Collide: The Ancestral Awakening Chapter 2

As I stepped out of the study, something streaked across the heavens, a brilliant, searing blue light that cut through the clouds like a falling star, blazing brighter and faster than any natural comet. It arched overhead and vanished into the depths of the forest, leaving a trail of glowing smoke in its wake. I knew these woods better than I knew the rooms in my own home. I’d explored them since I was small, drawn to every trail, every stream, every hidden clearing. I’d drawn a map once, but after years of wandering, I didn’t need it anymore. The paths were etched into my bones. Whatever fell out there landed near the mountain ridges, and I had to see it.

I climbed down the tower steps and set off immediately, heading through the thick undergrowth toward the waterfall, then deeper still, into the older, colder part of the forest that bordered the mountains. The air grew cooler, the trees taller and denser, their canopies blotting out the sun. I followed the faint trail I’d walked a hundred times, past the mouth of a dark cave and into the silence where the light had fallen.

Before long, I found it. The ground was scorched, blackened earth radiating faint heat. Ahead lay a crater, and at its centre a pod. It was rough, makeshift, hammered together from plates of dark metal and riveted steel, fashioned in that rugged, steampunk style spoken of only in legends the kind of craft said to come from near the Centre, from the Wasteland itself.

I stepped down into the crater and touched the metal hull. At my contact, a panel slid silently open, revealing two things resting inside: a worn leather-bound notebook, and a shard of pure, pulsing blue light that hummed with energy. It looked ancient, powerful the kind of thing my grandfather would have spent years studying. I reached out to examine it, curious, and the moment my fingers brushed its surface, the shard dissolved. It shattered into thousands of glowing fragments, swirled upward and flowed straight into my chest.

I gasped, clutching my chest, staring in disbelief. The light was gone. Inside me.

I grabbed the notebook, heart hammering, and tried to process what had just happened when a voice boomed from behind.

“HEY! What do you think you’re doing!”

I spun around. Standing at the crater’s edge was a soldier clad in armour of polished black and gold the colours of Kingslair. Over his face, he wore a tactical mask, the kind worn by the ancient Templar orders, concealing everything but his eyes. In his hands rested a Kingslair rifle — not a musket, but a sleek semi-automatic weapon fed by an integrated magazine.

“This is Central Powers business!” he shouted, voice stern and steady. “Hand over what was inside. Or else.”

I stood frozen, clutching the notebook to my chest. In the brief glance I’d gotten, I’d seen names, titles, Keepers of the Old Order, men presumed dead for centuries. Central Powers had done much good, bringing energy and progress to the realm. But this? Something about this felt wrong. Dangerous. And I knew with sudden, unshakable certainty that I could not give this to him.

“FINAL CHANCE!”

He raised the rifle.

I bolted.

I dove sideways and vanished into the trees. Shots rang out, thudding into trunks and kicking up dirt around me, but I moved like I belonged to the shadows weaving, ducking, vanishing, and reappearing deeper into the cover. He fired again and again, but the forest fought with me. He lost me, found me, lost me once more. By then I’d realised the truth: checkpoints had appeared at the forest edge, men posted along every path out. I was being herded. Trapped.

I ran until the trees thinned and the ground fell away. I’d reached the cliffs. Below, the rocks waited jagged and cruel. I saw a narrow ledge across the gap, and leaped, and a bullet tore into my leg.

Pain exploded through me. I stumbled, my footing failed and I caught myself, fingers digging hard into the stone edge, dangling over the drop.

The soldier walked to the edge above me. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and looked down.

“End of the line, rookie.”

Then he kicked.

My fingers slipped. And I fell.