"What did I just do?" she whispered. Her voice echoed in the empty corridor, small and lost.
"You survived," Malachar said from inside her mind. His presence was there now, constant—not intrusive exactly,
but present in a way that made her skin crawl. "You made a contract. You claimed your birthright."
Kira pressed her back against the cold stone wall, trying to steady her breathing. Her whole body was shaking. The
mark on her hand kept pulsing, and with each pulse she could feel something inside her—power, maybe, or just
wrongness. Something that hadn't been there before.
She doubled over, hands on her knees, trying not to vomit.
"Easy," Malachar murmured in her mind. "Your senses are heightened now. Everything will feel more intense until
you adjust."
"You could have warned me," she managed between gasps.
"Would it have changed anything?"
No. Probably not.
A tremor ran through the stone beneath her feet.
Kira froze. That wasn't normal. Dungeons were stable, ancient. small.
"I feel it." His presence sharpened in her mind, alert. "The wasteland realm—when we crossed back through, the
portal destabilized something. The dungeon's structure is compromised."
Another tremor, stronger thistime. Dust began to fall from the ceiling in thin streams.
"We need to leave," Malachar said.
"This way," Malachar directed. "There's an exit. I can sense it."
Kira forced herself to move. Her legs felt like water, but she made them work. The corridor ahead curved, and she
followed it, stumbling over loose stone. The tremors were constant now, the dungeon groaning around her like a
dying beast.
The corridor opened into a larger chamber. On the far side, Kira saw it—a shaft of sickly purple-gray light. An exit.
Kira forced herself to straighten, to look at the world she'd been born into but never truly seen.
"Welcome to the sealed world," Malachar's voice echoed in her mind, tinged with bitterness. "Beautiful, isn't it? The
other kings' masterpiece. A prison designed to contain chaos itself."
Kira's legs trembled. She'd lived in this world her entire life, but she'd never truly seen it.
The air outside hit her like a physical blow.
Kira stumbled forward, gasping, her lungs burning as she tried to adjust. The dungeon had been stale and dead,
but this—this was wrong. The atmosphere itself felt corrupted, thick with a pressure that made her ears ring and
her skin crawl.The sky was a sickly purple-gray, streaked with veins of green lightning that pulsed like a diseased heartbeat. In
the distance, massive rifts hung suspended in the air—tears in reality itself, bleeding darkness and twisted light.
Some were small, barely larger than a doorway. Others were gaping wounds that stretched across the horizon, and
from them, she could see things moving. Shadows with too many limbs. Wings that shouldn't exist. Eyes that
glowed with hunger.
The settlement had been called Ashfen, though no one remembered why. Maybe there had been ash once. Maybe
there had been fens. Now there was just the wall—thirty feet of scavenged stone and rusted metal, patched
together with desperation and prayer.
Kira had lived there from age five to age eleven. Six years behind those walls, in the orphanage that sat in the
shadow of the slave compound.
She remembered the view from the orphanage's single window—the one in the attic where they stored the broken
children, the ones too sick or too strange to be worth feeding properly. She'd spent hours at that window, staring
out at the wall, at the guards who walked its length with their contracted spirits manifesting as weapons or shields
or eyes.
Beyond the wall, she could sometimes see the tops of the rifts. Distant. Terrible. Beautiful in the way a storm was
beautiful—something vast and powerful and utterly indifferent to human suffering.
"Don't look at them too long," one of the older orphans had warned her once. "They'll call to you. Make you want to
walk out there. And if you do, you'll never come back."
Kira had looked anyway. Because even then, even at five years old, she'd understood that the rifts weren't the real
danger.
The real danger was the people inside the walls.
Now, standing in the open wasteland with nothing between her and the apocalypse, she understood why people
huddled behind walls. Why they clung to their contracts and their spirit guardians like lifelines.
This world wanted them dead.
"Don't freeze up now," Malachar said, gentler this time. "You're not alone anymore. And you're stronger than you
think."
But it was also... honest. The danger here didn't pretend to be kindness. Didn't smile while it hurt you. Didn't sell
you for fifty silver coins and call it mercy.
The mark on her hand pulsed with warmth, as if responding to his words.
Kira forced herself to move. The dungeon exit had deposited them on a rocky outcropping overlooking a vast,
broken landscape. Crumbling ruins dotted the terrain—remnants of cities or settlements long abandoned. Between
them, the ground was scarred with craters and fissures, some still smoking with residual magic.
She took a step forward, and her legs nearly gave out.
The exhaustion hit her all at once. The contract ritual. The escape. The terror. It all crashed down on her shoulders
like a physical weight, and suddenly she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept. Or eaten. Or felt safe.
"I need to rest," she whispered.
"Not here." Malachar's voice was firm but not unkind. "That dungeon will collapse soon now that the seal is broken.
And when it does, it'll attract scavengers. Both monster and human."
Kira's stomach twisted. The raid party. If they were still alive, they'd come looking for salvage. And if they found
her—alive, with a contract mark—
She didn't want to think about what they'd do."There." Malachar directed her attention to the east, where a cluster of ruins stood larger than the rest. "I sense...
something. Not quite a settlement, but there are people. Survivors. We should investigate."
Slaves with contracts were valuable. Slaves with unknown contracts were either worth a fortune or worth killing,
depending on who found them first.
Kira started down the rocky slope, her movements awkward and uncertain. Her body still ached from the contract
ritual, and her mind felt too full—like someone had poured an ocean into a cup and expected it not to overflow.
"How far?" Kira asked, her voice small.
"A few hours' walk. Maybe less if you can manage a faster pace."
A few hours. She could do that. She'd done worse.
The slave compound had been worse.
After the orphanage sold her, Kira had spent two years in the compound—a sprawling complex of barracks and
work yards where the contractless were put to use. Cleaning. Hauling. Serving as bait for dungeon raids when the
contracted hunters needed someone expendable.
She'd learned quickly that the key to survival was to be useful but not noticeable. To work hard enough that they
kept you fed, but not so hard that they worked you to death. To be present but invisible.
The compound had a view of the outside too, though not from a window. From the work yards, where they
processed salvage from dungeon raids. She'd spent hours sorting through broken weapons and shattered spirit
stones, her hands bleeding from the sharp edges, while the sky churned overhead and the rifts pulsed with their
sickly light.
Sometimes, when the wind was right, she could hear the sounds from beyond the walls. Roars. Screams. The
crack of magic tearing through reality.
"Don't listen," the overseer would bark. "Keep working. The walls will hold."
But Kira had always wondered: what happened to the people outside the walls? The ones who couldn't afford to
live in settlements? The ones who'd been exiled or who'd chosen to leave?
Did they survive? Or did the world swallow them whole?
Now she was about to find out.
Every step sent jolts of sensation through her. She could feel the magic in the ground beneath her feet, residual
and chaotic. Could sense the rifts in the distance, their pull like a constant whisper at the edge of her awareness.
It was too much. All of it was too much.
"Breathe," Malachar reminded her. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Focus on the physical. One
step at a time."
She tried. It helped, a little.
The terrain was treacherous—loose rocks and hidden crevices that could snap an ankle if she wasn't careful. She
picked her way down slowly, her bare feet finding purchase on the rough stone.
"You're doing well," Malachar said after a while.
"I'm terrified," Kira admitted.
"I know. But you're still moving. That's what matters."She wanted to ask him why he cared. Why a being powerful enough to be called a king would bother encouraging
a thirteen-year-old slave. But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, she asked: "What did you mean? About my family? About the main bloodline?"
Malachar was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful. Measured.
"There was a time, long ago, when chaos magic was not feared. When it was celebrated as the ultimate expression
of freedom—the power to create without limit, to imagine without constraint." He paused. "Your ancestors were
among my most loyal followers. They understood that chaos was not destruction. It was possibility."
Kira's foot slipped on a loose rock. She caught herself, heart pounding.
"But the other spirit kings didn't see it that way," Malachar continued. "They saw chaos as a threat to their order.
Their control. So they waged war against me. Against everyone who stood with me."
"And my family?" Kira asked quietly.
"They fought. They lost. And when the war ended, the other kings tried to erase them completely. Hunted them
down. Killed them. Scattered the survivors to the winds." His voice grew softer. "But some must have escaped.
Hidden. Waited. And eventually, they sent you."
Kira's throat tightened. "I don't remember any family. I've been alone my whole life."
"Perhaps they hid you to keep you safe. Perhaps they died before they could tell you the truth." Malachar's
presence in her mind felt almost... sad. "But you carry their blood. Their magic. I can feel it in you. You are the main
line, little one. The last of those who stood with me."
The weight of his words settled over her like a shroud.
If he was right—if she really did have family once—then they were gone now. Dead or scattered or lost. And she
was alone anyway.
But if he was wrong...
If he was wrong, then she'd just bound herself to a being who was mistaken about who she was. Who thought she
was someone important when she was really just a discarded slave who'd gotten lucky.
Or unlucky.
She still wasn't sure which.
"I don't feel like a main line," she said quietly.
"You will," Malachar promised. "In time."
They walked in silence for a while. The sun—if it could be called that—hung low on the horizon, a pale disc barely
visible through the poisoned sky. The light it cast was weak and gray, making everything look washed out and
dead.
Kira's feet hurt. Her legs ached. Her stomach cramped with hunger.
But she kept moving.
Because what else was there to do?
"Tell me about the ruins," she said eventually, needing something to focus on besides the pain. "The ones we're
heading toward."
"They're old," Malachar said. "Older than the sealed world itself. I think they were part of the original world, before
the other kings tore reality apart to create this prison."
"Can you see them? Through my eyes?""In a way. Our connection allows me to sense what you sense, though it's... muted. Like looking through frosted
glass."
Kira glanced down at the mark on her hand. It pulsed gently, in time with her heartbeat.
"Does it hurt?" she asked. "Being bound like this?"
"No." Malachar sounded almost surprised by the question. "It's... grounding. I've been alone for so long, little one.
Sealed away with nothing but my own thoughts for company. Having you here, feeling your presence—it's a relief."
Something in Kira's chest tightened. She understood that feeling. The loneliness. The desperate need for
connection, even if it came from an unlikely source.
Maybe that's why she'd said yes. Not because she wanted power. But because she wanted someone—anyone—to
see her. To want her.
Even if that someone was a imprisoned king who might be using her for his own ends.
"Are you using me?" she asked bluntly.
Malachar laughed, surprised. "Direct. I like that." He paused. "Yes and no. I need you to help me break free
completely. That much is true. But I also meant what I said—I want you. Not just as a tool, but as a partner. A
contractor. Someone who understands what it means to be cast aside by a world that fears what it doesn't
understand."
"That's not really an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." His voice grew serious. "I won't lie to you, Kira. I need your help. But I also intend to
help you in return. To teach you. To protect you. To make sure you never have to be bait for anyone ever again."
Kira wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that this wasn't just another person using her for their own ends.
But trust was a luxury she'd never been able to afford.
"We'll see," she said quietly.
"Fair enough."
The landscape gradually changed as they walked. The barren rock gave way to patches of dead grass, brittle and
gray. Twisted trees dotted the terrain, their branches bare and reaching toward the sky like skeletal hands.
Kira recognized some of them from the settlement. They'd grown in the spaces between buildings, fed by runoff
from the wells. Hardy things that could survive on almost nothing.
Seeing them here, in the wild, made the world feel slightly less alien.
"Careful," Malachar warned suddenly. "The terrain here is unstable. Rifts spawn randomly, and some dungeons are
nothing but traps. Residue magic with no purpose except to kill."
As if summoned by his words, the air twenty feet to her left suddenly twisted.
Kira froze.
A rift tore open with a sound like ripping fabric, small and jagged. It hung there for a moment, pulsing with sickly
yellow light, and then something crawled through.
It looked like a dog, if dogs were made of melted wax and broken glass. Its body was wrong—too long, joints
bending in directions they shouldn't. Its face was a nightmare of too many eyes and a mouth that split its head in
half.
It saw her.
And lunged."Move!" Malachar's command was sharp.
Kira threw herself to the side, hitting the ground hard. The creature sailed past her, its claws gouging deep furrows
in the stone where she'd been standing.
Her heart hammered. She scrambled backward, searching for a weapon, anything—
"You are the weapon," Malachar said. "Remember what you did in the rift. The portal. You imagined what you
needed, and chaos made it real."
The creature turned, its too-many eyes fixing on her again. Saliva dripped from its jaws, hissing where it hit the
ground.
"I don't—I can't—"
As if summoned by his words, the air twenty feet to her left suddenly twisted.
Kira froze.
A rift tore open with a sound like ripping fabric, small and jagged. It hung there for a moment, pulsing with sickly
yellow light, and then something crawled through.
It looked like a dog, if dogs were made of melted wax and broken glass. Its body was wrong—too long, joints
bending in directions they shouldn't. Its face was a nightmare of too many eyes and a mouth that split its head in
half.
It saw her.
And lunged.
"Move!" Malachar's command was sharp.
Kira threw herself to the side, hitting the ground hard. The creature sailed past her, its claws gouging deep furrows
in the stone where she'd been standing.
Her heart hammered. She scrambled backward, searching for a weapon, anything—
"You are the weapon," Malachar said. "Remember what you did in the rift. The portal. You imagined what you
needed, and chaos made it real."
The creature turned, its too-many eyes fixing on her again. Saliva dripped from its jaws, hissing where it hit the
ground.
"Yes, you can." His voice was firm, anchoring. "What do you need right now? Don't think. Just feel."
The creature charged.
Kira's mind went blank with panic—and then, suddenly, crystal clear.
I need it gone.
She thrust her hand forward, and the air between her and the creature shattered.
Not like glass. Like reality itself had decided that space didn't exist anymore. The creature ran straight into the void
and simply... stopped. Frozen mid-leap, suspended in a pocket of twisted space that shouldn't be possible.
Kira stared, her hand still outstretched, trembling.
"Good," Malachar said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Now finish it."
She didn't know how she knew what to do. The knowledge just was, flowing through the contract bond like instinct.
She clenched her fist, and the pocket of twisted space collapsed.
The creature folded in on itself with a wet, crunching sound and vanished. Not dead—unmade. Erased from
existence as if it had never been.Kira's legs gave out. She hit her knees, gasping, staring at her hand. The mark glowed faintly, pulsing in time with
her racing heart.
"What... what did I just do?"
"Chaos magic," Malachar said simply. "Creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin. You imagined that
creature didn't belong in this reality, and chaos agreed with you." A pause. "Your ancestors were masters of this.
It's in your blood."
Kira wanted to throw up. Or laugh. Or cry. Maybe all three.
She'd just erased something from existence with a thought.
"The rift is closing," Malachar observed. "Dummy rifts like that don't last long. They're just... echoes. Residue from
the seal's magic. No keys, no purpose. Just random death."
Kira looked up. The rift was indeed shrinking, its edges curling inward like burning paper. Within seconds, it winked
out of existence entirely, leaving nothing but a faint scorch mark on the air.
"How many of those are there?" she asked weakly.
"Thousands. Maybe more." Malachar's tone was grim. "This world is drowning in residual magic. The seal that
binds me leaks power constantly, and it has nowhere to go. So it spawns rifts and dungeons at random. Most lead
nowhere. Some are death traps. A few—a very few—hold pieces of what we need."
"The keys," Kira said, remembering.
"Yes. But finding them won't be easy. This world is designed to kill anything that tries to navigate it." He paused.
"That's why you need allies. People who know how to survive here. How to tell a real dungeon from a dummy. How
to find the paths between the chaos."
Kira pushed herself to her feet, her legs still shaky but holding. "The people you sensed. In the ruins."
"Yes. If they've survived this long, they know something. And if they're who I think they are..." Malachar's presence
shifted, something almost hopeful entering his tone. "They might be waiting for you."
"Why would anyone be waiting for me?"
"Because your family would have prepared for this. Left allies in place. People who could guide you when the time
came." He sounded so certain. So sure that there was a grand plan, a network of support waiting to embrace her.
Kira wanted to believe him. But thirteen years of abandonment and cruelty had taught her not to hope.
Still, she started walking toward the ruins. What else was she going to do?
The journey took hours. The landscape was treacherous—cracked earth that crumbled underfoot, pools of
something that looked like water but hissed and steamed, patches of air that shimmered with unstable magic.
Twice more, dummy rifts spawned nearby, but Malachar guided her around them before anything could emerge.
"You're learning quickly," he observed as she navigated around a particularly nasty-looking fissure. "Your instincts
are good."
"I've been surviving my whole life," Kira said quietly. "Just... in a different way."
"Survival is survival. The skills translate." A pause. "Your family would be proud."
Kira didn't respond. She didn't know how to.
As they drew closer to the ruins, details emerged. The structures had once been grand—tall buildings with elegant
architecture, now reduced to broken shells. But unlike the other ruins scattered across the wasteland, these
showed signs of habitation. Makeshift walls built from rubble. Crude watchtowers. Smoke rising from what might be
cooking fires.
"People," Kira breathed."Be cautious," Malachar warned. "Not everyone in this world is friendly. Some have been driven mad by the chaos.
Others are simply desperate."
Kira approached slowly, keeping to the shadows of the broken buildings. Her slave's instincts screamed at her to
stay hidden, to avoid notice. But Malachar's presence in her mind was a steady warmth, a reminder that she wasn't
powerless anymore.
A voice called out from above. "That's far enough."
Kira froze. On top of a partially collapsed wall, a figure stood silhouetted against the sickly sky. A woman, maybe in
her thirties, with a crossbow aimed directly at Kira's chest.
"State your business," the woman said. Her voice was hard, but not cruel. Wary.
Kira's mouth went dry. What was she supposed to say? I'm looking for people who can help me contact another
world? That sounded insane.
"She's looking for allies," Malachar said in her mind. "And she bears the mark of chaos. Show her."
Kira hesitated, then slowly raised her right hand, palm out. The spiral mark glowed faintly in the dim light.
The woman's eyes widened. The crossbow lowered slightly.
"Chaos magic," she breathed. Then, louder, calling to someone behind the wall: "Get Elder Voss. Now."
Kira's heart pounded. "Who—"
"If you really have a chaos contract," the woman said, her expression unreadable, "then Elder Voss has been
waiting thirteen years to meet you."