The rift trembled like a beast drawing its first breath after a century of slumber. Blood-red mist bled across the skies, twisting the air into a suffocating haze. Stephen stumbled through the ashen forest, one hand pressed to his ribs, his sword dragging through the dirt. The ground beneath him pulsed faintly, veins of light forming strange patterns before fading — as if the very world was alive and watching.
He had been on edge ever since the sky turned crimson. The corrupted beasts had grown restless, their howls echoing like broken flutes through the trees. Even now, the faint scent of burnt metal and blood lingered in the air.
Lyra moved beside him, her crimson spear flickering with runic flames. The same girl who had once barely acknowledged him now stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, her clothes torn, face streaked with ash and sweat. Every breath they took came out ragged, but neither slowed down.
They had survived ambush after ambush — barely.
Stephen's instincts had saved them once already. He remembered the moment too vividly: a flicker in the shadows, a faint whistle — he had pushed Lyra aside without thinking. Pain followed a heartbeat later as something sharp grazed his arm. He looked down, expecting a shallow cut. Instead, it was just a tiny silver needle. Harmless, or so he'd thought.
But now, his body was betraying him. His vision blurred, and each step felt heavier than the last.
"Stephen," Lyra said sharply, noticing the color draining from his face. "What's wrong?"
He forced a faint grin. "Just tired… I'll be fine."
She wasn't convinced. The tremor in his hand, the way his lips had lost all color — none of it escaped her eyes. Still, there was no time to argue. Another wave of beasts thundered out from the fog — their eyes glowing a sickly red.
Lyra spun her spear, flames bursting along its length, while Stephen raised his sword with trembling arms. Together, they cut down the first few monsters, but then his strength faltered. The blade slipped from his grasp mid-swing, and his knees hit the ground.
"Stephen!"
Lyra darted forward, dragging him back just as a corrupted boar crashed into the spot where he had fallen. The impact sent soil flying like shrapnel. She leapt away, clutching him tightly, and only stopped when they were far enough from the chaos. Beneath an ancient tree, she lowered him gently, his head resting in her lap.
His breathing was shallow, uneven. The poison was spreading fast.
"Hey," she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "Stay awake. You hear me?"
He tried to answer but could only manage a faint smile. "I… told you… I'd be fine." His clenched fist betrayed the pain tearing through his veins.
In desperation, Lyra pulled out a small vial — a detoxification potion infused with rare herbs. She uncorked it and tilted it to his lips, praying it would help. But even after several moments, his complexion didn't improve. His skin had taken on a faint bluish hue, and his pulse was barely there.
Panic rose in her chest. For the first time, the proud young heiress of the Blaze Clan felt helpless.
A sharp rustle cut through the air. She tensed — until she saw who it was.
Figures in crimson armor emerged from the mist, the insignia of a blazing crimson spear emblazoned on their chests. Their presence brought with it an aura of heat and authority. At their head walked a man who seemed carved from flame and iron — tall, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in armor that shimmered faintly with runic fire.
His voice was deep, commanding, carrying over the crackling air."Young Miss, are you hurt?"
Lyra's head snapped up, and for the first time since entering the rift, tears welled in her eyes."Fourth Uncle!" she cried. "Please, help him! He saved me — but he was hit by some kind of needle and now he's… like this!"
The man — Kael Blaze, the peak Grandmaster overseeing the Blaze Clan's envoy — froze for a heartbeat. He had seen Lyra bloodied before, had even watched her endure the merciless training of their clan's ancestor without shedding a tear. But now, seeing her on the verge of breaking down for a boy lying pale and motionless in her lap… it shook him.
Kael's sharp eyes swept the ground, and soon, he found what he was looking for — a thin, silvery needle embedded deep in a tree trunk nearby. He raised his hand, and the needle floated toward him, caught in an invisible force. A faint, sickly light pulsed from its tip.
Kael's expression darkened. "...The Kiss of Death."
Lyra's breath hitched. "What—what is that?"
He exhaled heavily. "A poison forged by the cultists. The body turns cold as the venom consumes both blood and soul energy. There's less than a one percent chance of surviving it."
Her face went white. "No…"
Kael placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "We can't stay here. The rift is collapsing — if we don't move now, none of us are leaving alive." He looked down at Stephen, his expression unreadable for a long moment before he said, "Bring him. I'll see what can be done once we're out."
Lyra nodded, wiping her tears quickly. She and one of the armored guards lifted Stephen between them. The air trembled again, and in the distance, the crimson mist began to churn violently — as though something far worse was trying to force its way through.
Kael's eyes hardened. "Move. Now."
And with that, they vanished into the deepening red fog