The void breach pulsed around Riven like a festering wound torn into the shadowed realm’s rotting core, a cavern of shadow and violet malice that throbbed with a sick, uneven rhythm, its walls slick and glistening like the innards of some monstrous beast, a living hell that crushed the air from his lungs with every shuddering gasp. Black sand churned beneath his boots, a jagged sea of splintered glass and ash that slashed his flesh raw, a ground that writhed and snapped with every step, a feral trap clawing at his legs, hungry to drag him down into its depths. The air was a thick, rancid poison—rot, blood, and a sour, metallic tang that seared his throat, a choking sludge that coated his tongue with every snarl, a stench that screamed of death and decay, a reminder of the voidspawn they’d butchered and the ones still lurking in the dark, waiting to feast.

  Riven forged ahead, the Archive Shard gripped in his left fist like a goddamn lifeline, its golden runes blazing with a feral, untamed light, a wildfire scorching the shadows, a searing heat that burned his palm bloody, a beacon trembling with Lyra’s voice—“Riven… here…”—a desperate scream that ripped his chest wide open, a call that fueled his every savage swing, a vow carved into his bones. His sword hung heavy in his right, its edge notched and dripping with black ichor, Shadow Strike smoldering along its length like a fucking inferno, a crescent of void energy that pulsed with his rage, a blade forged in the fires of his soul and baptized in the blood of this abyss, a weapon that roared her name with every brutal slash, a promise to tear her free from this shithole or die trying. His cloak streamed behind him, a shredded rag soaked in sweat and gore, clinging to his back like a second skin, stained with the filth of every fight, every loss, every tear he’d bled for her, a weight he’d drag through this hell to feel her light again.

  His life force raged inside him, a feral ember clawing against the void’s suffocating grip, a flame dimmed by grief and exhaustion, a wild spark fed by the Void’s cold, creeping threads stitching his torn shoulder, a dark pulse pounding through his veins like war drums, keeping him upright when his body screamed to collapse into the dust. His stamina was ash, a ghost shredded to nothing, every step a guttural snarl, his lungs a furnace of fire and blood, his chest heaving with raw, jagged will, a man running on the last fumes of his soul, fueled by her voice alone. Black veins throbbed beneath his skin like a living storm, pulsing wild and untamed, shadow surging through him in violent, unrelenting waves, a power that steadied his trembling hands, a tide of wrath that drowned the dark, a beast he’d unleashed to reach her.

  The Veilborn Interface burned at the edge of his vision, its obsidian frame shuddering like a caged predator breaking free, crimson tendrils snaking thick and fast, a mirror to the corruption shredding his soul, a warning screaming through his skull—Corruption Critical: Sanity Fraying—a feral hiss that clawed at his mind, a toll he’d pay in blood, bone, and fucking madness to hear her, to save her, to rip her from this goddamn abyss. He didn’t give a shit—let it take him, let it tear him apart, let it feast on his sanity as long as Lyra’s light still flickered, as long as her scream kept dragging him through this chaos, a man too stubborn to die without her.

  The Veilborn staggered behind him, their shadows a jagged, broken line against the void’s relentless madness, a band of survivors forged in fire and teetering on the edge of ruin, their blades slick with ichor, their breaths ragged snarls in the dark. The scarred warrior limped at his flank, blood seeping from his leg in thick, red rivers, his longsword dragging a trail of gore, its steel glinting cold and cruel, his face a mask of scars and steel, his growl a steady anchor—“Keep fucking moving!”—a rock cracking but unbowed, a man who’d bleed out before he quit. The young Veilborn clutched his bleeding side, red soaking his torn cloth, his short blade trembling in his grip, his eyes wide with terror and defiance, his voice a cracked yell—“She’s close—I swear it!”—a kid drowning in the storm, clinging to a spark of hope. The woman stumbled beside him, her arm bruised where Riven had yanked her back, her blade sheathed but stained, her scowl twisting into a feral grimace, her eyes burning with guilt and fire—“I’m here, damn it!”—a storm clawing her way back, a warrior reborn in blood and tears.

  The breach warped around them, its walls pulsing faster, a tunnel of shadow narrowing into a suffocating chokehold, the hum swelling to a skull-shattering roar, a deafening cacophony that rattled their bones, a thousand voices screaming in twisted harmony. Lyra’s voice fractured—“Riven… here…” splitting into a chorus, a hollow choir of whispers that clawed at his mind—“Riven… why…” “Riven… you failed…” “Riven… die…”—a taunting flood that stabbed his heart, a lie that twisted her light into something cold and cruel, a sound that broke him wide open. His snarl ripped free—“No—you’re alive!”—a roar of rage and despair, his sword slashing blind at the dark, a man fighting shadows to prove her real.

  Voidspawn lunged from the haze, twisted bastards of shadow and claw, their bodies a writhing mess of tendrils and jagged teeth, violet eyes blazing with malice, a swarm clawing from the void’s depths to feast on their despair. Riven warped, shadow tearing through space, a flicker that shredded his last breath, landing amid them, his sword slashing Shadow Strike, a crescent of void ripping through flesh, ichor spraying hot and black across his face, a scream tearing from his throat—“Lyra, I’m here!”—a vow that shook the abyss, a man possessed by her call.

  The strike jolted his arms, a brutal shock that cracked his bones, voidspawn crumpling in wet, bloody heaps, their screams dying in gurgles, a rush of experience slamming through him, a surge that fueled his next swing, a spark of fury in the chaos. Another charged, tendrils whipping for his throat, and he ducked, sand slicing his knees raw, blood trickling warm and coppery, a sting he spat at as he thrust up, gutting it, ichor soaking his chest, a roar of defiance—“You won’t take her!”—a warrior breaking but unbowed.

  The scarred warrior hacked through one, his blade a flash of steel, tearing a voidspawn’s maw apart, ichor splashing his scarred face, his growl a lifeline—“Stay with me!”—a rock holding steady in the storm. The young Veilborn swung wild, his blade slashing a voidspawn’s flank, red mixing with black ooze, his cry raw—“For her!”—a kid fighting through the pain, his shadow flickering with grit. The woman spun in, her blade a blur of rage, severing a claw mid-strike, her snarl sharp—“Fuck you!”—a storm burning through her guilt, ichor streaking her hands, a warrior clawing back her soul.

  The breach pulsed, a wave of void energy slamming them, a force that threw Riven back, sand and shadow blurring, his shoulder screaming, corruption surging wild, black veins throbbing like a heartbeat gone feral, a roar of agony and fury shaking his frame. The whispers swelled—“Riven… weak…” “Riven… alone…” “Riven… dead…”—a hollow choir twisting Lyra’s voice into a taunt, a cruel mockery that clawed his mind, a lie that stabbed his chest, a sound that shredded his hope. His eyes burned, crimson blazing through tears, his snarl feral—“Shut up—she’s real!”—a man breaking under the weight, his sword slashing shadows, ichor raining, a fight to keep her alive in his heart.

  The void warped wilder, walls pulsing like a dying organ, a haze of violet and black twisting the air, the choir growing louder, a flood of voices—“You let her die…” “She’s gone…” “You’re nothing…”—a torment that sank claws into his soul, a deception he couldn’t unhear. The scarred warrior staggered, his growl choking—“It’s fucking lies!”—his blade slashing air, a rock shaking off the whispers. The young Veilborn sobbed, his voice cracking—“She’s screaming—I hear her!”—a kid clinging to her light, his blade trembling. The woman’s eyes widened, her snarl fading—“No… not again…”—a storm fraying under the void’s assault.

  A shape loomed from the haze, a towering shadow coalescing, a twisted puppet of Lyra—her face, her glow, but wrong, hollow, her eyes violet voids, her mouth a gaping maw of whispers—“Riven… you failed me…”—a nightmare born of the void, a mockery that stopped his heart. His chest caved, a sob ripping free—“Lyra—no!”—his sword dropping, his knees buckling, tears streaking his blood-soaked face, a man shattered by the sight, a warrior lost in the choir.

  The entity laughed, a hollow, echoing shriek, its tendrils lashing out, shadow whipping through the air, a predator feeding on his despair, a void-born lie that taunted his soul. The Veilborn froze, their shadows fracturing, their cries swallowed by the hum, a team breaking under its weight. Riven’s snarl roared back—“You’re not her!”—his sword slashing blind, ichor spraying, a rush of rage and heartbreak, a man fighting to prove her real, a vow to tear this hell apart or die screaming her name.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  The breach pulsed, the tunnel narrowing, the choir swelling, the puppet looming, a trap tightening, a hell they’d face or shatter in, Riven’s crimson eyes blazing through tears, the shard’s light a spear in the dark, a warrior fraying, a fight to hold onto her light.

  The void breach convulsed around Riven like a rotting heart torn open, its walls of shadow and violet filth pulsing with a sick, jagged rhythm, a cavernous maw slick with the slime of despair, a living hell that crushed his chest with every ragged, snarling breath he ripped from its rancid grip. Black sand churned beneath his boots, a jagged storm of glass and ash slashing his legs bloody, a ground that writhed and snapped like a beast in its death throes, a feral trap clawing at his flesh, thirsty to drag him into its festering depths. The air was a thick, poisonous shroud—rot, blood, and a sour, metallic bite that burned his throat raw, a choking sludge that coated his lungs with every guttural roar, a stench that screamed of voidspawn gore and the abyss’s insatiable hunger, a reminder of the slaughter behind and the carnage ahead.

  Riven stood trembling before the puppet-Lyra, the Archive Shard gripped in his left fist like a goddamn lifeline, its golden runes blazing with a feral, unhinged light, a wildfire scorching the dark, a searing heat that blistered his palm bloody, a beacon shuddering with her voice—“Riven… you failed…”—a twisted taunt that shredded his soul, a lie he’d kill to unhear. His sword hung heavy in his right, its edge notched and dripping with black ichor, Shadow Strike smoldering along its length like a fucking volcano, a crescent of void energy pulsing with his rage, a blade forged in the furnace of his heart and baptized in the blood of this shithole, a weapon that screamed her name with every savage swing, a vow to rip her from this hell or die clawing at its throat. His cloak streamed behind him, a shredded rag soaked in sweat and gore, clinging to his back like a flayed skin, stained with the filth of every fight, every loss, every goddamn tear he’d bled for her, a weight he’d haul through this abyss to feel her light again.

  His life force roared inside him, a feral ember clawing against the void’s suffocating grip, a flame dimmed by grief and breaking under exhaustion, a wild spark fed by the Void’s cold, creeping threads stitching his torn shoulder, a dark pulse pounding through his veins like a war drum gone mad, keeping him upright when his body begged to shatter into the dust. His stamina was ash, a ghost crushed to nothing, every move a snarl, his lungs a furnace of fire and blood, his chest heaving with raw, jagged will, a man running on the last scraps of his soul, fueled by her voice—real or not—alone. Black veins throbbed beneath his skin like a living tempest, pulsing wild and untamed, shadow surging through him in violent, unrelenting waves, a power that steadied his trembling hands, a tide of wrath that drowned the dark, a beast he’d let loose to reach her, fuck the cost.

  The Veilborn Interface burned at the edge of his vision, its obsidian frame shuddering like a predator breaking its chains, crimson tendrils snaking thick and fast, a mirror to the corruption shredding his soul, a warning screaming through his skull—Corruption Critical: Psyche Collapse Imminent—a feral roar in his mind, a toll he’d pay in blood, bone, and fucking sanity to save her, a price he’d spit in the void’s face for, a man too broken to care as long as her light still flickered somewhere in this chaos. Let it take him—let it rip him apart—he’d claw through this hell with his last breath for her.

  The puppet-Lyra loomed, a towering shadow-twist of her form, her face a hollow mockery—pale, eyeless sockets glowing violet, her mouth a gaping maw of whispers—“Riven… weak…” “Riven… alone…” “Riven… dead…”—a hollow choir swelling from its depths, a flood of taunts that clawed his mind, a lie that stabbed his chest, a torment that broke his heart wide open. Its body writhed, a mass of tendrils and jagged spines, shadow dripping like tar, a void-born nightmare feeding on his despair, a predator laughing at his pain. Riven’s snarl ripped free—“You’re not her, you fuck!”—a roar of rage and heartbreak, his sword slashing blind, a man fighting to prove her real, tears streaking his blood-soaked face, a warrior lost in the choir’s dirge.

  The Veilborn reeled behind him, their shadows a jagged, fracturing line against the void’s relentless madness, a band of survivors forged in fire and crumbling under its weight, their blades slick with ichor, their cries ragged and fading. The scarred warrior staggered, blood pouring from his leg, his longsword trembling in his grip, its steel glinting cold and cruel, his growl a steady anchor—“It’s a fucking trick—fight it!”—a rock breaking but unbowed, a man clawing through the storm. The young Veilborn clutched his bleeding side, red soaking his torn cloth, his short blade shaking, his eyes wide with terror and defiance, his voice a cracked sob—“She’s screaming—I hear her!”—a kid drowning in the dark, clinging to her light. The woman gripped her blade, her arm bruised and trembling, her scowl twisting into a feral grimace, her eyes burning with guilt and fury—“Make it stop!”—a storm fraying at the edges, a warrior lost in the whispers.

  The puppet lashed out, tendrils whipping through the air like black lightning, shadow cracking against the sand, a strike aimed at Riven’s chest, a deathblow laughing at his pain. He warped, shadow tearing through space, a flicker that shredded his last gasp, landing to its flank, his sword slashing Shadow Strike, a crescent of void ripping through its hide, ichor spraying hot and black, a scream tearing from his throat—“Lyra’s mine!”—a vow that shook the abyss, a man possessed by her call, his arms jolting with the strike, a brutal shock that cracked his bones, corruption surging wild, black veins throbbing like a heartbeat gone feral.

  The puppet shrieked, a hollow, echoing wail, its tendrils flailing, shadow whipping for the Veilborn, a predator feeding on their fear. The scarred warrior swung, his blade hacking a tendril mid-strike, ichor splashing his face, his growl fierce—“Die, you bastard!”—a rock holding the line, blood mixing with black ooze, a man fighting through the pain. The young Veilborn thrust wild, his blade piercing the puppet’s flank, red and ichor spilling, his cry raw—“For her!”—a kid breaking but unbowed, his shadow flickering with grit. The woman slashed, her blade severing a tendril, her snarl sharp—“Fuck you!”—a storm clawing back her soul, ichor streaking her hands, a warrior burning through the dark.

  The breach pulsed, a wave of void energy slamming them, a force that threw Riven back, sand and shadow blurring, his shoulder screaming, corruption flooding his veins, a roar of agony and fury shaking his frame. The choir swelled—“Riven… you let her die…” “Riven… she’s gone…” “Riven… you’re nothing…”—a torment that sank claws into his mind, a deception that twisted her light into despair, a sound that shredded his hope. His crimson eyes burned through tears, his snarl feral—“Shut the fuck up—she’s alive!”—a man breaking under the weight, his sword slashing shadows, ichor raining, a fight to keep her real in his heart.

  The puppet lunged, its maw gaping wide, a scream tearing from its depths—“Riven… die…”—a psychic lash that clawed their minds, a force that staggered the Veilborn, a nightmare feeding on their despair. Riven warped again, shadow ripping him to its core, his stamina ash, landing atop it, his sword plunging Shadow Strike into its spine, a surge of void erupting in a cascade of black ichor, a critical blow that buckled it, a roar shaking his soul—“You won’t take her!”—corruption surging thicker, black veins pulsing wild, a man breaking to kill the lie.

  The puppet thrashed, its shriek rising to a fevered pitch, tendrils flailing in a desperate frenzy, a dying beast clawing at its killers. The scarred warrior hacked its base, his blade carving deep, ichor flooding the sand, his growl fierce—“Finish it!”—a rock refusing to crack. The young Veilborn stabbed its flank, his blade trembling, red spilling, his cry jagged—“She’s real!”—a kid fighting through the storm. The woman thrust, her blade piercing its chest, a twist of steel that shattered its core, her snarl raw—“Burn in hell!”—a storm reclaiming her fire.

  The puppet collapsed, a plume of shadow rising, its choir fading to a hollow whimper—“Riven… weak…”—a final taunt dissolving into the void, a lie vanquished but lingering in his mind. Riven stumbled, his legs giving out, the shard’s light dimming in his grip, his chest heaving, tears cutting through blood and ichor, a man shattered by the fight, corruption whispering power—Take it, take it—a temptation he spat at, Lyra’s real voice cutting through—“Riven… help…”—faint, pleading, a spark that dragged him back.

  The Veilborn gathered, their shadows battered but fierce, blades dripping with ichor, their breaths ragged snarls, their trust in Riven a weight that steadied his hands, a bond bleeding but unbroken. The scarred warrior gripped his shoulder, blood dripping, his growl steady—“She’s still out there—keep going.”—a rock holding fast. The young Veilborn nodded, tears streaking his face, his voice cracked—“I heard her—real this time.”—a kid clinging to hope. The woman’s eyes burned, her voice low—“Let’s end this shit.”—a storm forged anew.

  The breach pulsed, a tunnel stretching deeper, Lyra’s voice a desperate thread, the void’s whispers fading, a trap tightening, a hell they’d conquer or die in. Riven’s crimson eyes blazed, the shard’s light a spear in the dark, a warrior rising from the ashes, a vow to reach her or break screaming her name.