Three days with Kalia showed Sora how brutal Valthera could be. They dodged riftstorms—tears in the sky spitting chaos—and scavenged ruins for food. The gauntlet grew hungrier, absorbing stray sparks or gusts when Sora wasn’t careful. He’d accidentally turned a tree to ash yesterday, earning Kalia’s glare. “Control it,” she snapped, “or it controls you.”

They aimed for Emberfall, a trading hub on a lava-veined isle, to find leads on Kalia’s clan. Emberfall was a riot of forges and bazaars, its air thick with soot and spice. Sora gawked at fire-wreathed merchants and skiffs darting like dragonflies. Kalia led him to a cluttered shop, where a lanky guy with goggles and a smirk tossed vials between hands.

“Toren,” Kalia said, tossing him a coin. “Alchemist. Owes me a favor.”

Toren caught the coin, grinning. “Kalia, you wound me. I’d help for your charm alone.” His eyes landed on Sora. “Who’s the stray?”

“Sora,” he said, bristling. “Not a stray.”

“Got a Relic Gauntlet, though,” Kalia added, ignoring Sora’s frown. “Know anything about it?”

Toren’s grin vanished. He pulled them inside, locking the door. “Relics are trouble. Old tech from before the Fracture. Yours looks like a Devourer—eats elements, spits chaos. Where’d you find it?”

“On me,” Sora said. “Woke up here, no manual.”

Toren whistled, inspecting the gauntlet. “Riftbound, huh? You’re either blessed or cursed.” He handed Sora a vial. “Drink this. Stabilizes your mana. Don’t explode my shop.”

Sora hesitated, then drank. The gauntlet steadied, its runes softer. “Thanks. Got any leads on missing Zephyrs?”

“Maybe,” Toren said, pulling a map. “Rift activity spiked near the Voidspire. Could be a clue.”

Before they could plan, the shop shook. Armored raiders—Voidsingers, Toren hissed—barged in, their cloaks leaking shadow. “The Riftbound,” their leader growled, pointing at Sora. “Hand him over.”

Kalia’s blades flashed, sparking lightning. Sora raised his gauntlet, absorbing a void-bolt and redirecting it as a gust, knocking raiders back. Toren lobbed vials, bursting into flame and ice, but the leader countered with a shadow-wave. Outnumbered, they fled through a backdoor, Toren grabbing his satchel.

“Guess I’m with you,” he panted, dodging a bolt. “Voidsingers hate alchemists almost as much as Riftbound.”

Sora grinned despite the chaos. “Welcome to the grind.”

They escaped on Kalia’s skiff, Emberfall shrinking behind them. Toren slumped, muttering about his shop. Kalia steered north, toward the Voidspire. Sora tested his gauntlet, shaping a spark into a tiny shield. It felt right—like coding his own rules.

Chapter 2: The Alchemist’s Gambit

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