Chapter 4: The Mystery Deepens

The council chamber loomed like a steel maw, swallowing all who dared to enter. Joren stood stiff before the long iron table where seven councilors sat in judgment, their faces chiseled into varying degrees of disappointment and disapproval. His satchel hung heavy at his side, its worn leather a silent testament to countless nights of invention and ideas no one seemed to care about but him.

"Joren Ambris," Councilor Halvin began, his voice as cold and sharp as the polished iron pillars that lined the room. "Once again, you stand before us with nothing but excuses for your wasted potential."

Joren clenched his fists behind his back, a practiced posture of deference masking the anger simmering beneath. "With respect, Councilor, my work isn't wasted. My inventions-"

"Your inventions," Halvin interrupted, leaning forward with a sneer, "are impractical. Trivial. While Caldris thrives on efficiency and progress, you tinker with devices no one can use."

The other councilors murmured their agreement. The room felt smaller with every passing second, the bitterness in the words of their judgment pressing against his chest.

"I believe," Joren said, his voice steady despite the tension coiling inside him, "that some of my designs could revolutionize how we approach—"

"Revolutionize?" Halvin barked a laugh. "You play with gears and wires while the city demands results. This isn't a workshop for dreams, boy. It's a forge for reality."

Joren's gaze shifted to Councilor Yara, the only one who seemed reluctant to add salt to the injury. But even she avoided his eyes, her focus fixed on the stack of papers before her.

"Continue down this path," Halvin warned, his tone like iron grinding on stone, "and we'll have no choice but to seize your workshop. Perhaps someone else will make better use of it."

The blow landed hard, though Joren refused to let it show. Instead, he nodded curtly, his mind already leaping ahead to the bridge, the carvings, and the strange pulse of light he'd seen the night before.

As he exited the chamber, the heavy doors groaning shut behind him, Thalric was waiting. His childhood friend leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed, his brow creased with concern.

"That went well," Thalric quipped, pushing off the pillar to fall in step beside Joren.

"They don't understand," Joren muttered, his strides quick and purposeful.

"They understand enough to threaten your livelihood," Thalric countered. "You're playing a dangerous game, Joren. The council doesn't tolerate secrets."

Joren stopped abruptly, rounding on him. "I'm not giving up, Thalric. There's something about that bridge—something no one else sees. If I stop now—"

"You'll lose everything," Thalric interrupted, his voice low but firm. "Is that worth it? Whatever you think is out there, is it worth your workshop? Your place in Caldris?"

Joren didn't answer. He couldn't. The truth was buried deep in his chest, even too difficult for him to unleash it.

The forest was alive with whispers.

Lyria's boots crunched softly over fallen leaves as she moved through the dense trees, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. The moonlight filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, painting the path ahead in pale silver.

The bridge called to her. She hated that it did, hated that Aris's words lingered in her mind like a nostalgic memory she couldn't forget. "The river keeps its secrets," she'd said. But the bridge—it wasn't just a secret. It was something else entirely.

A snap of a branch broke her thoughts.

Lyria froze, once again her hand instinctively going to the dagger that she always hides beneath her cloak. She scanned the shadows, her heart pounding against her ribs.

She asked firmly, her voice steady and calm even as a sense of discomfort tingled against her skin.

Silence.

A shadowy silhouette emerged from the gloom—a man, covered in a cloak and wearing a mask, wielding a dangerous sharp blade that caught the faintest light.

"Your satchel," he ordered, his voice cold and flat. "Now."

Lyria tightened her grip on the dagger. "You'll have to take it."

The bandit lunged. Lyria sidestepped, her dagger flashing as she slashed at his arm. He hissed in pain but was faster than she anticipated, shoving her back against a tree. The coarse bark pressed against her back as she fought to prevent his blade from reaching her throat.

"Somebody Help!" she exclaimed, the term escaping her lips in a moment of utter desperation.

She briefly considered that the forest might engulf the sound. But then, crashing footsteps. A figure barreled into the clearing—a man, unarmed but resolute.

"Get off her!"

The stranger—no, not a stranger. Joren.

He tackled the bandit, the two grappling in the dirt. The bandit fought viciously, but Joren's determination outweighed his lack of weaponry. Finally, with a decisive blow, Joren sent the man sprawling. The bandit scrambled to his feet and fled into the shadows.

Joren turned to Lyria, his breathing ragged. "Are you hurt?"

She turned her head in refusal, drawing her cloak more closely around her. "I had it under control."

Joren raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the ground where her dagger lay discarded. "Sure looked like it."

Lyria felt a surge of irritation but restrained herself from responding. "What brings you here?" 

"I might ask you the same question to you," he replied.

They gazed at one another, the surrounding forest silent save for the faint sound of the river in the distance. At last, Lyria exhaled deeply. "We are losing precious time. If you intend to head to the bridge, we should proceed."

The bridge glimmered ethereally under the glow of the moonlight.

Joren and Lyria approached cautiously, each step measured as though the structure might vanish if they moved too quickly. The engravings adorning the bridge's sides appeared to be moving, the symbols transforming as they were observed.

Joren asked softly, "You can see it, can't you?"

Lyria nodded. "It's alive."

Joren scowled as he retrieved a small notebook from his satchel. He commenced sketching with great intensity, his gaze shifting rapidly between the carvings and the page.

"What are you doing?" Lyria asked, watching him with a mix of curiosity and exasperation.

"Documenting," Joren replied without looking up. "These symbols—they're changing. I need to understand how."

Lyria crouched beside him, her gaze tracing the symbols. "This one," she said, pointing to a swirl that seemed to pulse faintly. "It wasn't here before."

Joren glanced at it, then back at her. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

They toiled in silence for a brief period, the peculiar hum of the bridge permeating the atmosphere surrounding them.

"This is more than merely a bridge," Joren remarked at last, his tone filled with wonder. "It's something more. A connection, maybe. Between Caldris and Velmora."

Lyria looked at him sharply. "Or a boundary. Something meant to keep us apart."

Joren shook his head. "No. It's too specific for that. It's... inviting us to figure it out."

"Or warning us away," Lyria muttered, but her words lacked conviction.

As they stood, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension, the bridge pulsed brighter, as if responding to their presence.

"We'll come back," Joren said, his voice resolute. "Together."

Lyria hesitated, her instincts warning her against trusting him. But curiosity won out. "Fine. But no secrets."

Joren nodded, though they both knew trust was a fragile thing between them.

The outskirts of Caldris were quiet, the streets dimly lit by flickering lamps. Joren's thoughts were a storm as he made his way back to his workshop. The bridge. The symbols. Lyria. It all felt tangled, like gears grinding out of sync.

He didn't notice the shadows moving behind him until it was too late.

"Evening, inventor," a voice drawled.

Joren turned abruptly, his pulse quickening. A group of cloaked figures stepped from the darkness, their leader's face covered but his intent clear.

"We know what you've seen," the leader said, his voice low and menacing. "Hand over your journal."

Joren tightened his grip on the satchel. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The leader chuckled. "Let's not waste time. We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Joren bolted.

He barely took three steps before strong hands seized him, dragging him into a narrow passageway. The surroundings became a haze as he was thrust to the ground, his satchel violently torn away from him.

Joren, bound and gagged, was pulled through the streets, his thoughts racing. Who were they? What did they want with the bridge?

The warehouse was cold, the atmosphere laden with dust and the odor of corroded metal. Joren felt the restraints pressing painfully into his wrists as he sat on the ground, his captors looming above him.

"You've seen the bridge," the leader said, crouching to meet Joren's glare. "Tell us what you know."

Joren shook his head, his silence defiant.

The leader smiled thinly. "We'll see how long that lasts."

Luck, or possibly the bridge itself, favored Joren in that moment. A momentary distraction caused by a guard's negligence provided him with the chance he required. With swift and skilled motions, he liberated his hands and vanished into the darkness, his heart racing as he made his escape.

Back in his workshop, Joren slumped into his chair, exhaustion pressing heavily against him.

The journal sat before him, its pages as much a mystery as the bridge itself. As he traced the symbols, one caught his eye—a new one, glowing faintly, its lines shifting like liquid.

And then, a voice.

"The threshold opens for those who dare."

Joren recoiled, his breath momentarily halted in his throat. The workshop remained quiet, yet the symbol continued to emit a glow, serving as a haunting reminder of the bridge's formidable power.

He found himself uncertain about what instilled greater fear within him—the bridge before him or the dawning awareness that he may not be prepared for the challenges that awaited.