Chapter 4: First Blood

Kieran wasn't one for gentle instruction.

"Again," he barked as Orin picked himself up from the stone floor. They were training in a cleared area outside the camp, bordered by defensive barriers.

Orin wiped blood from his mouth, the taste of copper sharp on his tongue. His ribs protested every movement, but he forced himself into a defensive stance. Three days in the Rift, and every muscle in his body felt like it had been torn apart and poorly reassembled.

"You're thinking too much," Kieran criticized, circling him. "The Rift doesn't reward thinkers. It rewards survivors."

He lunged suddenly, a blur of motion. Orin sidestepped, barely avoiding the blow, but Kieran's follow-up caught him in the shoulder, sending him staggering.

"Too slow," Kieran said. "A Hollowborn would have your head by now."

Nearby, Nessa was training Marisa with similar brutality. The woman who had once been a software engineer moved with surprising determination, though her technique was raw and unpolished. Whatever nightmares had visited her since their arrival had hardened something in her eyes.

"Focus!" Kieran snapped, breaking Orin's observation. His fist connected with Orin's jaw, pain exploding through his skull.

Something in Orin snapped. Not his bone, but his restraint.

He charged forward, ignoring the pain, embracing it. Kieran, surprised by the sudden aggression, fell back a step. Orin pressed the advantage, years of street fights and back-alley brawls taking over. He wasn't trained, but he knew how to hurt someone.

His fist connected with Kieran's sternum. The older man grunted, genuine surprise flashing across his scarred face. Orin followed with a sweep of his leg, and for a moment, it seemed Kieran might fall.

Instead, shadows coiled around the man's arms like living smoke. He moved with unnatural speed, appearing behind Orin and sending him crashing to the ground with a well-placed strike.

"Better," Kieran admitted, the shadows receding. "But remember—in the Rift, fighting fair gets you killed."

He extended a hand, pulling Orin to his feet. "Enough for today. You've both survived three days. Tonight's the testing."

"Testing?" Marisa asked, approaching with Nessa.

"The Awakening," Nessa explained. "If the Protocol recognizes you, it happens on the third night."

Anxiety flickered across Marisa's face. "And if it doesn't?"

"Then you survive on skill alone," Tomas called from where he was reinforcing one of the barriers. "Like Daren."

The fourth member of their group, who rarely spoke, glanced up at the mention of his name. Unlike the others, Daren bore no mark on his arm, no symbol of the Protocol's favor.

"It's rare," Kieran added, seeing the concern on their faces. "Most who come through receive something. The Rift wants contenders, not corpses." He paused. "Usually."

They returned to camp, where a meal of strange, fibrous vegetables and unidentifiable meat awaited. Orin ate mechanically, mind elsewhere.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to a crude drawing on the wall—a circular design with layers marked by different symbols.

"Map of the known Rift," Daren said, surprising Orin by speaking directly to him for the first time. "Or what we've pieced together from stories and exploration."

The outer ring—marked "Wailing Grounds"—was where they were now. Other rings extended inward, each with names that did nothing to ease Orin's concern: The Sundered Waste, The Hollow Forest, The Abyssal Current, The Shattered Throne.

At the center was a simple crown symbol.

"The Sovereign's Seat," Daren explained, following Orin's gaze. "The throne at the heart of the Rift. Some say it doesn't exist. Others claim reaching it grants dominion over the entire Rift."

"Have you tried to go deeper?" Orin asked.

A shadow crossed Daren's face. "Once. Made it to the Second Layer. Lost three friends to the Hollowborn there." He turned away. "We stay here now. Survive. That's enough."

Evening came gradually, the strange ambient light of the Rift dimming to a twilight glow. A tension settled over the camp as Kieran prepared a space in the center—a circle marked with symbols similar to those on his arm.

"The Awakening isn't pleasant," he warned Orin and Marisa. "It feels like the Rift is tearing you apart from the inside, searching for what makes you... you."

"Encouraging," Orin muttered.

Nessa brought two cups filled with luminescent blue liquid. "Drink. It will help with the pain."

Marisa stared at the glowing substance. "What is it?"

"Rift essence," Tomas explained. "Distilled from certain plants that grow where the void touches land. It helps attune your body to the Protocol."

Orin took his cup, examining the swirling liquid. It smelled like ozone and something else, something not quite natural.

"Down the hatch," he said, and drank.

The liquid burned like ice and fire simultaneously, spreading through his veins in freezing waves. Beside him, Marisa gasped, nearly dropping her empty cup.

"Now," Kieran directed, "step into the circle. One at a time. Marisa first."

She hesitated, then squared her shoulders and stepped forward. The symbols around the circle flared with pale blue light as she crossed the boundary.

"Now what?" she asked, her voice tight with nerves.

"Now we wait," Nessa replied. "The Protocol will either recognize you or it won't."

Minutes passed in tense silence. Marisa stood rigid in the center, her breathing shallow. Just as Orin began to think nothing would happen, she gasped, doubling over.

"It's starting," Kieran said quietly.

Marisa's skin began to glow from within, veins illuminated with the same blue light as the circle. She screamed, a sound of pure agony that cut through the air like a blade. Her body convulsed, hovering inches above the ground.

Orin started forward, but Tomas held him back. "Don't interfere. It could kill her."

The light grew blinding. Marisa's screams changed, becoming something else—a sound of transformation rather than pain. When the light finally faded, she collapsed to the ground, unconscious but breathing.

Nessa hurried to check her arm. There, etched into her skin like a brand, was a symbol—different from Kieran's, but unmistakably a mark of the Protocol.

"Mind Weaving," Nessa identified, studying the pattern. "Rare. Powerful, if she learns to use it."

They carried Marisa to her bedroll. On her forehead, a faint blue glow pulsed beneath the skin, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat.

"Your turn," Kieran told Orin, resetting the circle.

Orin stepped forward, crossing the boundary. The symbols flared again, but dimmer this time. He stood in the center, waiting for the burning pain that had claimed Marisa.

Nothing happened.

Minutes stretched longer. The others exchanged glances.

"Something's wrong," Tomas murmured.

Kieran's brow furrowed. "It's taking too long. The Protocol should have—"

Pain exploded through Orin's body, driving him to his knees. Unlike Marisa's experience, there was no light, no glow. Just agony, pure and absolute, as if something were reaching inside him, examining every cell, every memory, every scar.

He bit back a scream, tasting blood as he bit through his lip. The world narrowed to a pinpoint of suffering.

Then, nothing. The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come. Orin remained on his knees, gasping.

"Did it work?" he managed, looking up at the others.

Their expressions told him everything. Daren stepped forward, examining Orin's arms, then his neck and back, searching for a mark that wasn't there.

"Nothing," Daren confirmed. "The Protocol didn't choose him."

Kieran's face was grim. "I've never seen it reject someone like that before."

Orin stood slowly, refusing the help Tomas offered. "So I'm like Daren. I survive on skill alone."

"Daren wasn't rejected," Nessa said quietly. "He just wasn't chosen. The Protocol never activated for him at all. You... it examined you and found you wanting."

The words stung more than they should have. Orin had spent his life being found wanting—by family, by society, by himself. What was one more rejection?

"Get some rest," Kieran advised, though his eyes remained troubled. "Tomorrow we start planning a supply run to the outer islands. Awakening or not, we all pull our weight here."

Orin retreated to his corner, watching as the others whispered among themselves, casting occasional glances his way. Only Daren seemed unbothered, offering a nod that might have been solidarity or pity.

Sleep eluded him. Hours later, as the others slumbered, Orin sat with his back against the wall, staring at his unmarked arms. What had the Protocol seen in him? What flaw or weakness had it found?

A rustle nearby drew his attention. Marisa was awake, sitting up on her bedroll, fingers tracing the new mark on her arm.

"How do you feel?" Orin asked quietly.

"Different," she whispered. "Like there's something in my head now. A presence. A power." She looked at him. "They told me what happened. I'm sorry."

Orin shrugged. "Not the first time I've been the odd one out."

"What will you do?"

"Same as always. Adapt. Survive." He gave her a grim smile. "Protocol or not, I'm not dying in this place."

A distant noise interrupted them—a keening wail that raised the hair on Orin's arms. The same sound the Stalker had made.

"Another one?" Marisa whispered, fear edging her voice.

The wail came again, closer. Then another joined it, from a different direction.

Orin was on his feet instantly. "Kieran!"

The others were already stirring, reaching for weapons. Kieran moved to a narrow window, peering out into the twilight void.

"Stalkers," he confirmed, voice tight. "At least three. Maybe more."

"How did they find us?" Tomas demanded. "The barriers should have hidden us!"

Kieran's gaze fell on Marisa. "The Awakening. It must have drawn them. Fresh power always does."

"What do we do?" Nessa asked, strapping a strange, crystalline blade to her hip.

"We fight," Kieran replied grimly. "Tomas, Nessa—eastern approach. Daren, with me on the western barrier. Marisa—"

"I don't know how to use... whatever this is," she said, panic creeping into her voice as she touched her marked arm.

"Stay in the center of the camp," Kieran instructed. "Focus on the mark. The knowledge will come instinctively if you're in danger." He looked at Orin. "You—"

"I'll take the northern approach," Orin said, already grabbing a crude spear from the weapon rack. "I can handle myself."

Kieran hesitated, then nodded. "Don't engage directly. Stalkers can sense Protocol gifts, but they're less interested in... those without."

The unspoken meaning was clear. Without the Protocol's mark, Orin was beneath the Stalkers' notice. Bait, at best.

They dispersed to their positions. Orin climbed to a higher vantage point, spear in hand, watching the swirling darkness beyond the camp's barriers. The wailing grew louder, multiplying. More than three, then. Much more.

As the first Stalker appeared—its oil-slick skin rippling in the dim light—Orin tightened his grip on his weapon. Protocol or not, he would not be found wanting again.

The Hollow Rift had rejected him. He would make it regret that decision.