They bound Arin not with rope, but with certainty.

  He was no longer a farmer’s son.

  He was an anomaly.

  As soldiers escorted him toward the capital, Atmas flickered in the distance, drawn to his presence like moths to flame.

  That night, beneath twisted oaks, the forest grew cold.

  The first Atma descended silently.

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  Then another.

  Then dozens.

  They attacked without warning.

  Spectral claws froze soldiers mid-scream. Horses collapsed in terror.

  Arin fell backward as one lunged for him—

  And stopped inches from his face.

  It bowed.

  Then turned and attacked someone else.

  A blade flashed through moonlight.

  An Atma split in two.

  Kael Thorn emerged from shadow like a living weapon.

  He moved with ruthless precision, each strike dissolving spirits into ash.

  When the last Atma fell, the forest was silent once more.

  Kael turned to Arin.

  “You’re the marked one.”

  Arin swallowed. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “No one does.”

  Their eyes locked.

  And both understood—

  The fracture in the sky was only the beginning.