"From the ashes of ruin, a new light is born. But not all light comes from the heavens."— Chronicles of the Arcanis Order, Final Record of Seren Aldwyn.
The whisper of wind was the first thing Lyra heard as consciousness clawed its way back. The air was thick with dust and the taste of metal — bitter, like ash on her tongue. The world around her felt heavy and still, as though time itself was holding its breath.
Her eyes fluttered open to a sky painted in shades of crimson and gray — remnants of Resonance still bleeding across the horizon. She lay on cold earth among broken stones that shimmered faintly with dying light.
Her hand trembled as it moved to her left wrist. The mark was still there, but now cracked down the center, glowing from within like fractured glass. Each pulse of light made her heart ache, yet somehow, she was still alive.
Lyra tried to stand, but her body refused. The world blurred before her. In the distance, the silhouette of the once-grand tower of the Order lay in ruin — blackened and half buried beneath the snow of ash.
"Master…"
Her voice was barely a whisper, a breath swallowed by the wind. No one answered. Only the mournful hiss of air through shattered pillars.
She pulled her knees close to her chest, shivering. For a heartbeat, she thought she heard laughter — faint and distant, echoing within herself. Or perhaps from the mark on her wrist.
Lyra clawed at the rubble, desperate to find a trace of life — Seren, or anyone. Her nails cracked, blood mixing with dust, but she didn't stop. Her chest burned with each breath. "No… please, someone… anyone, survive…"
"Master!" she cried, her voice breaking. But silence answered her.
Then came another voice — one she did not know. "You're still alive?" it asked softly, like a whisper rising from deep water.
Lyra froze. "Who's there?"
"No one," the voice murmured. "Only a part of you, Lyra Veynhart. A part that should never have awakened."
The tone sent a chill down her spine. She looked at her wrist again. The cracks in the Resonance mark pulsed, and within that light, something moved — slow, deliberate, like an eye-opening.
Lyra gasped and clenched her hand shut. "Be silent. I won't listen to you."
"You called to me last night," the voice whispered. "You opened the rift yourself."
Fragments of memory struck like shards of glass — blue light, Seren's scream, the Seeker's words echoing, "The gate has chosen." What did it mean? Why was she alive when everyone else was—
"No," she muttered, shaking her head. "No, I can't think about that now…"
She rose unsteadily. The wind carried a veil of white mist that swallowed the ruins whole. Only the sound of her steps broke the silence.
She walked down what had once been the eastern corridor — now reduced to rubble, charred tomes, and the acrid stench of burnt iron. Under a fallen stone she found a torn piece of blue cloth — edges singed, yet still intact. Seren's robe.
Lyra gripped it tightly, holding back the tears burning in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wasn't strong enough."
Then she saw it — a faint glimmer of silver among the ashes. Her pendulum. Cracked, yet faintly glowing. She lifted it and fastened it once more around her neck. It felt like the last fragment of a past life. The last thing that truly belonged to her — a gift from Seren, three years ago.
"You can't stay here," the voice murmured again, calm but sharp. "This place is dead. If you linger, they'll find you."
Lyra gritted her teeth. "I won't run. Not again."
"And you think you can fight them alone? The Varyn are not mere shadows. They hunger, Lyra. They seek the breach — and you are that breach."
She turned toward the horizon, where crimson light began to bleed through the clouds.
Far away, she could see a faint silver mist drifting toward the mountains.
"Maybe I can't fight them," she said softly. "But I'll learn. I'll find a way to close it."
Lyra stood there for a long while among the ruins, searching for any trace of Seren.
There was nothing. Only dust and silence. Guilt gnawed at her heart, heavy and cold. Once again, she had failed to save anyone. Once again, she had lost someone she loved.
Anger flickered deep within her chest. But she knew — she was far from strong enough to seek vengeance. All she could do was grieve. Alone.
And whisper to herself, "Why me? Of all souls beneath this cursed sky, why must it be me?"
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪꧂
As night fell, Lyra built a small fire among the ruins. She sat beside it, watching the flames dance — their orange glow mirrored in her tired eyes.
With a piece of charcoal, she traced a simple Resonance sigil into the dirt. A protection spell — one of the first Seren had taught her. But this time, as she drew, the mark flared to life — burning brighter, deeper blue than it should. Lyra froze.
From the fire, a shadow took shape — faint and wavering, yet unmistakable. Seren,
His face calm, his familiar smile soft upon lips made of smoke.
"Master…" The word broke from her in a sob. "You're… alive?"
The figure shook its head. "Not all who die are gone, Lyra. Some echoes refuse to fade."
She reached for him, but her hand met only heat and air.
"Don't let guilt bind you," he said. "Your path has just begun. Go south, to the valley of Aetheris. There are still those who remember the name Veynhart."
Lyra stared at the dying fire. "Aetheris…" she whispered, the name lingering like a breath of wind. A single word, and yet it carved a direction into her mind.
"And Lyra…" Seren's voice drifted one last time, faint as wind between stone.
"When the moon breaks again, that will be your time to choose — to become the light… or the breach."
Then the fire dimmed, and the world was silent once more. Lyra was alone again — swallowed by the dark.
Morning came, painting the sky gold and gray. For the first time since the night of ruin, sunlight pierced the ash. Lyra stood at the edge of the cliff where the Arcanis Order once stood, gazing down at the vast valley below.
In the distance, enchanted birds took flight, carrying faint shards of light from the fallen tower. Far beneath, a river wound its way south — toward Aetheris.
Her fingers brushed the cracked pendant around her neck.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she whispered. "But I won't let their sacrifice fade."
She looked once more to the pale daylight moon — fractured, like the mark upon her wrist. Perhaps, she thought, they were the same. Two broken things, still trying to shine.
She drew a deep breath and stepped down the stone path leading into the valley. Each footfall echoed softly, merging with the sigh of the wind.
Behind her, deep within the ruins of the burned Order, something stirred. Beneath the rubble, a deep blue light pulsed — forming a Resonance sigil far larger, far darker than hers.
From within that rift, a whisper rose. "You may run, Lyra Veynhart… but the Veil always finds its way."
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪꧂