The Sky That Broke

The sky had been shattered for years, but today it felt different.

Cracks of pale blue light ran across the heavens like broken glass, humming softly as if the world itself were trying to hold together. Shards drifted down from time to time—glowing fragments that burned out before they touched the ground.

The Wanderer stood beneath that fractured sky, coat whipping in the dry wind, boots sinking into scorched earth. He didn’t know where he came from. He didn’t know where he was going. He only knew the world was broken long before he ever opened his eyes.

Far ahead, a jagged spire rose from the burning plain. Upon it stood a figure—motionless, watching. The mark on the Wanderer’s face pulsed, faint and alive, as if it recognized the silhouette.

He carried a book he didn’t remember finding. He walked a road he didn’t remember choosing. And somewhere behind him… something watched.

The land was silent. Too silent.

The Wanderer lifted his head. The sky flickered. The mark on his face burned.

And for the first time, he felt it: He was not alone.