Chapter Eighteen – Blades and Mirrors

The silver coin gleamed at Nuel's feet, pulsing faintly with Riftlight—like it held more than metal. A memory, maybe. Or a promise.

The stranger stood silent, spear leveled. His armor was ancient—a fusion of Rift-warped alloys and something older. Primal. The mirrored helm reflected Nuel's face back at him, warped and flickering with static.

Nuel tightened his grip on his blade, Ember-Core gauntlet whirring softly. He could feel his heartbeat syncing with it.

Challenge accepted.

The others stayed behind, as agreed, though Nyra looked like she was one reckless breath away from stepping in.

The stranger made the first move.

He launched forward with frightening speed, spear tip slicing through the air like lightning drawn into a weapon. Nuel barely dodged, the edge grazing his shoulder as he twisted and countered with a clean upward slash. Sparks flew. Metal sang.

The clash of weapons sent shockwaves through the ridge.

This wasn't a normal fight. Each strike from the stranger echoed with some kind of temporal bleed—afterimages trailing behind his movements, confusing depth and direction.

"Reality's fraying around him," Nuel muttered, ducking under a sweep and blasting backward with a Rift-pulse from his gauntlet.

The stranger skidded to a stop, then spun his spear in a sudden arc. It split in two—becoming dual blades crackling with inverted energy. He came at Nuel again, this time even faster.

Adapt. React. Survive.

Nuel tapped into the Ember-Core.

The world slowed.

Every motion became vivid: dust rising, light bending, the hum of energy thrumming along his spine. He parried the first strike, countered the second, and landed a solid blow across the stranger's side. A shimmer ran through the man's armor—but it didn't break.

Instead, the stranger laughed—a warped, distant sound inside the helm.

Then he surged forward again, kicking Nuel back. The spear re-formed mid-motion, and its butt slammed into Nuel's gut, sending him flying across the ridge.

He hit the dirt hard, gasping.

A blur passed overhead—Nyra.

He held out a hand. "No!"

She paused mid-stride, fists clenched.

"This is my fight."

Something shifted behind the mirror-mask. Approval? Amusement? Whatever it was, the stranger hurled his spear skyward. It split the clouds, hung for a heartbeat—then shattered into shards of Riftglass that rained down like deadly hail.

Nuel raised his gauntlet, projecting a shield of light.

The shards hissed against the barrier, leaving glowing scars in the earth around him. When the storm ended, he was already moving, lunging low and driving his blade forward.

The stranger met the blow—barehanded.

Palm to blade.

The mirrored mask cracked slightly, revealing... a single eye.

Silver. Familiar.

Nuel froze. "You…"

The stranger spoke for the first time. Voice distant, echoing from multiple timelines at once.

"Your path splinters, Fatebound. One path burns. One breaks. Choose."

He vanished.

One moment, he stood in front of Nuel, holding his blade like a teacher correcting a student. The next, only Riftlight and wind remained. The coin at Nuel's feet pulsed once, then shattered into embers.

Silence.

Then the others rushed in.

"What the hell was that?" Kael demanded.

"Was he a Rift Echo?" Lysander asked, harp ready but unused.

"No," Nuel said, lowering his weapon. "He was… real. And he knew me. Or will know me."

Elara looked grim. "Temporal fractures are getting worse. That wasn't just a warrior. That was a warning."

Nyra helped steady him, fingers brushing the scorched edge of his jacket. "You okay?"

"I think so."

He didn't say it aloud, but the stranger's voice still echoed in his skull.

Choose.

They broke camp the next morning, traveling southeast toward Eldergate's outer ruins. The map Nuel found days earlier now pulsed with new clarity. Coordinates shifted as if responding to their motion.

As they walked, Elara updated her records. "There's a convergence storm forming near the Hollow Verge. We might have a safe window of thirty-six hours before it hits the region."

"Plenty of time," Corin muttered, checking his gear. "If nothing else tries to kill us."

"Too optimistic," Kael said. "I give it ten minutes."

They crossed a ravine and found a shattered transport beacon buried in obsidian roots. Something had burned symbols into the stone—ancient, spiraled glyphs repeating the same word.

Nyra crouched beside it. "Same runes from the coin."

"What do they mean?" Nuel asked.

Lysander ran a hand over the carvings. "Threshold. Something's coming through. Something that sees us."

The sky darkened slightly, even though no clouds moved. The wind shifted, cold and whispering.

And Nuel knew they were being watched.

Not by the stranger.

By what came next.