A Place To Stand

Prologue

Ryft woke to silence where magic should have been.

Not the comforting hush of a library at dawn, nor the charged stillness that always followed Gale's spells—but an absence. A wrongness that pressed against her horns and crawled along the scars of her infernal blood. The Weave, once a familiar current beneath her skin, felt distant. Muted. Like a tide she could sense but no longer touch.

Sky stretched overhead—wide, blue, and unfamiliar. No spires of Waterdeep. No crackle of lingering enchantment. No warm, maddening presence of Ambition humming at the edge of her thoughts.

"Gale...?" Her voice sounded small to her own ears.

Ryft pushed herself upright, armoured instincts answering before thought ever could. Fighter's reflexes. Shield hand steady. Sword—gone. Of course it was. She exhaled slowly and forced her mind to still. Panic was useless. Panic never survived her sparring sessions with a wizard who refused to stay out of melee range.

Memory returned in shards.

Light. Not divine, exactly—ascendant. Gale's hand in hers, fingers trembling with more than magic as the last spell took hold. A promise whispered between breaths: Whatever comes next, we face it together. Then the world had folded. Torn. Rewritten.

And now she was alone.

Ryft stood, tail flicking once behind her as she took in her surroundings: wildflowers bent in a breeze scented of salt and pine; distant hills rolling toward mountains she didn't recognize. The land felt old. Not ancient and buried, but alive, like something watching her back.

Something answered when she reached inward.

Not steel this time—but warmth. Radiant and steady, blooming behind her ribs like a second heartbeat. Power flowed where discipline once ruled, answering her call without strain or study. Instinct guided her hands as faint light traced infernal sigils along her fingers.

Cleric.

The word settled with strange ease.

"Right," Ryft muttered. 

"Of course that stuck."

Her laughter cut short when boots crunched through grass.

Six figures stood ahead, weapons half-raised, postures wary but not hostile. A blue-skinned woman with careful eyes. A towering, grey giant clutching a staff. Twin figures radiating menace and mirth in equal measure. A man who looked like he'd die before letting his guard down. And one—smiling, curious, dangerous in the way only chaos could be.

Ryft lifted her hands slowly, the faint glow of magic dimming at her will.

"I don't suppose," she said, voice dry despite her racing heart, "that any of you could tell me where exactly I've landed?"

The group exchanged looks.

"Well," the blue-skinned woman finally said, lips twitching, "that depends. Which plane were you trying to be on?"

As if summoned by the question, something small and winged shimmered into existence at Ryft's shoulder—fur bristling, eyes indignant, wings aflutter in offended fury.

"Tara?" Ryft breathed.

The tressym flicked her tail, let out a sharp mrrp, and settled possessively against her neck.

Whatever this place was—Exandria, she would soon learn—Ryft had not arrived empty-handed.

And she was far from finished defying fate.