The evening sun hung low on the horizon, spilling a molten orange light that cut through the valley mist. Lyra descended the gentle stone path, following a narrow river that wound northwest. Ahead, an arched bridge rose from the haze — old, but still standing firm. Beneath it, the water shimmered like liquid ember, catching the last light of dusk.
After days of wandering alone through the forest, she was close. Lyra stopped, her gaze fixed on the worn letters carved into a moss-covered monument — the first sign of civilization since the fall of the Order of Arcanis. Emberlight Crossing.
A soft wind carried the scent of damp earth and burnt wood. Faint traces of life reached her ears — not spells, not incantations, but the sound of ordinary people. Laughter. Shouts of merchants. The rhythmic clatter of hooves. For the first time in what felt like years, Lyra felt the pulse of the living world again.
She drew a long breath, lowered her hood, and stepped onto the bridge. Each footfall echoed lightly against the ancient stones. Beneath her, the water rippled, and for an instant, something silver flickered between the currents before vanishing. Lyra did not notice, but her wrist pulsed faintly, as if recognizing the place.
Beyond the bridge, the road sloped down into a small village bathed in warm light. Wooden houses stood close together, their windows glowing from oil lanterns. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys. A weathered sign read.
"Welcome to Emberlight — Rest Stop to Aetheris."
Lyra moved carefully, heart thudding. The world here was different from the Order. No sigils on the walls, no wards keeping the cold at bay. Everything felt more… human.
An old woman sat in front of a bakery, eyeing her with raised brows.
"Child, where do you come from?" she asked, her voice rough but kind.
Lyra hesitated. "The North."
"The North? Not many come from there. Aren't the mountains swallowed by fog these days?"
Lyra nodded softly. "The fog has devoured everything."
The woman studied her for a moment, then murmured, "Then may the fire of your home still burn somewhere else, child."
Lyra walked deeper into the village, following the cobbled street lit by hanging lanterns. Children ran past her, laughing, clutching sticks and scraps of metal as they played at war. Each time they passed, they stopped briefly, staring at the faint glow beneath the cloth around her wrist.
"Look, her arm's glowing!" one whispered.
"A witch, maybe?"
"Or someone from Aetheris!"
Lyra only smiled faintly. The word witch had once meant devotion and knowledge within the Order. Out here, it seemed to mean something between wonder and fear.
By nightfall, she found an inn along the main road. The building was of dark timber, the sign above it reading The Hearth of Cinders. A lantern swayed in the wind, and from within came the soft hum of string music and low conversation.
When Lyra opened the door, warmth greeted her — the scent of stew and burning wood. Behind the counter stood a dark-haired woman with bronze skin, sharp eyes, and a welcoming smile.
"Welcome, traveler. You look like you've just come out of a storm. Gods, you're young — traveling alone?"
Lyra bowed her head slightly. "I'm looking for a place to stay."
"If you have a few coins, of course. I'm Nereth, the owner."
Lyra offered a small silver coin she had taken from Seren's old belongings. Nereth's eyes widened. "This metal… it isn't from Aetheris."
"It's all I have."
Nereth studied her for a heartbeat, then smiled faintly. "You can stay. I don't turn away travelers from the North — even those with strange silver in their pockets."
Lyra followed her upstairs, quietly observing the woman. Her skin seemed touched by moonlight, her long black-blue hair spilling like liquid night over her shoulders. But it was her eyes that caught Lyra's attention — pale gray, almost luminous.
The room she was given was simple, a single candle and a window facing the street. Lyra lit the candle and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the faint light pulsing from her bracelet.
"Rest well," said Nereth from the doorway. "If you need anything, you can find me downstairs."
Lyra nodded politely. "Thank you."
"Oh — breakfast's free. Just follow the right hallway in the morning," Nereth added, then left.
A whisper stirred in Lyra's mind. "This place… I remember it."
"Erebus," she muttered. "You remember many things, but never explain them."
"Some things are safer left unsaid."
"You sound like Seren."
"Because your teacher once touched what I am."
Lyra's eyes flicked toward her wrist. "Seren knew about you?"
"She tried to separate us. But what's bound by Veynhart blood cannot be undone by spell or will."
The voice faded, leaving a silence colder than the air outside the window.
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪꧂
When midnight came, Lyra awoke to footsteps below her room — heavy, dragging, with the scrape of metal on wood. Then voices, low and tense.
"Is she alone?"
"Yes. The innkeeper says she came from the north. There's a mark on her hand… looks like a Resonance."
"Then she might be one of them."
"One of them? You're certain?"
"The symbol beneath the dining table — the mark of The Veil."
Lyra froze. Her breath caught. The Veil? She could hardly believe it.
Slowly, she knelt beside the bed, straining to hear. But the voices faded… and then, only silence. The world felt hostile again — every place she reached for safety slipped away. All she could think of was hiding the crack on her wrist. Though wrapped in black cloth, its glow was too bright, even for untrained eyes.
By morning, Nereth met her at the table, smiling as if nothing had happened.
"Sleep well?" she asked, pouring herbal tea.
"Well enough," Lyra replied, her gaze catching the black ring on Nereth's finger — etched with a faint spiral, pulsing with energy she recognized.
"If you're heading to Aetheris, best wait until noon. The mountain roads are still shrouded in mist. Too many lose their way."
Lyra only nodded, trying to appear calm. But her wrist throbbed again — the unmistakable warning of danger.
"Leave, Lyra," whispered Erebus. "This place isn't clean."
"I know," she murmured. "But where else can I go?"
"East. Follow the glowing river — Emberlight River. That's the true path to Aetheris."
"And how do I know this isn't another trap?"
"Because I am bound to you. I cannot betray what I am."
Lyra decided to follow his guidance — though not entirely trusting it. She still knew too little about Erebus, or why his mark lay carved into her skin. One day, she would find the truth.
By late afternoon, she left the inn. Nereth waved from the doorway, her smile thin— whether kind or cruel, Lyra couldn't tell.
She followed a narrow path behind the village, tracing the river's course. The water shimmered crimson beneath the dying sun, like embers alive beneath the surface.
Then — footsteps. Fast. Urgent. From the trees. A hiss of words followed. "NEH'THAL MORIS!"
A burst of blue fire struck the ground near her, scattering dust and flame. Lyra spun around. Two figures in black cloaks stepped through the smoke, faces hidden. On their chests gleamed the same cracked spiral etched on Nereth's ring. The Veil.
They moved like shadows. Lyra raised her hand, calling on her Resonance as Seren had taught her — but the light flickered weakly, dying too soon.
"Now isn't the time to fear," whispered Erebus.
"I'm not afraid!"
"Then prove it."
"You know I can't win this fight. If I die—"
"You've already given up before trying."
"I'm not giving up! I'm being realistic!"
She thrust her hand forward. A silver sigil flared and burst, knocking one attacker back — but the other closed in, too fast. A black dagger sliced through her cloak, grazing her side.
Pain seared. Lyra spun, flinging sparks of Resonance to the ground. The flash blinded them for an instant — just enough for her to run toward the riverbank.
"To the right!" Erebus shouted.
Lyra leapt down a low ridge, plunging into the cold current. Water splashed around her as she stumbled forward — breath ragged, heart pounding. From above, one of the figures dropped, landing atop the water as if the river itself obeyed him.
Lyra fell hard, the glow on her wrist blazing bright. Her body trembled, drained. The masked figure raised his hand, and black light condensed into a spear. She braced for the strike — but before it fell, crimson light carved through the air.
A clash of metal rang out. A tall figure in a gray cloak stood between Lyra and her assailant. His blade shimmered red, cutting the night like lightning. The Veil's shade staggered, then split cleanly in two, dissolving into smoke. Lyra gasped, frozen. The stranger turned, eyes glowing like dying coals beneath his hood.
"Still breathing, huh?" His voice was deep and cold — but not hostile.
"Who are you?" Lyra rasped.
He lowered his sword, dark blood dripping from the blade. "Names don't matter. But if you want to live, come with me. They'll be back soon."
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪꧂