Whispers of the Forgotten

The fog clung to Ashura and Lyra as they fled from the temple, thick and oppressive, like the memory of the keepers that still haunted Ashura's thoughts. His breath came in sharp gasps, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on him. Lyra stumbled at his side, her small body trembling, yet she remained silent. There was something unsettling about how calm she had remained throughout the ordeal.

The keepers' words echoed in his mind: Child of the cursed bloodline. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something, something crucial to understanding the curse and his own forgotten past. The temple had only been the beginning, but it had left him with more questions than answers.

"We need to keep moving," Ashura said, breaking the silence between them. His voice sounded harsher than he intended, but Lyra merely nodded, her gaze distant.

They walked for hours, the forest around them silent and dead. Not even the wind dared to stir the twisted branches overhead. Ashura's mind wandered back to the temple, to the moment when the keeper had called out to him. It had spoken of his blood, of a lineage cursed by the gods.

Could it be true?

He clenched his fist, frustrated by the lack of clarity in his memories. He had been chasing shadows ever since he awoke in that bloodstained field, and the more he learned, the more he realized how much had been taken from him. His past was a blank canvas, with only glimpses of violence and fire, of faces he couldn't recognize but knew were important.

Lyra walked a few steps ahead, her small form nearly swallowed by the fog. Ashura's gaze lingered on her, suspicion gnawing at the back of his mind. How had she known about the temple? And why had the keepers not attacked her?

"Lyra," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm.

She stopped but didn't turn to face him. "Yes?"

"Back in the temple…" He hesitated, unsure how to phrase the question. "You knew about the keepers. You knew the curse started there. How?"

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, she turned around, her face unreadable. "I told you. I just know."

Ashura narrowed his eyes. "That's not enough."

Lyra sighed, looking down at the ground. "It's hard to explain. I don't remember everything, but I know that this curse is tied to something bigger than just the gods. It's… older. And I think it's connected to you."

Ashura frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I've seen things in dreams," Lyra continued, her voice barely a whisper. "I've seen the blood, the fire, the pain… And I've seen you, Ashura."

He felt a chill run down his spine. "What do you mean, you've seen me?"

She met his gaze, her eyes wide and serious. "You were there. You were part of it."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Ashura's heart pounded in his chest. Could it be true? Could he have been part of the events that led to the curse? But why couldn't he remember?

Before he could press her further, a rustling sound broke the stillness of the forest. Ashura immediately drew his sword, eyes scanning the fog for any sign of movement. Lyra instinctively moved closer to him, her small hands clutching at the hem of his cloak.

The rustling grew louder, and from the mist emerged a lone figure—ragged and hunched, dragging a crooked blade behind him. His face was hidden beneath a tattered hood, but the stench of rot clung to him like a second skin.

Ashura raised his sword, stepping protectively in front of Lyra. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The figure didn't answer. It shuffled closer, its breathing ragged and shallow, a wet, gurgling sound coming from deep within its throat. Ashura tightened his grip on his blade, ready to strike if the creature made any sudden moves.

Without warning, the figure lunged at him, swinging its blade with surprising speed. Ashura parried the blow, the force of the impact rattling up his arm. He countered with a swift strike, his blade cutting through the figure's cloak, but it barely seemed to notice.

The creature staggered back, blood oozing from the gash in its chest, but it didn't fall. Instead, it let out a low, guttural growl, its hood slipping to reveal a face half-rotted, with dead eyes staring out from sunken sockets.

Ashura's stomach churned at the sight. This wasn't a living being—it was something cursed, a twisted remnant of the world's decay.

The creature lunged again, but this time Ashura was ready. He sidestepped the attack, driving his blade into its back with a swift, precise movement. The creature let out a final, rasping breath before crumbling to the ground, its body dissolving into dust.

Ashura stood over the remains, breathing heavily, his sword dripping with the creature's foul blood. He wiped the blade clean on his cloak, turning back to Lyra.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Lyra nodded, though her face was pale. "What was that thing?"

"I don't know," Ashura admitted. "But it wasn't natural. Nothing in this land is."

He sheathed his sword, glancing around the fog-shrouded forest. The encounter had only deepened his sense of unease. They couldn't stay here for long—the cursed creatures were everywhere, drawn to the living like moths to flame.

"We should keep moving," Ashura said, his voice tight with determination. "The temple… it isn't far now."

Lyra didn't argue. They walked in silence for what felt like hours, the fog twisting and curling around them like the tendrils of some great, unseen beast. Ashura's mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything. The temple, the keepers, Lyra's strange knowledge, the creature they had just fought—it was all connected somehow. And at the center of it all was the curse.

As they walked, the landscape began to change. The twisted trees gave way to jagged rocks and uneven ground, and the fog began to thin, revealing the looming silhouette of a mountain in the distance. At its peak, barely visible through the haze, stood an ancient structure, its spires reaching toward the sky.

Ashura felt a strange pull toward it, as if something was calling him. The temple.

"We're close," Lyra said softly, her eyes fixed on the mountain.

Ashura nodded. His pulse quickened with anticipation and dread. Whatever lay inside that temple held the answers to his past. But it also held the truth about the curse—and the bloodline that bound him to it.

As they approached the base of the mountain, a sudden gust of wind swept through the valley, carrying with it a distant, haunting wail. Ashura paused, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon.

And then he saw it.

A figure stood at the entrance to the temple, its form shrouded in shadow. It was tall and imposing, with a cloak that billowed in the wind. Though he couldn't make out the details, Ashura felt an unsettling familiarity in its presence.

"Who is that?" Lyra asked, her voice barely audible.

Ashura's grip tightened on his sword. "I don't know. But we're going to find out."

Together, they began the ascent toward the temple, the weight of the past—and the curse—bearing down on them with every step.