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Valeria’s sword shivered in its sheath as the Abyssal Rift exhaled—a rancid gust peeling stone from the cliffs. Ten winters had gnawed at the vow chiseled into her armor, leaving the letters illegible and the iron pitted. The runes on her blade still burned, though their song had warped into a dissonant snarl since the seals failed. Shadows coiled like serpents where the rift split the earth, whispering in a language that made her molars ache. She’d stopped wondering what crawled beneath that darkness. Her father’s journals spoke of eyeless things that fed on starlight; her brother’s final letter described teeth. The hilt bit into her palm as she advanced. Let it be ravenous. Let it remember why Runekeepers carved their oaths in steel, not stone.
