Where souls are stolen

The night air clung thick and damp as we pushed through the palace gardens, the glow of distant lanterns flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. The scent of roses and damp earth curled in the wind, but beneath it, something else lingered—something sharp, metallic.

Something wrong.

I moved faster, barely feeling the marble paths beneath my slippers as I followed Master Aurelius through the hedge-lined walkways. My pulse was a steady drum in my ears, an anxious beat that refused to slow. Nyx prowled beside me, his shadowy form silent, his golden eyes burning like twin suns in the dark.

And then I saw it.

The fountain.

The one I had tried so hard to forget.

Its white marble gleamed ghostly in the moonlight, water rippling gently as if mocking the stillness of the figure sprawled beside it. My breath hitched.

Lyria.