The horizon bled with streaks of orange and violet as the sun dipped behind the hills surrounding Aroli, Peterson's hometown. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke and dust, and the streets bustled with merchants closing stalls for the evening. To anyone else, it looked like a normal evening. But for Peterson, nothing about life had been "normal" since the day he had awakened.
The whispers hadn't stopped. Every time he passed by people in the village, they stared, their voices lowering to hushed murmurs. "That's the boy who shook the gate…" "They say he carries a curse…" "He's Ezekiel's grandson, right? Maybe the old man passed something forbidden to him…"
Peterson tightened his fists at his sides. He wanted to scream at them, to tell them he didn't ask for this power—didn't want it. But he kept walking, head low, his hair shadowing his eyes.
Tom's words replayed in his mind like broken glass digging into his chest. "You'll never catch up. You were born weak, and you'll die weak. Don't fool yourself with this act."
Peterson clenched his jaw, remembering the humiliation of their last encounter. His brother's smirk. The way Tom had hurled him into the dirt like a ragdoll. The worst part wasn't the pain—it was how everyone watching believed Tom was right.
That night, Ezekiel called him into the old shrine. The flame-lit hall smelled of old incense and iron, and his grandfather's shadow stretched long against the stone walls.
"Peterson," Ezekiel said in his gravelly voice, "sit."
Peterson lowered himself onto the mat, the floorboards creaking under his weight.
"You feel it, don't you?" the old man asked. "The pull. The fire gnawing inside your veins."
Peterson hesitated. "It's… not fire. It feels… endless. Like something's trying to crawl out of me."
Ezekiel's eyes narrowed, gleaming under the shrine's light. "That is because your power was never meant to be contained. What you feel is the seal straining. For years, I've kept it locked. But the gate's awakening forced a crack. Now, the choice is yours—do you keep living as a shadow of yourself, or do you risk becoming what you were meant to be?"
Peterson's throat went dry. "And what if what I'm meant to be… is a monster?"
The silence lingered, heavy as stone. Finally, Ezekiel turned, placing a hand on Peterson's shoulder. "Then you must decide whether to cage the monster, or wield it."
Before Peterson could answer, the ground trembled. A shrill cry tore through the night—a sound like claws raking against metal.
"Another Tear…" Ezekiel muttered, grabbing his staff. "The Rift is active again."
They hurried outside. Across the fields beyond the town, a jagged scar of light ripped open in the air, pulsing with unnatural energy. Black tendrils spilled out, writhing like snakes. From within the Tear, creatures emerged—skin shimmering like oil, eyes glowing red, their bodies twisted mockeries of wolves and men.
The Riftborn.
Screams erupted as villagers ran for cover. Hunters rushed to the scene, weapons flashing. Arrows streaked through the night. Fireballs lit up the sky. Steel clashed with claws.
"Stay here," Ezekiel ordered.
But Peterson's legs moved before his mind could argue. His chest tightened with every cry of terror. The Hunters were strong, but the Riftborn multiplied too fast. Already, two had broken past the front lines, lunging toward the fleeing villagers.
Peterson's blood boiled. His heart pounded. He couldn't just watch.
He sprinted toward the beasts, ignoring the startled shouts of the Hunters. One of the monsters turned, maw dripping black venom. Its claws slashed downward.
Instinct screamed in Peterson's body. His hand shot out—
And the air trembled.
The creature froze mid-lunge, its limbs locked in place. Invisible pressure crushed against its chest, forcing it to the ground. The earth cracked beneath it as if an unseen fist had slammed it down.
Gasps echoed behind him. "Telekinesis?" one of the Hunters whispered.
But Peterson didn't stop. Another beast leapt at him from the side. This time, flames erupted around his arm, unbidden, wild. He swung his fist, and a stream of fire scorched through the Riftborn, reducing it to ash.
The Hunters stared in disbelief. Telekinesis and fire—two abilities, woven seamlessly together.
Peterson staggered, panting, his body trembling. The power felt endless, yet suffocating, like standing in the eye of a storm.
"Peterson!" Ezekiel's voice roared, dragging him back to himself. "Enough! Do not overextend!"
But it was too late. The Rift itself pulsed, as if responding to his energy. The Tear widened, screeching with distortion. Darker, larger shapes stirred inside, their forms hidden in the void.
The Hunters shouted, pulling back in fear. "It's evolving! The Tear's unstable!"
Ezekiel slammed his staff against the ground, etching glowing sigils into the dirt. Barriers of light rose, holding the Rift at bay. Sweat streamed down his face as he shouted, "Peterson! Control it! If you let that power run wild, you'll destroy us all!"
Peterson's chest heaved. His veins felt like molten iron. He tried to steady his breathing, to rein it in, but the energy refused to quiet—it wanted to erupt, to consume, to annihilate.
And then, through the chaos, a vision flashed in his mind—
A woman, pale as the moon, with eyes like endless white voids, reaching out her hand. Her voice whispered inside him:
"My heir… awaken."
Peterson collapsed to his knees, clutching his head. The Rift screamed louder, as if answering her call. The flames around him burned brighter, his telekinesis thrashing like a storm.
The Hunters fell back, shielding themselves. One muttered, "What is he? No ordinary Hunter can wield that… No ordinary man can…"
Finally, Ezekiel struck his staff one last time, sealing the Rift with a thunderous crack. The Tear snapped shut, the battlefield falling into sudden silence. The Riftborn dissolved into ash.
All eyes turned to Peterson, who lay on the ground, trembling, his hands scorched but his eyes glowing faintly.
Ezekiel stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "It is as I feared," he muttered. "The seal is breaking faster than I thought. His true power… it cannot be contained much longer."
The Hunters whispered among themselves, some in awe, some in fear. Peterson struggled to sit up, their stares burning into him.
He didn't feel like a savior. He felt like a bomb waiting to explode.
But deep inside, a spark of defiance lit his chest. For the first time, Peterson wasn't just the weak, forgotten brother. He wasn't just Tom's shadow.
He was something else. Something greater.
And he wasn't going to run from it anymore.
The silence that followed the Rift's collapse was heavier than any battle cry. Smoke lingered, curling in the cool night air, and the acrid stench of burned Riftborn clung to everyone's throats.
Peterson pushed himself up onto unsteady feet, his breath ragged. Every muscle screamed, his vision blurred, but he forced himself to stand tall. He didn't want them to see him weak—not now. Not after what had just happened.
The Hunters spread out cautiously, blades still drawn, as though he might suddenly turn his power against them. Their eyes told a thousand unspoken words: awe, fear, suspicion.
One Hunter, a tall woman with a jagged scar across her cheek, finally broke the silence. "Two abilities… Telekinesis and fire. That's impossible."
Another spat into the dirt. "No, not impossible. Dangerous." His eyes narrowed at Peterson. "The Rift answered to him. Didn't you see it? His energy called to it. What if he's the reason the Tear opened wider?"
Murmurs rose, thick with unease.
Ezekiel raised his staff, silencing them with a sharp crack against the ground. "Enough. Do you think the boy is your enemy? You would all be ash if not for him."
"That may be true," the scarred woman said, "but power like his never comes without a price. If he cannot control it, the next Tear might not close at all."
Peterson clenched his fists, the sting of their words cutting deeper than his wounds. He wanted to protest, to tell them he hadn't chosen this. But deep down, a shadow of doubt gnawed at him—what if they were right?
Ezekiel stepped forward, placing a hand on Peterson's shoulder. "He is my grandson. And I will vouch for him with my life. If you doubt him, then you doubt me."
The Hunters fell silent, though unease still clouded their faces.
"Go," Ezekiel commanded. "Return to the Hall and report the Rift sealed. I will take responsibility for the boy."
Reluctantly, they dispersed, their whispers trailing into the night.
Back at the shrine, Peterson collapsed onto the mat, exhaustion finally dragging him down. His body felt like shattered glass pieced together by will alone.
Ezekiel sat across from him, eyes heavy with thought. For a long while, he said nothing, only staring into the flickering flame of the lantern. Finally, his voice rumbled low.
"You saw her, didn't you?"
Peterson's head snapped up. "Saw who?"
"The woman," Ezekiel said, gaze unwavering. "Pale as the moon. Eyes like light itself. She called to you, didn't she?"
Peterson swallowed hard. His lips trembled. "How… how do you know that?"
"Because I saw her too," Ezekiel whispered, closing his eyes. "Long ago, when I was foolish enough to try and touch the Tear myself. She is no ordinary vision, boy. She is the White Queen, the guardian of the Rift. A being not of this world. And she chose you."
Peterson's chest tightened. "Chose me? For what?"
Ezekiel shook his head. "That… I cannot say. But destiny rarely chooses without reason. And rarely is it merciful."
The next day, rumors spread like wildfire. By the time the sun climbed high, every villager knew of Peterson's display. Children whispered of the "boy with fire hands," while adults muttered darker things: "The Rift's child," "the cursed one," "a danger waiting to happen."
Peterson avoided their stares, slipping through back alleys on his way home. Each word scraped at him, building a wall of anger he didn't know how to break.
When he finally reached the house, he froze.
Tom was waiting.
His older brother leaned casually against the fence, arms crossed, his school jacket draped loosely over one shoulder. His smirk was the same as always—sharp, cruel, mocking.
"Well, well," Tom drawled, pushing off the fence. "Little brother finally found his voice. You're the talk of the town. Fire and flying beasts bowing at your feet. Quite the show."
Peterson's fists clenched. "I didn't do it to show off. I was saving people."
Tom's smile widened. "Oh, I believe you. But tell me—when you stood there, power dripping from your skin, did you feel in control? Or did you feel it controlling you?"
Peterson flinched, the memory of his flames lashing wild flashing through his mind.
Tom stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only Peterson could hear. "That's the difference between us. My power is mine. Yours? It's just a leash the Rift put around your neck. And when it tightens, you'll choke on it."
With that, Tom brushed past him, leaving only the sting of his words behind.
That night, Peterson couldn't sleep. He lay staring at the ceiling, Tom's voice echoing in his head. The Hunters' fear. The villagers' whispers. The vision of the Queen.
It felt like the walls were closing in. Like everyone had already decided what he was—curse, weapon, monster.
His chest ached with something raw and desperate. He wanted to prove them wrong. But how could he, when even he didn't understand what was happening to him?
A soft knock pulled him from his thoughts. Ezekiel entered, holding a bundle wrapped in cloth. He set it gently beside Peterson.
"This belonged to your father," the old man said. "He died before he could wield it properly. But it is yours now."
Peterson unwrapped the bundle. Inside lay a blade unlike any he had seen—dark steel etched with glowing runes, its hilt bound in worn leather. The weapon hummed faintly, as if alive.
"It is called Onyx Fang," Ezekiel explained. "Forged to cut through the flesh of Riftborn. Your father carried it into battle many times. Now, it will serve you. Not as a crutch. Not as a curse. But as a reminder of who you fight for."
Peterson's hand closed around the hilt. Warmth surged through him, steadying his breath. For the first time since awakening, the storm inside him quieted—just slightly.
He looked up at Ezekiel. "Grandfather… what if Tom is right? What if I can't control it?"
Ezekiel's gaze softened, rare tenderness flickering in his stern eyes. "Then you will learn. Not alone. Not as a shadow of Tom. But as Peterson—my grandson. The one destined to walk a path no other dares."
The words settled over him like a shield. For the first time, Peterson felt the weight of choice—not curse, not leash, but choice.
And in that moment, holding the blade of his father, he swore silently to himself:
No matter what the Rift demanded. No matter what Tom believed. He would not be defined by fear.
He would carve his own path.
Even if it killed him.