Lysander ran. Each stride was a fresh stab in his arm. Blood slicked his fingers, a warm, metallic coating he couldn't wipe away. The alleyways blurred, brick giving way to graffiti, then damp concrete. His lungs burned, air scraping raw in his throat. The creatures—their forms twisting at the edge of his vision—were gone. Or perhaps, they simply couldn't keep pace. He didn't look back to confirm. Only the lullaby remained. It wasn't just in his head now. It was *around* him. A soft, humming presence, a fractured melody that pulled at something deep inside. *Sleep, my child, my starlight bright…* The words were fragmented, a whisper carried on a non-existent breeze. His mother's voice? Impossible. He had no mother. Only the void. Yet, the sound was achingly familiar, a phantom comfort. He stumbled, shoulder slamming into a refuse bin. The clang echoed through the narrow passage. Pain flared, blinding, then receded to a dull throb. He slid down, back against cold brick, gasping. His vision swam. The adrenaline was draining, leaving him weak. His arm, a mangled mess, pulsed with a rhythm of its own. He pressed his good hand against the wound, a futile attempt to staunch the flow. It bled freely, dark and sticky. The masked figure’s words hammered in his skull. *Riftbinder. Your family sealed a breach. Now it stirs. And the lullaby… it has come through.* Madness. All of it. He was hallucinating, the pain and shock twisting his mind. There were no creatures. No Rifts. No ancient powers. Yet, the burn on his skin was real. The ache in his bones, too. The emptiness where his family should be felt more profound than ever, now given a name, a terrible history. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against his knees. The world tilted. He tried to focus on his breath, on anything but the dizzying revelations. But the lullaby grew stronger. It wasn't a memory, not just a sound. It felt… tactile. Like a gentle weight settling on his eyelids. A warmth on his cheek. He opened his eyes. The alley was darker, the distant streetlights appearing smeared, as if viewed through water. His vision wasn't the problem. The alley itself was subtly *wrong*. Edges shimmered. The bricks of the wall behind him seemed to waver, their solid lines distorting, rippling like heat haze over asphalt. The air around him crackled with a faint, almost inaudible hum, distinct from the lullaby. Fear, cold and sharp, cut through his exhaustion. This wasn't just pain. This was happening again. The tearing. The way reality frayed at the seams. His wounded arm throbbed, a direct connection to the phenomenon. He stared at it, horrified. The skin around the gash was purpling, but not like a bruise. It was as if the very fabric of his flesh was struggling to hold together. He had torn reality with his bare hands. He was a Riftbinder. The words, once unbelievable, now settled with a terrifying weight. *Sleep, my child, don't fear the night…* The lullaby was clearer now, almost sung directly into his ear. A woman's voice, soft and melodic, laced with an underlying sorrow. It was beautiful, haunting, and utterly terrifying. Because it was not a memory. It was an intrusion. He scrambled back, scraping his good elbow against the rough wall. His mind screamed. He wasn’t going mad. He was being invaded. The lullaby wasn't just a sound; it was a presence, pushing against the walls of his perception. He squeezed his eyes shut again, fighting it. Fighting the voice, fighting the shimmering reality, fighting the sudden, overwhelming sensation of being *watched*. When he opened his eyes, the alley was gone. No, not gone. Changed. The brick walls were still there, but now overgrown with strange, phosphorescent moss that pulsed with a faint, greenish light. The ground beneath him was no longer concrete, but soft, spongy earth, wet with an unknown moisture. The scent of ozone and something akin to damp earth mixed with a sickly sweet perfume filled his nostrils. And above, where the night sky should have been, was a swirling expanse of obsidian, dotted with constellations that weren't stars. They were pinpricks of iridescent light, shifting and coalescing into impossible geometric patterns. The breach. He was in it. Or near it. He didn't know which was worse. The lullaby, meanwhile, became a full song, its melody a delicate thread in the strange, silent air. It beckoned, not with words, but with an emotion. A longing. A plea. He tried to move, to stand, but his legs were lead. His wounded arm felt cold, utterly numb, then sparked with a sudden, agonizing jolt. He cried out, a guttural sound torn from his throat. His hand instinctively went to the wound. He pulled it away, his fingers wet. But it wasn't blood. It was a viscous, shimmering liquid, pulsing with the same green light as the moss. It felt cold, then hot, then impossibly cold again. The lullaby swelled, its notes wrapping around him, pulling. He felt a profound sense of familiarity, a child’s desire to reach for a mother’s embrace. It was a deception, he knew. A siren song. But the familiarity was too potent to ignore. A shadow detached itself from the wall of pulsing moss. It was humanoid, taller than him, slender, with limbs that seemed too long, too numerous. Its head was a smooth, featureless oval, utterly devoid of eyes or mouth. Its skin was the same obsidian as the sky above, absorbing the faint light. It didn't move fast. It simply *unfolded*. Like a terrible bloom, silent and precise, it extended a limb towards him. It was a long, tapered appendage, ending in a cluster of thin, sharp tendrils that twitched with an unsettling curiosity. Lysander pushed back, terror overriding the lure of the lullaby. He tried to scramble away, to break the spell. But the creature was closer now, its lack of features more horrifying than any monster he’d ever imagined. He felt a faint pull, a tug from his wounded arm. It was the breach. He was connected to it. His power, dormant, now stirred within him, raw and uncontrollable. He focused, not on the creature, not on the fear, but on the connection to the wound. On the *rip* that had brought him here. He pushed, blindly, desperately, with every ounce of his will. He needed to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but this horrifying, beautiful, invasive world. The creature’s tendrils were inches from his face. The lullaby reached a crescendo, a wave of profound sorrow and longing washing over him, threatening to drown him in its embrace. He screamed, not of pain, but of sheer, unadulterated defiance. And the alley tore open once more.

The Lullaby's Grip