Eternity of the Shattered Crown

The first sign that something was wrong came in the dead of night.

The air in Eldermere had changed. The wind had stilled, leaving behind an unnatural stillness. The torches that lined the village's wooden walls flickered erratically, though there was no breeze to disturb them. The sky was vast and clear, yet the stars above seemed… distant.

As if the world itself was pulling away.

Aric sat on the edge of his cot, staring at his hands.

They looked normal. Scarred, rough from battle, but normal.

Then why did they feel different?

He flexed his fingers, tracing over the faint scar that ran along his palm. The wound he had taken from the assassin's blade had already healed—too quickly. Even Kael had noticed.

"You barely bled," he had muttered that morning.

Aric should have been tired. Exhausted. His body ached from days without proper sleep, but rest never came.

Instead, he heard whispers.

Not in the room. Not from the wind.

Inside his mind.

"You were never meant to be here."

Aric tensed.

It wasn't the first time he had heard something like this. The Rift had spoken to him before.

But this time, it felt closer.

More aware.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the whisper vanished.

A chill lingered in its place.

Something was happening.

And he wasn't the only one feeling it.

----

By morning, half the village was restless.

People gathered near the square, whispering amongst themselves. Faces pale. Eyes red from lack of sleep.

Aric stepped forward. "What's going on?"

A blacksmith, Hale, rubbed at his arms as if trying to shake off a deep chill. His expression was unnerved—which meant something, considering he was the kind of man who didn't even flinch at war.

"I saw my wife last night," he muttered.

Aric frowned. "Your wife?"

Hale nodded stiffly. "She died last winter."

The crowd shifted. Uneasy.

Aric's chest tightened. "What did you see?"

"She was standing outside my door." Hale's voice dropped to a whisper. "Watching. Smiling. I thought I was dreaming. But… when I opened the door, the ground outside was wet."

"Wet?"

"Like someone had been standing there for hours. And the footprints—they led nowhere."

A murmur spread through the villagers.

Other voices joined in.

"I heard someone calling my name, but no one was there."

"There was a shadow in my home last night. It was my brother. He's been dead for years."

"The well. The water smelled like blood."

Aric's grip on his sword tightened.

The Rift wasn't gone.

It was spreading.

----

By midday, scouts returned from the outer woods. Their faces were pale, their hands unsteady as they recounted what they had seen.

"The trees," one of them stammered. "They've… changed."

Aric rode out to see for himself.

At first, nothing seemed wrong. The usual thick woods, the winding paths, the scent of damp earth. But the deeper they went, the more unnatural it became.

The trees were twisting, curling in on themselves like skeletal fingers reaching for something unseen. The bark pulsed with veins of faint, glowing light—like something alive beneath the surface.

Kael ran his fingers over one of the trunks. "It's not normal."

"No," Aric muttered. "It isn't."

The deeper they rode, the stranger it became.

Birds no longer sang. The usual hum of insects was absent. Even the wind was dead, making every movement too loud, too sharp.

Then—the horses refused to move forward.

They reared back, snorting, eyes rolling with terror. One even collapsed on the spot, foaming at the mouth.

Aric and his men dismounted.

"What in the gods' name is happening?" one of them whispered.

Aric didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

----

A scream shattered the silence.

It came from the trees—raw, broken, filled with terror.

Aric drew his sword, his men following suit.

Then—a figure emerged from the woods.

A man, barefoot, clothes torn, eyes wild. He staggered toward them, his arms covered in deep scratches, his skin pale as death.

Lira caught him before he collapsed. "What happened?"

The man trembled. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.

Then—he gripped Aric's tunic with bloodied fingers.

"They're watching."

Aric's spine stiffened. "Who?"

The man's lips cracked into a twisted smile.

"The dead."

Silence.

Then—he laughed.

A broken, hollow sound.

"The Rift remembers you," he whispered. "It remembers all of us."

And before anyone could stop him—he slit his own throat.

Blood splattered onto the twisted roots beneath him.

The laughter stopped.

The forest went still.

And yet, the whisper remained.

"The Rift remembers."

----

Aric felt it before he saw it.

A sharp, pulling sensation in his chest.

Then, suddenly—the world around him blurred.

The trees seemed to breathe. The sky pulsed like a heartbeat. The ground beneath his feet felt… wrong.

Then—a tear split the air before him.

Not a crack in the earth.

A tear in reality itself.

And through it—he saw.

A throne.

Not made of stone.

Not made of gold.

A throne of bones.

Figures knelt before it. Soldiers. Lords. Kings.

And seated upon the throne—himself.

Not him.

But the man he had been.

Aelthar.

His past self.

The one who had ruled.

The one who had fallen.

The Rift pulsed, the vision shifting.

A city in flames.

A war unlike any the world had ever seen.

A name—whispered from the void.

"You were meant for more."

Then—the Rift snapped shut.

And Aric was alone again.

----

That night, Aric stood alone at the Rift's scar.

The wound in the earth still pulsed faintly, a slow, unnatural rhythm.

He knelt beside it, his fingers hovering just above the surface.

Then—a voice.

"Why do you fight it?"

His breath caught.

"You were meant to rule."

The Rift was not just speaking to him.

It was calling him.

And for the first time—

Aric was tempted to answer.