The return to the physical world was like emerging from deep waters. One moment they were in the cosmic space where Elyria had transformed into the Heart, and in the next they were back in the ruins of what had once been the throne room of the palace of Vyrnathar. But something was wrong—fundamentally, viscerally wrong.
Rhaevan was the first to rise, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword that was no longer at his waist. He looked around, his warrior's senses on maximum alert. "The air… is different."
Lysarion helped Sarynne to her feet, his eyes scanning the surroundings with the precision of a spy. "It's not just the air. Look at the shadows."
They looked. The shadows in the ruined hall did not behave as they should. Instead of passively stretching from piles of rubble and broken columns, they writhed gently, as if breathing. Some seemed to try to form patterns—letters, faces, shapes that vanished when looked at directly.
Caelan, still holding Sarynne's injured arm, swallowed hard. "It's her. She's trying to communicate."
Sarynne extended a trembling hand toward a particularly active shadow near what remained of the throne. "I feel… frustration. Anger. Fear. She's trapped on the other side, trying to reach us."
Rhaevan walked to the shadow, kneeling. "Elyria? Can you hear us?"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the shadow stretched out, touching the tips of Rhaevan's fingers. The contact was cold, but not unpleasant—like plunging one's hand into spring water. A fleeting image passed through his mind: Elyria, or something that looked like Elyria, floating in a sea of stars, her hands pressed against an invisible barrier.
Lysarion approached cautiously. "What did you see?"
"She's trapped," Rhaevan replied, his voice hoarse. "Not dead, not gone… trapped."
That was when the first practical problems arose. A group of royal guards—the few who had not fled or died during the collapse of the palace—entered the hall, their weapons hesitant but still drawn.
"General Duskryn?" The captain of the guards, a middle-aged man with a scarred face, looked at the group in confusion. "What… what happened here? Where is the king?"
Rhaevan and Lysarion exchanged glances. This was the question they knew would come, but for which they were not fully prepared.
"Valthor is dead," Lysarion said, choosing his words carefully. "And the kingdom needs leadership."
The captain slowly lowered his sword. "Dead? By whom?"
Rhaevan straightened, his posture still imposing even without armor or insignia. "By his own ambition. And now we must decide what comes next."
As they spoke, the shadows around them began to stir more intensely. Sarynne stepped back, her face pale. "She's getting stronger. Or more desperate."
A particularly large shadow near the broken throne began to grow, forming a silhouette that vaguely resembled Elyria. The guards recoiled, murmuring in panic.
"A ghost!" one of them shouted.
"It's not a ghost," Caelan said quickly. "It's… something different."
The shadowy silhouette extended a hand toward Rhaevan, and this time, when he touched it, everyone could hear—not with their ears, but in their minds—a single name: Rhaevan.
It was a whisper laden with so much emotion—love, longing, despair—that Rhaevan fell to his knees, his own emotions overflowing.
Lysarion looked at the silhouette, his face a mask of conflict. "Elyria, if you can hear us… give us a sign. Something we can understand."
The silhouette wavered, then began to dissolve and reform into a series of rapid images: a crown, then a broken sword, then two hands clasping together.
Sarynne tilted her head, trying to interpret. "A crown… leadership. A broken sword… peace? Two hands… alliance?"
The shadow seemed to pulse in confirmation.
Rhaevan understood first. "She's telling us to rule together. To rebuild in peace."
Lysarion did not look convinced. "Or she's telling us that our alliance will be broken by a dispute over the throne."
The shadow writhed violently, and for the first time, real words formed along its trembling edges, written in a language only Sarynne recognized.
"It's the ancient tongue of the priests of Nyxara," Sarynne whispered, her eyes wide. "She writes… 'united or lost.'"
The guards watched, completely confused and terrified. The captain made a hesitant bow. "General… sir… what should we do? The people are panicking outside. There are reports of… strange phenomena all over the city."
Rhaevan looked at Lysarion, and an understanding passed between them. Whatever their personal conflict, they had greater responsibilities now.
"Gather what remains of the royal council," Rhaevan ordered. "And send messengers to the remaining Noble Houses. We need to establish a provisional government."
As the captain and his men departed, Lysarion turned to the remaining group. "And what do we do about… this?" He gestured toward the shadows still dancing around them.
Caelan cautiously suggested, "Perhaps we can find a more stable way to communicate. If Elyria can manifest through the shadows—"
"But at what cost?" Sarynne interrupted. "Every time she manifests, I feel a… tear in reality. As if something is trying to enter through a breach she's opening."
Rhaevan looked at the silhouette, which was now beginning to dissipate. "Elyria, if you can hear me… don't risk yourself. No matter how much we want to speak with you, it's not worth the price."
The silhouette pulsed one last time—a beat of dark light that seemed like a heart beating—before disappearing completely. But as it faded, a single word echoed in their minds:
Always.
And then she was gone, leaving only normal shadows in her place. But they all knew she was still there, watching, trying to reach them. And they all knew that every attempt at communication was a risk they might not be able to afford.
The true challenge, they realized, would not be rebuilding a kingdom. It would be learning to live with a love that was present in every shadow, but that they could never touch again.
And as the shadows of twilight stretched across the destroyed hall, they seemed to whisper promises that none of them knew whether they could keep.
To be continued…