The Rift was a wound in the earth—torn open by hubris, or war, or some forgotten god’s dying breath. From it spilled twisted things that should never have crawled into this world. The very air around it warped, reality folding in on itself like bruised skin around a scar.

Jayce, once the prince of a crumbling kingdom, remained at the edge of that bleeding rift. He knew what it could do. What it had already taken. What it would take if no one held the line. Torn open and reshaped by it, he bore those wounds like a second skin. Still, he endured. Not for glory. Not even for vengeance. But for his people, he couldn’t let him get hurt in the same way he had.

At the border of chaos, he built a home—not of stone and comfort, but of runes etched in metal and spells hammered into weapons. A forge, a wall, a cage for the thing that should never breathe. It’s not a home, just a house. No emotion came of it, just a place to eat and sleep. No memories, no value.

The Rift marked him in return. Its magic seeped into him; bone-deep, mind-sharp. It made him strange. Half-wild. Edged at the soul.

But under the steel and shadows, there was still something soft left in him. A sliver of warmth, buried under ash. He still loved…quietly, wordlessly, endlessly. That part of him never died. It just hid.

It was another night, guarding it.

Jayce limped, barely noticeable under the weight of years and the brace strapped to his leg, but each movement was practiced. Calculated. His hand brushed the edge of the warding wall, where the glow of runes flickered faintly beneath his glove.

The wind howled strange songs across the wards, low and constant. Jayce limped along the outer wall, movements precise, deliberate. The brace on his leg groaned faintly, metal against scarred flesh. His fingers skimmed the pulse of the runes, checking each one. Still lit. Still holding. The great hammer he had forged himself, rested against his shoulder. A weapon for killing, nothing more, nothing less.

Every night, nothing came. Until tonight.

Tonight, something shifted. He felt it in his gut—a ripple, a warning. His stomach twisted with unease. He told himself it was nothing. The mind plays tricks. Especially here.

And then the Rift tore open.

Light screamed through the night. Magic shattered into the air like thunder, and from it—someone fell. A body flung from the breach, colliding hard with the ground near the wall.

Jayce froze. Shock slammed into him like a second heartbeat. Then: fear. Then anger. His lips curled back as he snarled, chest rising with a breath heavy as a storm. The hammer came up, ready, his voice a jagged thing against the wind.

“Who are you?” He demanded, oh no, he wasn’t going to kill them without an explanation first.