Kaelen Vane stood amid the settling silence, every nerve attuned to the spot where Elara Thorne had vanished.

The air still hummed, charged with the remnants of her touch—her magic. That vibrant, unruly spark that had ignited the locket, cracked the veil between realms, and ripped open the very bones of Havenwood.

She was gone.

No mortal scream. No dramatic flail. Just... light, then nothing.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, fists tighter. His pulse thundered against his ribs—unnatural for someone like him. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Wasn’t supposed to fear.

Yet here he was, watching the echo of a mortal girl ripple through the fabric of a town older than time itself. And gods help him, he felt like something sacred had been stolen from him.

Elara Thorne had cracked open something ancient—both in Havenwood and in Kaelen himself.

The locket sat innocently on the velvet display, still warm, but no longer glowing. Just a trinket now. Deceptively quiet. Deceptively tame.

But he knew better.

He crossed the room in a blur of motion, as if speed could rewrite time. His hand hovered over the locket. It was no longer humming, no longer wild. But it pulsed, faintly—like a heartbeat half-remembered.

He picked it up.

The world tilted.

A flash—blinding, brief—a woman not Elara but familiar. Her eyes the same vivid green, standing atop the cliffs, wind whipping through sapphire robes. She raised her hands, and the sea obeyed.

Then darkness.

Kaelen staggered back, breath catching. That vision wasn’t just a memory—it was a bond, tethered to the locket...and to Elara.

“She’s part of this,” he muttered. “More than I ever guessed.”

The locket cooled in his palm, its final message delivered.

He slid it into the inside pocket of his coat, where ancient relics and dangerous secrets liked to sleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

The air thickened.

The floor creaked.

Something ancient was slithering in.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

His hand went to the blade strapped at his back—not the elegant ceremonial kind, but the one that knew blood and shadows. His senses stretched, like a predator tasting the wind. And there it was—a scent like scorched parchment and something older… decay dressed in silk.

The Whispering Collective.

Gods, not now.

Kaelen’s teeth clenched. The Collective didn’t show up for trivial shifts. Their arrival meant only one thing: they felt Elara’s breach. And if they’d sensed her...

They’d want her.

A shadow peeled itself from the gloom. Slender. Languid. Tall as death and twice as cold.

“Vane,” the figure whispered, voice sliding through the shop like smoke. Genderless, emotionless, heartless. “How rare to see you… rattled.”

“I’m not rattled,” Kaelen said, each word a growl. “I’m pissed.”

Another presence oozed forward, heavier, more grotesque. “The town trembled. The girl screamed,” it hissed, voice like dry leaves on fire. “And here you are... alone.”

Kaelen narrowed his gaze. “She’s none of your concern.”

“Ah,” said the first figure. “But you forget—we exist for concern.”

Their laughter wasn’t loud. Just wrong.

The Collective had no soul. Just hunger in flesh. Their kind were birthed from shadows when the old gods wept and the world forgot their names.

“Where is she?” the thicker one asked, stepping closer. “We smell her. Mortality kissed with prophecy. Havenwood hasn’t tasted this kind of power since—”

Kaelen cut him off. “Since I destroyed the last fool who tried to take it.”

They paused. Measured him.

Then the taller figure murmured, “You’re attached.”

The words weren’t accusing—they were amused.

Kaelen said nothing.

Because they weren’t wrong.

He hadn’t expected her. Elara. Her laugh. Her stubbornness. Her spark. That rare mixture of soft and sharp. She wasn’t just power—she was gravity. She pulled at things. Even him.

He hated that they noticed.

“You always did have a weakness for witches,” the shadow crooned. “Even untrained ones.”

Kaelen’s hands itched for violence.

“She’s gone,” he said instead. “Taken. Maybe dead. Maybe not. But not your prey.”

“She’s everybody’s prey,” the heavier one said with a grin you couldn’t see but could feel. “And if she survived, she’s ours.”

“No,” Kaelen snarled, voice going low and lethal. “She’s mine.”

The air cracked.

Ancient power licked around him, subtle but unmistakable. The scent of frost and fire bloomed in the air—Kaelen’s calling card. The Collective stepped back half a pace, not in fear, but in calculation.

“You forget, Guardian,” the thin one whispered. “We were invited to Havenwood once. And the invitation... has no expiration.”

“Neither does my blade,” Kaelen countered.

The moment coiled tight, a breath away from war.

But then Kaelen did something unexpected.

He smiled.

It was a sharp thing. A warning. A dare.

And in that smile, the Collective understood—they’d have to fight for the girl. And maybe... maybe she wasn’t just a pawn.

Maybe she was a queen rising.

The taller shadow dissolved into mist. “Careful, Vane. She’s not the only one awakening.”

Then silence.

Then nothing.

Kaelen exhaled.

Too close.

He turned toward the wall of ancient weapons. Their energies hummed faintly in response to his presence, aware of what he was. What he might become.

He didn’t trust them. But he didn’t trust himself either, not anymore.

Elara had cracked something inside him.

And it was only going to get worse.

Meanwhile…

Elara Thorne woke gasping.

Cold stone beneath her. Mist swirling above like ghostly breath. The scent of rain-drenched moss, burnt iron, and something floral—jasmine, maybe?

Her fingers trembled. She stared at her palms, as if they might explain why her skin glowed faintly, veins lit with eerie blue.

She sat up slowly, wincing.

The world around her was unfamiliar—ruins, ancient and half-swallowed by the forest. Vines curled over marble pillars. A broken archway loomed above like a guardian watching her return.

Return?

Why did that word feel...right?

“Elara...” a voice whispered.

Not real.

She spun around anyway.

No one.

Just the rustling trees. The wind weaving secrets into her hair.

Then a flicker of memory.

The locket.

The man with eyes like starless skies.

Kaelen.

She’d touched the pendant and the world had unraveled. But she hadn’t fallen. She’d... arrived.

Somewhere ancient. Sacred. Waiting.

She stood, legs wobbly, magic pulsing softly at her core.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t just a place.

It was calling her.

Something deep in her bones whispered: You belong.

But another part of her, louder and sharper, warned: Run.

Because someone else had arrived.

Not Kaelen.

No. This presence was wrong.

Cold. Malevolent.

It slithered between the ruins like oil spilled in water.

And then she saw it—a figure, cloaked in white. Faceless. Watching.

“Who are you?” she demanded, fists clenched, light crackling faintly along her fingertips.

The figure didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Elara felt its hunger. Like it wanted to drink her dry.

She took a step back.

And then—Kaelen’s voice, echoing in her mind, or maybe in her soul: Don’t move.

Too late.

The figure raised a hand, and the ruins trembled.

Elara gasped, arms thrown up as the energy surged toward her—