The starlight Directive

Victor ran. His feet barely made contact with the ground as he moved, the rift's light flashing behind him in violent bursts of cold blue. Every pulse from the rift sent a shiver down his spine, each pulse heavier than the last. His ribs ached from the earlier impact, and the coldness of the air seeped deep into his bones. Every breath was harder to take, but he couldn't afford to stop. Not yet. Not while it was still out there.

The Directive is broken.

That thought circled endlessly in his mind. The unshakable force that had governed this world for so long, that had kept the Zhorul in check, was now gone. And he felt it—everything about this land had shifted, something new and dangerous had taken root.

The howl of a Zhorul echoed faintly in the distance, a high-pitched wail that pierced the otherwise silent air. His muscles stiffened. Too close.

Victor crouched low, moving behind a jagged stone structure that jutted out of the ground like the spine of a forgotten beast. His breath quickened, and his eyes darted across the landscape, scanning for movement. The air felt wrong, heavy, like the very ground beneath him was holding its breath.

Then the fog rolled in.

It wasn't natural. The way it moved, the way it twisted and curled around him—it was deliberate. Alive. He could feel it. It wrapped itself around his legs, thickening with each passing second. His pulse quickened.

Victor pressed himself flat against the stone, gripping his spear tighter, every fiber of his being on alert. He couldn't see anything through the thickening mist, but he could sense it—something was out there. Something watching him.

Then, through the haze, he saw it.

A figure.

Victor froze. His heart stopped for a beat. It looked human, but something was wrong. It stood motionless in the mist, its form distorted, as if the fog itself was bending around it. His breath caught in his throat. The rift had done something to this world, and now it was twisting people into something else.

"Who's there?" Victor called out, his voice sharp and cutting through the air. The figure didn't respond. It didn't move, just stood there, facing him.

Victor's grip on his spear tightened. He couldn't explain it, but he knew something was wrong. He shifted his weight, preparing to move, to run, to fight, whatever was necessary.

Then, the figure moved.

Not with steps—no, it was as though it was drawn closer, the mist parting to let it approach, no sound, no movement, just closer.

Victor's heart thudded louder in his chest. He could hear his pulse, louder than the wind or the fog. His hand was shaking as he raised the spear, pointing it straight ahead.

"Show yourself!" Victor demanded, his voice rising with a hint of panic he couldn't hide.

The figure didn't respond. No answer came. But it was closer now, barely an arm's length away. The fog around it swirled unnaturally, making it appear as though the figure itself was the source of the mist.

Without thinking, Victor lunged forward, his spear cutting through the air.

Nothing.

He staggered, his feet catching on the uneven ground as he spun, his eyes darting around wildly. The figure was gone. Vanished. The fog, thick and silent, wrapped itself tightly around him, hiding the world.

Victor's breathing was erratic now, his body tense with anticipation. His heart was pounding in his chest, his ears ringing. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't explain any of it. His instincts screamed at him, warning him, but there was nothing to fight. Nothing to see.

Then, he heard it.

Whispers.

Soft at first, like wind through trees, but they grew louder, more distinct. A voice, no—voices—coming from all around him, wrapping around his mind like a cold embrace.

"You are the catalyst."

Victor spun again, spear raised. The voice was unmistakable. It came from everywhere. He was surrounded. But when he turned, there was no one there.

"Show yourself!" he shouted, his voice strained and desperate. His eyes scanned the mist. The air felt suffocating now.

Nothing.

The whispers continued, though, growing louder, more urgent. "You are the catalyst."

He gritted his teeth. He was losing control. The fog, the whispers, the figure—it was all too much. He didn't understand it, couldn't understand it.

The rift above pulsed again, and the air around him seemed to shimmer, warping with each beat. The world felt like it was bending, twisting, pulling apart at the seams.

Victor's body felt heavier, his movements slower, like he was being drawn into something far beyond his understanding.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the fog began to recede. The whispers faded, leaving nothing but silence in their wake.

Victor stood frozen in place, his spear still raised, his body stiff with tension. The world around him had gone still. The rift above him flickered, casting a pale, sickly light across the land.

He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know what was going to happen next. But he knew this: the rift was alive, and he was caught in its pull.

And he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on.