Chapter 3: Divided Worlds

The waters of the River Arath churned below, restless and dark under the weight of the moon. Its currents separated two vastly different worlds: one of smoke and steel, the other of whispers and wilderness. But tonight, the river felt less like a boundary and more like a wound, deep and dividing, impossible to mend.

Joren tightened his coat as he trudged through the streets of Caldris. The wind carried the familiar sting of soot, clinging to his skin, his lungs. The factory chimneys clawed at the sky, spewing black smoke that blotted out the stars. Beneath their shadows, workers shuffled home, their faces gray with exhaustion, their boots heavy against the cobblestones.

He kept his head down, blending in with the flow of bodies. The satchel at his side felt heavier with each step, the memory of the bridge burning fresh in his mind. The symbols he'd copied from its surface seemed to pulse in his thoughts, their shapes refusing to fade.

Reaching his workshop at last, Joren slipped inside and bolted the door behind him. The familiar smell of oil and metal filled the cramped space, a comfort after the cold indifference of the streets. He set his satchel on the cluttered workbench and pulled out his journal, flipping to the page where he'd hastily sketched the bridge's runes.

He traced one of the symbols with his finger, its curves and edges unfamiliar yet strangely deliberate. What was the bridge? How had it come to life like that—glowing, humming, reacting to him?

"Still awake, I see."

Joren spun around, startled. Thalric leaned against the doorframe, his wiry frame outlined by the dim lamplight outside. His arms were crossed, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and suspicion.

"What are you doing here?" Joren asked, shoving the journal under a pile of blueprints.

Thalric stepped inside, letting the door creak shut behind him. "Checking on you. You've been acting... off." His eyes swept the cluttered room, landing briefly on the satchel before returning to Joren. "Let me guess. You went down to the river again."

"I—" Joren hesitated. He'd known Thalric long enough to recognize the sharpness in his tone, the way he was probing for the truth. But how could he explain what he'd seen without sounding like a fool?

"I was testing a new lantern," Joren said, forcing a casual shrug. "The mist by the river makes for a good test environment."

Thalric raised an eyebrow. "You always were a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying," Joren said, a bit too quickly.

Thalric stepped closer, his voice lowering. "It has come to my attention that the council has been closely monitoring individuals recently. They have a strong aversion to secrecy, and I am uncertain of your intentions. If they think you're wasting time—or worse, meddling with things you shouldn't—"

"I'm not meddling," Joren interrupted. "I'm just... curious."

Thalric stared at him for a long moment before sighing. "Curiosity's dangerous in this city. Just be careful, alright?" His eyes remained fixed on the stack of blueprints. "Perhaps what you are concealing is best kept out of sight." 

The forest was serene this evening, its typical symphony of crickets and owls subdued, as if the very trees were pausing in silence. Lyria navigated the underbrush with skillful grace, her cloak flowing behind her. The lantern she held emitted a gentle light, revealing the dense ferns and gnarled roots that adorned the forest ground.

She halted at the boundary of a modest clearing, her heart weighed down by the recollection of the bridge. It had felt alive beneath her touch, its hum resonating in her bones. And then there was the man—Joren. A Caldran, no less. What had he been doing there?

"Lyria?"

She turned swiftly, her hand automatically moving towards the dagger at her waist. Callen emerged from the darkness, his bow resting across his shoulder. His dark hair was damp with dew, and his sharp eyes flicked over her with concern.

"Callen," she said, exhaling slowly. "You startled me."

He inquired, moving closer, "What brings you out here?"

"I am collecting herbs," she answered, raising her satchel as evidence.

"Near the river?"

Lyria hesitated, her grip tightening on the satchel's strap. "Yes. The soil there is richer. Some plants only grow close to the water."

Callen frowned, his expression skeptical. "You shouldn't be wandering that far. Especially not alone."

"I can take care of myself," she said, more defensively than she intended..

 "I am not suggesting that you are unable to," Callen responded, his tone becoming gentler. "But the elders say the bridge has been stirring again. People have seen... strange things."

Lyria forced a small laugh. "The elders always say that."

Callen didn't smile. He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze searching. "Just be careful," he said finally. "Not everyone comes back from the river."

The journey back to the village was remarkably serene, with the sole sounds being the crunch of leaves under Lyria's boots and the sporadic whisper of the wind through the trees. She found herself reflecting on her meeting with Joren, analyzing each word and every glance exchanged. Why had he been there? And why did the bridge react to him as it had to her?

She reached the edge of the village just as the first lanterns started to cast their glow upon the area. Although the soft light should have offered comfort, an eerie shiver coursed through her. She pivoted, surveying the darkness behind her, yet the forest remained silent.

Lyria quickened her steps as she entered her modest hut, securing the door firmly behind her. The smell of dried herbs and lavender enveloped her, providing a sense of comfort and stability. She placed her satchel on the table and ignited a lantern, its flickering glow creating elongated shadows that danced upon the walls.

A soft knock on the door made her jump.

Her hand quickly reached for the dagger at her waist. "Who is there?" she asked, her voice unwavering despite the rapid beating of her heart.

"It's me," a woman's voice replied, melodic and unfamiliar.

Lyria paused, her grip on the dagger's hilt becoming firmer. She quietly unlatched the door and opened it slightly. On the other side stood a woman with dark, smooth hair and striking green eyes that appeared to shimmer in the glow of the lantern light.

"Who are you?" Lyria demanded, not moving aside.

The woman smiled faintly, her expression unreadable. "A friend, perhaps."

Lyria's grip tightened on the doorframe. "You've been following me."

The woman advanced, unbidden, her motions fluid and intentional. "You were present on the bridge," she remarked, her tone calm and steady.

Lyria's heart skipped. "What do you want?"

"To help," the woman said simply. Her green eyes locked onto Lyria's. "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, do you?"

Lyria's mind raced. She wanted to push the woman out, to demand answers, but something about her—her voice, her presence—kept her rooted to the spot.

"What do you know about the bridge?" Lyria asked, her voice firmer now.

The woman's grin grew broader, yet her eyes remained still. "It's more than just a bridge," she said. "It's a gateway."

"A gateway to what?"

The woman tilted her head. "That's a question you'll have to answer."

Back in Caldris, Joren sat at his workbench, his journal open to the sketches of the bridge. He traced the symbols with his finger, his mind spinning with possibilities. What had the Velmoran woman called him? A trespasser.

He exhaled deeply, reclining in his chair. The space seemed more confined than normal, as if the walls were encroaching upon him. On the other side of the river, Velmora remained an enigma—a realm shrouded in shadows and hidden truths. Nevertheless, he could not dismiss the sensation that it was beckoning him.

Meanwhile, Lyria sat across from the stranger in her small hut. The woman had introduced herself as Aris but had offered little else.

"What do you want from me?" Lyria asked, her voice low.

"Not from you," Aris replied. "With you."

Lyria frowned. "I don't understand."

"You will," Aris said, her tone maddeningly calm. She stood, her movements as fluid as water. "When the time comes, you'll have a choice to make."

Before Lyria could respond, Aris stepped toward the door. "I'll be watching," she said softly, disappearing into the night.

Lyria sat in silence, her thoughts a storm of questions and doubts. Somewhere, across the river, Joren felt the same storm brewing. The bridge connected their worlds, but it also threatened to tear them apart.

As the River Arath continuously coursed between them, it bore the burden of decisions that remained unmade.