The twin moons of Arlath shimmered above the ruins of Eryndor, their silver light washing over broken stone and tangled vines. A cold wind whispered through the rubble, carrying with it the faint smell of burnt earth and something older—like dust that had slept for centuries.

  He had waited five years for this night.

  From deeper in the ruins came the sound of drums—slow, rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat through stone and marrow. The vibration tickled his boots, climbed his spine, and settled behind his eyes.

  He crept closer, each step a silent prayer. Gravel crunched faintly beneath his soles, and the scent of moss and rusted iron filled his nose. A crack in the rubble gave him a view.

  A circle of hooded figures stood chanting in a language older than empires. Their voices rose and fell like waves against stone. Between them, a crystal orb floated—levitating in the air, glowing with a ghostly pale light that cast flickering shadows across their faces.

  The Traveler didn’t know what it was. But something told him… they needed it. Which meant they shouldn’t have it.

  The shard in his hand pulsed in answer—warmth blooming against his palm like a heartbeat not his own.

  Then, one figure stopped chanting and turned toward his hiding place.

  The traveler froze. His breath caught in his throat. His lungs ached with the effort of silence.

  A squirrel darted from the shadows, scattering pebbles with a sharp clatter.

  All eyes shifted, searching the shadows where none seemed to watch.

  Then the shard flared in his hand.

  The orb answered.

  Every hooded head snapped toward him at once.

  “We know someone is there,” a cold voice called. Its echo slithered down the ruined hall.

  “Before we resort to violence… reveal yourself.”

  He stepped out slowly, hood drawn low.

  Say something. Stall for time.

  “I don’t want trouble,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Just passing through. Heard something strange. Thought it was a ceremony.”

  A ripple of dark laughter.

  The tallest figure stepped forward. Firelight gleamed on the strange insignia stitched over his chest: a circle, with a spear at its center, coiled by a serpent.

  The traveler’s gut clenched.

  The same mark worn by the ones who took his family… who burned his village.

  His fingers tightened around the shard, knuckles pale.

  They began to fan out, silent but swift, their boots whispering over the stones, circling him like wolves.

  Say something. Stall for time.

  “What is this… some kind of party?” he asked, forcing a weak smile. “Didn’t get the invite.”

  “A party?” the tall one hissed, voice like cracked ice. “Oh… in a way.”

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  They stepped closer.

  He saw his opening—two broke off to flank him, leaving a narrow path straight toward the orb and the tall figure.

  Without hesitation, he lowered his shoulder and charged.

  They hadn’t expected that.

  He was already moving—fast—the fastest runner in his village.

  Wind howled in his ears. His heart slammed in his chest.

  Before the circle could close, he was through—grabbing the orb in both hands.

  He sprinted into the night, the orb thrumming with cold energy against his chest.

  “After him!”

  Boots thundered behind him. Gravel sprayed as he vaulted a broken wall, then slid down a moss-slicked embankment.

  Behind him, the tall one’s voice rose—chanting.

  The ground began to tremble. The air grew thick—metallic, electric, like the sky before a storm.

  The traveler gritted his teeth, heart hammering.

  He thought of his father, holding this same shard beneath a burning sky.

  How did you do it, Father?

  He raised the shard high.

  Willed the wind to come.

  A weak breeze stirred his hair. Nothing more.

  A dark laugh echoed off the stones:

  “You don’t even know how to use it… do you?”

  The traveler’s jaw clenched. Shame and fury boiled in his gut.

  The Traveler clenched his fists, frustration gnawing at him. If I can’t summon storms like he does… then I’ll strike like one.

  He drew the shard’s power down into his legs.

  Lightning sparked across his boots, the air sizzling.

  Muscles surged with stormlight—and the chase became a blur of speed and violence.

  He spun on his heel, drawing a dagger.

  Two robed pursuers rushed him.

  Two strikes—two necks opened like ripe fruit—before they even realized.

  The tall one came next, gliding across the stones. The traveler lunged, blade flashing.

  But the man moved like shadow, slipping aside with unnatural grace.

  The traveler planted his feet for another attack—

  —but the ground beneath him cracked.

  Heat exploded upward. The stones glowed with fiery runes.

  The tall one’s chant reached a crescendo.

  A clawed, hulking monster erupted from the summoning circle—skin scorched and marked with glowing brands, its eyes burning like coals.

  The traveler’s instincts screamed.

  He slammed the shard to the ground, unleashing a gust of raw force beneath his feet.

  He soared into the air, coat whipping around him.

  Below, the beast’s claws carved through the space he’d just left.

  From above, he focused.

  Lightning coiled in his fist until it was blinding.

  With a roar, he fell like a thunderbolt.

  The strike landed.

  The ruins shook. Lightning ripped through the beast’s chest. The runes on its body shattered. It let out a strangled howl—and burst into smoke and ash.

  The traveler hit the ground hard, knees buckling.

  The shard hummed in his hand like a living thing.

  The tall figure stood untouched, eyes glowing faintly.

  “The Shard's heir…” the figure whispered. “This… isn’t over.”

  The traveler straightened, blood in his mouth, rage in his eyes.

  “Don’t you dare run away, you coward!”

  He wrapped lightning around his legs, muscles swelling as he pushed for greater speed. Heart pounding, he lunged at the tall man, dagger raised toward his throat.

  But the figure dissolved…”

  Vanishing like mist.

  His voice lingered, echoing on the wind:

  “You’ve tasted power, little Shardkeeper… but power always comes with a cost.”

  The traveler stood alone beneath the twin moons, chest heaving.

  The orb in one hand, the shard in the other.

  Ash drifted on the air like black snow.

  He thought of his father. Of the village. Of what was stolen.

  They know me now.

  They know I’m coming.

  Far in the distance, the drums began again.

  ? 2025 Damien Shard. All rights reserved. This story and all characters are original creations of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.

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