POV: Valan
The sky over the Riftline District burned.
Deep orange bled into red, the sun sinking low enough to stain the clouds like an open wound. Heat lingered in the air, not enough to be uncomfortable, just enough to make everything feel too close, too tight. Warehouses loomed in uneven rows, brick and rust and shadow pressing in on narrow streets that had long since forgotten the meaning of lawful trade.
Valan stood at the edge of it, boots on cracked pavement, coat hanging open as if he belonged here.
He did not.
The Riftline had always been wrong, but tonight it felt strained, like a muscle pulled too far. The magic beneath the streets hummed unevenly, a vibration he felt in his teeth, in the bones of his hands. Not wild. Not chaotic. Controlled damage. A fracture held together
