The fall lasted longer than it should have.
Eryk Thorn bit down on his lip hard enough to taste copper, the pain sharp and immediate, a grounding force in the chaos of his descent. The darkness swallowed him whole, a maw of nothingness that erased all sense of up or down, left or right. His stomach lurched, his limbs flailed, and for a heartbeat, he was weightless—unmoored from the world, from himself.
Then the ground rushed up to meet him.
The impact drove the breath from his lungs, sent jagged spikes of pain up his spine. He rolled, skidding across rough stone, his clothes tearing, his skin scraping raw. Grit filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He coughed, spat, and gasped for air, his body screaming in protest.
But none of that mattered.
Because the egg was gone.
Panic seized him, cold and suffocating. His hands scrambled across the ground, fingers clawing at the dirt, the rock, the emptiness. His pulse roared in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of terror.
No no no no—
Then his fingertips brushed against smooth, warm shell.
He snatched it up, clutching it to his chest like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts as he pressed his forehead to the egg's surface, his entire body trembling.
"Stupid—stupid!" he hissed, voice cracking.
The egg pulsed faintly against his palms, a quiet, rhythmic thrum.
Eryk exhaled, his shoulders sagging.
Then he looked up.
The pit was a gaping wound in the earth, its walls sheer and slick with damp. Far above, a sliver of sickly yellow light marked where he'd fallen—too high, too distant to climb. No handholds and no rope. In short, there was no way out.
His stomach twisted.
Sera.
Had she heard him? Had she seen him fall? Or was she already moving, already hunting for a way down?
Or a worse thought slithered into his mind.
What if it hadn't been her at the pit's edge?
What if it had been the Council?
The Black Tongues?
His father?
Eryk's grip on the egg tightened.
Then, slowly, he became aware of something else.
A presence.
The air shifted, thickened, as if the darkness itself had drawn breath. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His skin prickled, the hollow in his chest stirring—not with hunger, but with recognition.
Something was watching him.
He turned his head.
At first, there was nothing. Just the endless black. Then, like ink bleeding into water, a figure emerged from the shadows.
A man.
Tall, gaunt, draped in a tattered cloak that seemed to drink the light. In one hand, he held a lantern, its flame small and flickering, casting jagged shadows across the sharp planes of his face. His eyes—deep-set and hollow—glinted like chips of obsidian in the dim glow.
Eryk's breath caught.
The man studied him, silent and unmoving. Then, finally, he spoke.
"You know me, kid."
The voice was rough, weathered, like stone worn smooth by time. It carried no malice, no warmth. Just a simple statement of fact.
Eryk swallowed. His throat was dry, his tongue heavy. "I—I don't think I know you."
The man tilted his head slightly. "No?"
Eryk shook his head.
The lantern's flame guttered, painting the man's face in shifting gold and black. Then he sighed, as if he was disappointed.
"What are you doing here?"
The question was casual, almost bored, as if finding a boy and a dragon egg at the bottom of a pit was a common occurrence.
Eryk hesitated. His instincts screamed at him to lie, to deflect, or to run. But something in the man's gaze—an emptiness that mirrored his own—made the words spill out before he could stop them.
"My name is Eryk Thorn. I'm—I was a Hollowborn. Exiled from the Academy. Now the Council's hunting me."
The man's expression didn't change. "The Council?"
Eryk nodded.
The silence stretched as taut as a bowstring. Then the man took a step closer, the lantern's light spilling over Eryk's face.
"Why?"
Eryk's pulse stuttered. He looked down at the egg in his arms, at the faint crack in its shell. The whispers curled around him again, wordless and aching.
He opened his mouth but no words came in his mouth. Then he closed it.
How could he explain? How could he put into words the thing that lived inside him, the void that had taken his father's fire, the hunger that had devoured Mael's magic? How could he admit what he was?
The man watched him, patient as a predator.
Finally, Eryk whispered, "Because I'm a Spellbreaker."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
The man didn't react.
Then, softly, he said, "I know."
Eryk's breath hitched.
The man reached up, pushing back his hood. His face was lined with age, his hair silvered, but his eyes—those hollow, endless eyes—were ageless.
"You've been looking for me," he said.
Eryk's blood turned to ice.
No.
It couldn't be.
But the truth settled over him like a shroud.
"Riven?" he breathed.
The last of the original Spellbreakers. The one who had vanished centuries ago. The one who had survived.
Riven's lips curled, just slightly.
Then his head snapped up, his gaze sharpening on something beyond Eryk.
"Someone's coming."
Eryk twisted around, and his heart was pounding. Above, at the pit's edge, a shadow moved—quick and fleeting. Too small to be an enforcer.
Sera.
He opened his mouth to call out, then he stopped.
What if it wasn't her?
What if it was a trap?
"We need to go. Now."
Eryk hesitated.
The egg pulsed against his chest, its whisper a plea.
Trust.
He exhaled.
Then he let Riven pull him deeper into the dark.
~○~
The tunnel was narrow, the walls pressing in like the ribs of some long-dead beast. The lantern's light barely pierced the gloom, casting flickering shadows that danced at the edges of Eryk's vision. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth.
Riven moved with the quiet certainty of a man who had walked this path a thousand times. His footsteps made no sound, his cloak whispering against the stone like a ghost's touch.
Eryk followed him, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his throat. The egg was warm in his arms, its presence a comfort and a curse.
What have I gotten myself into?
Then Riven spoke, his voice was too low and measured.
"How long?"
Eryk blinked. "How long what?"
"How long have you been a Spellbreaker?"
"I..." Eryk swallowed. "I don't know. A few weeks? Maybe less."
Riven glanced back at him, his gaze assessing him.
"You're young."
"I didn't ask for this."
"No one does."
The words were heavy with something Eryk couldn't name. Maybe regret, resignation, or a weight of years too long to count.
They walked in silence for a while, the tunnel sloping downward, and the air growing colder. Then Riven stopped abruptly, pressing a hand to the wall.
"Here."
Eryk frowned. "Here what?"
Riven didn't answer. Instead, he pressed his palm against the stone and pushed.
The wall groaned, then slid aside, revealing a hidden chamber beyond.
Eryk's breath caught.
The room was small, circular, its walls lined with shelves crammed with books, scrolls, and strange artifacts—jars of murky liquid, bones etched with runes, daggers of blackened steel. At its center stood a single wooden table, its surface scarred with knife marks and dark stains.
And above it, hanging from the ceiling like a macabre chandelier, were dozens of mana cores.
Eryk staggered back, his stomach lurching.
The cores—once the source of a mage's power—glowed faintly, their light dim but unmistakable. Some were cracked, others pristine, all suspended in delicate cages of woven silver.
Riven stepped inside, setting the lantern on the table. The flame flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cores, making them pulse like dying stars.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to a rickety chair.
Eryk didn't move. His hands trembled around the egg. "What is this place?"
Riven turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable.
"Home."
Then he reached out, his fingers brushing the nearest core. It dimmed at his touch, its light draining away like water down a drain.
"And this," he said softly, "is what you are."
Eryk's throat tightened as he looked at the core Riven was pointing on.