out.

Across the clearing, Arcea stood, breathing heavily, sweat glistening along her brow. She gripped a massive two-handed wooden training axe, shaped to match the weight and resistance of a real one. Her small arms trembled slightly as she adjusted her stance.

Ash narrowed his eyes. She was focusing harder than usual.

She inhaled slowly—then exhaled, her posture steadying.

She stepped forward.

With a deep breath and one clean motion, she swung the heavy axe.

BOOM.

The wood shattered instantly. Splinters burst into the air as the dummy exploded into flying limbs and padding. The haft of the axe cracked in half, the top end cartwheeling into the bushes.

Arcea gasped, her arms dropping as her legs gave out slightly. She caught herself, but it was clear—she had pushed herself too far again.

Ash stepped forward, ready to say something—when Iris’s voice rang from the cabin.

“Breakfast is ready! Both of you—get inside!”

Arcea turned, still breathing heavily. “Okay…”

They returned to the cabin, drawn by the smell of freshly made food. The three sat at the table, the plates warm and filled.

After a few bites, Iris looked at Ash. “You have everything ready?”

Ash nodded. “Yeah. I think so. If I forgot anything, I’ll grab it once I get to Bernswick village.”

Arcea perked up, curiosity flooding her expression. “Where is Bernswick village? Is it far? Is it in the same direction Toby always heads home?”

Ash set down his cup and shook his head. “No. It’s the opposite direction from where Toby is headed.”

Her eyes narrowed, full of questions. “So… when you get there, are you gonna hunt the beastman right away?”

Ash took another drink, then answered calmly, “No. I need more information first. I’ll be stopping by the Adventurers Guild branch office. They should have the details Toby mentioned—including information from the witness.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Once I find the witness, I’ll make sure they didn’t miss anything. Especially when it comes to the beastman. Every detail matters. Even the smallest observation can give me an edge.”

He paused, then added, "If you know your enemy—how they move, how they think, what they want—you can fight smarter. Charging in blind gets you killed. But even one piece of real knowledge can turn the tide. A single mistake from them becomes your opening. That’s why gathering information comes first. Knowing is half the battle—and it’s the part most people ignore."

Arcea, clearly satisfied with the answer, finished her breakfast and stood, yawning. “I used too much energy this morning… I’m gonna take a nap.”

She dragged herself to her room and flopped into bed.

Ash and Iris sat together a while longer, speaking in hushed tones. Eventually, Ash stood and made his way to Arcea’s room. He watched her for a few quiet moments, the rise and fall of her chest slow and steady.

Then he shut the door gently and returned to the kitchen, travel pack slung over one shoulder.

Iris approached, holding out a small wrapped parcel. “Your lunch,” she said. “Be careful out there. We’ll be waiting for you.”

She leaned in and kissed him softly.

“I’ll see you later.”

Ash stepped out onto the porch. His polearm leaned against the wall—right where he’d left it. He took it in hand, slinging it up onto his shoulder as he started down the winding forest path.

Lumin hovered nearby, glowing faintly, flickering in gentle loops around him.

From the porch, Iris watched him go—her gaze lingering as Ash stepped off the deck and into the blue-hazed forest. The morning mist curled around his boots, swirling through the moss-covered roots and tall grasses. Shafts of corelight broke through the canopy in scattered beams, casting glimmers across his cloak. Lumin glided in slow, lazy circles overhead, its glow trailing behind like a comet. Ash didn’t look back—he just kept walking, steady and silent, until the trees swallowed him whole.

Ash had been walking for hours when he glanced up and noticed a small Night Stone beginning to drift into position overhead, slowly eclipsing the core’s blue light.

He narrowed his eyes, judging its size and speed.

“This one’ll last maybe an hour,” he muttered to himself. “Might as well take a break.”

He stepped off the grassy path he had traveled countless times before—one carved not by markers or signs, but by memory and instinct, winding through the open grasslands between shattered treelines. This was the same route he’d used years ago when digging his secret mine near Bernswick. He found a familiar mossy rock and set his pack down beside it. From within, he pulled the lunch Iris had packed—still warm, wrapped in cloth.

Ash sat down, unwrapped the food, and took a slow bite as Lumin hovered above, casting a soft glow that kept the growing shadows at bay. The forest darkened around them, but their little clearing remained lit, peaceful in the twilight.

Back at the cabin, Iris knelt in the garden, dirt under her nails as she tended to the ripened vegetables. She paused, wiping sweat from her brow.

Something felt… off.

She stood, dusted herself off, and walked toward the house. Arcea had been asleep a long time.

Iris stepped into the cabin, wiping her hands as she crossed the floor. Everything was still. The hallway was quiet. She glanced around—the chairs were undisturbed, no dishes out of place, nothing shifted or moved. It looked as though Arcea hadn’t even left her room.

Iris opened the door to her daughter’s room—and immediately noticed something wrong.

The lump under the covers was the wrong shape—a poorly designed, lumpy attempt to mimic a sleeping figure. The kind of childish deception only an eight-year-old would think could fool a parent. It was clearly a pile of bundled clothes, shoved together haphazardly to give the illusion of someone beneath the blanket.

Her eyes narrowed.

She yanked the blanket away.

A pile of bundled clothes lay where Arcea should have been. Atop it, a hastily scrawled note.

Iris snatched it up and read:

Sorry Mom, I snuck out. I’m going after Dad. I’m tired of being stuck in this forest all the time, so I’m going to catch up with him and help on his adventure.

Her fingers crushed the note into a tight ball. Her eyes flashed.

Without a word, Iris bolted to the shed. She grabbed her axes, threw supplies into a small bag, and stepped outside—just in time to spot two unknown figures emerging from the treeline.

Her hand dropped to the haft of her weapon.

“Who are you?” she demanded, voice cold. “Show yourself.”

As the Night Core covered this part of the Shattered Lands, Arcea waited patiently for the core’s light to shine once more. She crouched near a narrow path cutting through the tall grasslands, quietly thanking her father for all the tracking lessons he had taught her—because now, she was following his trail with ease. A wide smile stretched across her face as she thought about how she had outsmarted both her parents.

Earlier that morning, Arcea had stood outside, watching as the Night Stone slowly drifted out of alignment, allowing the core’s light to brighten the training field once more.

She had waited for the perfect moment.

As soon as she heard her father stir in the house, she splashed cold water on her face, slammed her fist into the earth to make the ground tremble, and stepped into position.

She channeled her power, destroyed the training dummy, and feigned exhaustion. Through breakfast, she pretended to be drained and sluggish. Then she retreated to her room and burrowed beneath the covers.

Waiting.

She listened carefully—until she heard the door close behind Ash as he left.

A smile curled across her lips.

“Dad’s finally gone…”

She stayed still until she heard Iris start digging through the shed—rattling through old tools and gardening supplies, her movements loud and clear. With her mother fully distracted, Arcea knew it was time to act.

Then, in one swift motion, she leapt out of bed and pulled a hidden travel bag from beneath the frame. She shoved it over her shoulder, climbed out the window, and dropped silently to the ground.

Beneath the deck, hidden far underneath layers of warped boards and scattered old tools, Arcea crouched and moved with painstaking care. She eased the wooden planks aside, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried not to make a sound. Every creak of shifting wood made her pause, holding her breath, dreading that her mother’s keen hearing might pick it up. She made sure she could still hear the sounds of her mother rummaging around in the shed—shovels clanking, wood creaking—confirming she was still distracted.. Slowly, methodically, she cleared the final layer—revealing her hidden prize. It was a giant, twisted hunk of metal—something she had discovered deep in the forest months ago, half-buried under moss and soil. It was a single, massive hunk of metal—far too massive to be carried in by a single person but arcea was not just a normal person— working in secret. With her bare hands, she bent, folded, and crumpled it into the rough shape of a club. Now it was her secret weapon—a crude, makeshift bludgeon. A scarred relic from the Shattering—twisted by time and force.

She hefted it as quiet as possible and took off, walking as quietly as she could through the east side of the forest—far enough that her mother couldn’t hear her.

Then she turned south—toward the forest’s edge. Trees thinned with every step, the shadows breaking apart as golden-blue corelight spilled more freely through the canopy. Her sandals padded softly over the twigs and leaves, and the wind began to shift, carrying unfamiliar scents—flowers she’d never smelled, grasslands she’d never touched.

She reached the treeline and stopped.

Before her stretched the open world: tall, swaying grasses bathed in fractured sunlight, massive broken stone arcs rising in the far distance—remnants of old lands flung skyward by the cataclysm. The Shattered Lands, in their wild, untamed beauty, unfolded before her for the first time.

Arcea grinned, eyes wide with wonder.

She stepped forward.

Following the path her father had taken.

Ready to chase him into the unknown.

The darkness lifted, breaking the spell of stillness that had cloaked her in reflection. Her thoughts of triumph and cleverness faded as the Night Stone moved on, and the sky above gleamed once more with fractured light from the core. Arcea sprang up from where she’d crouched, grinning from ear to ear.

She sprinted off, her heart pounding with excitement as she resumed following Ash’s trail—her footsteps light and swift, her eyes locked on the faint imprints he had left behind. The wide, broken world lay before her, and she was ready to meet it head-on.