Chapter 5: The First Clue

The pre-dawn mist clung to the River Arath, snaking over its cold, black waters like a living thing. Its tendrils stretched toward the towering bridge that spanned the divide between Caldris and Velmora, swallowing it in a ghostly veil. The bridge appeared as a sentinel, ancient and unyielding, its carvings etched deep into the stone, whispering of secrets older than memory.

Joren stood at the Caldrisian end, his fingers trembling as he sketched the complex designs on the bridge's central arch. His breaths came unevenly, his chest tight from the lingering ache of bruises that were not entirely physical. Shadows stalled beneath his eyes, and though he hadn't spoken of it to anyone, the memory of his abduction replayed in flashes: masked faces, a cold blade at his throat, and the cryptic warnings about the bridge's dangers.

"Foolish to come alone," he muttered, his voice swallowed by the mist. Yet here he was, compelled by an itch he couldn't ignore—a puzzle that refused to stay silent. The carvings beneath his hands seemed alive tonight, the grooves vibrating faintly under his fingertips.

"Didn't expect to see you this early."

The voice, soft yet piercing enough to cut through the blur, startled him. Joren flinched, staining the lines on his sketchpad. He spun, clutching his notebook as though it were a shield, to find Lyria standing a few paces away.

"You move like a ghost," he said, his tone sharper than intended.

"And you look like one," she replied evenly, her gaze snapping over his face. Her own features were calm, but her dark eyes held a wary edge. "You're bruised."

"It's nothing." He turned back to the arch, a clear dismissal. "Just a... run-in with some overly curious locals."

Lyria stepped closer, the hem of her deep green cloak trailing in the mist. "You shouldn't be here alone after what happened. Whatever you're hiding, Joren, it's written all over you."

Her words stiffened something in his chest, but he didn't answer. Instead, he pressed his pencil to the page, trying to steady his hand.

"I'm not hiding anything," he said after a moment, though the lie felt thin even to his own ears.

Lyria said nothing, but the silence stretched, weighted with things unsaid. Finally, she turned her attention to the carvings. Her fingers, hardened from years of working with herbs, brushed over the stone.

"These markings," she said softly, "they feel... wrong. Out of place. Do you notice that?"

"Certainly, I am aware," he replied, a bit too hastily. "Why do you think I am here?"

Lyria furrowed her brow, her eyes focusing intently on a subtle line in the stone. Her fingers stilled, then traced the outline of the subtle gap. "Here," she murmured, her voice laced with something between curiosity and unease. "It's not part of the original structure."

Joren stepped closer, peering over her shoulder. The subtle seam was almost undetectable, yet once she highlighted it, it became clear. His thoughts raced, jumping from one potential interpretation to another.

She inquired, casting a sidelong glance at him, "What do you believe it is?"

"It could be anything," he said. "A panel, a compartment, maybe—"

"Perhaps it is something we shouldn't open, some things are better left to their own mystery," she concluded, her tone strained.

He turned to her, with his eyebrows raised. "Are you suggesting we walk away now?"

"I'm suggesting we think about what we're doing before we start prying open ancient secrets," she said.

Her words made sense, but Joren's curiosity burned hotter than caution. "We're already in too deep to stop now," he said, pulling a small tool from his satchel.

Lyria watched him work in silence, though her unease was evident. The carvings seemed to respond to his efforts, the faint vibrations growing stronger. When the panel finally slid open with a soft hiss, both of them stepped back quickly.

Inside the hidden compartment lay a rolled map, its material strange and otherworldly. It sparkled faintly in the dim light, the symbols inscribed into its surface shifting as though alive.

"By the river," Lyria whispered. "What is it?"

Joren reached for the map, his fingers brushing its surface. A jolt shot through him, like a spark of electricity, and he pulled back with a sudden inhale.

"It's not ordinary parchment," he said, his voice hushed.

Lyria hesitated, then reached out herself. When her fingers touched the map, her reaction mirrored his—a sharp intake of breath, a glimmer of something unspoken passing between them.

"This isn't just a map," she said softly. "It's... something more."

They retreated to a secluded grove near the bridge, a space where sunlight trickled through the dense canopy and the air hummed with the gentle sounds of a babbling brook. The grove was Lyria's suggestion—far from prying eyes and familiar enough to her that she could focus.

Joren unrolled the map carefully, spreading it across a flat rock. In the daylight, its glowing lines were even more vivid, and the symbols seemed to sparkle faintly, as though in rhythm with the river's current.

"It's split," Joren murmured, pointing to the two halves of the map. "Landmarks from both sides of the river. See here? That's the old tower in Caldris."

Lyria traced her finger along another section. "And this," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "is the sacred tree of Velmora. But..." She paused, her brow furrowing. "Why is it marked like that?"

The symbol of the tree was surrounded by an ominous X, and something about it made her chest tighten.

"I don't know," Joren admitted. "But it's not just those two. Look at the center."

Both their gazes fixed on the central sigil—a circular design that pulsed faintly whenever they both touched the map. Each time they did, a faint dizziness washed over them, as though the bridge itself were pulling them toward something unseen.

"It's calling us," Lyria said, her voice trembling slightly.

Joren's analytical mind rebelled against the idea, but even he couldn't deny the sensation. "Maybe it's connected to the carvings on the bridge," he said. "Some kind of... mechanism? A map of the bridge's internal structure?"

"You're trying too hard to make it logical," Lyria said, her tone steep with frustration. "Not everything can be explained that way. What if it's something... spiritual?"

He shot her a skeptical glance. "You think the bridge is alive? That it has some kind of... consciousness?"

"I am uncertain about my thoughts," she retorted, her irritation becoming evident. "But I know that this map and that bridge—whatever they are—are not things we're meant to understand fully. Not yet."

Their argument dangled in the air, the tension between them unyielding. But as the map pulsed again, both fell silent, the force of its mystery pulling them back together.

As the morning light deepened, they realized they couldn't stay in the grove much longer. Too many questions remained unanswered, and the map's secrets felt too dangerous to share with anyone else.

"We can't let anyone see this," Joren said, rolling the map carefully and tucking it back into his satchel. "Not yet."

Lyria nodded, though her expression was clouded. "If my council knew, they'd brand me a traitor just for being here with you. And yours?"

"They'd probably do the same," Joren admitted.

The reality of their situation settled heavily between them. Despite their differences, they were bound together by this discovery—and the dangerous secrecy it demanded.

"Then it's a pact," Lyria said softly, extending her hand.

Joren hesitated, then took it. Her grip was firm, her eyes fixed.

"We keep this between us," she said. "No one else."

"No one else," Joren agreed, though his mind spun briefly to Thalric and the growing strain between them.

Later that day, as the sun climbed higher, Lyria returned to her hut in Velmora. The space was small but cozy, filled with drying herbs and the faint scent of lavender. She reached for her supplies, intending to prepare for whatever their investigation might demand next, but a voice stopped her.

"Lyria."

She froze, her hand on a jar of valerian root, before turning slowly. Elder Talan stood in the doorway, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"You've been absent," he said, his voice calm but heavy with meaning.

"I've had... work," she said carefully, avoiding his piercing gaze.

"Work that keeps you by the river?" he asked.

Her chest tightened. Talan always saw too much.

"What I do isn't your concern," she said, though the defiance in her tone felt hollow.

Talan stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "The river doesn't forgive trespasses lightly, child," he said softly. "Be careful where your curiosity leads you."

Meanwhile, across the river, Joren was back in his workshop. The space was chaotic—blueprints and sketches strewn across every surface, tools scattered randomly. But his focus was singular.

The map lay open on his workbench, its glowing lines radiating faint shadows on the walls. Joren bent forward, his pencil swiftly moving across the page as he tried to decipher the symbols.

"You are at risk of exhausting yourself to the point of death."

Joren jolted, nearly knocking over a jar of ink. He turned to find Thalric standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his expression tight with concern as always.

"I'm fine," Joren said quickly, though his voice was strained.

"No, you're not," Thalric remarked, stepping closer. "You have been vanishing at unusual times, your appearance suggests you have been involved in a fight, and now you are tied up in this place like a lunatic."

 What's going on, Joren?"

"It's nothing," Joren said, turning back to the map.

"Don't lie to me," Thalric snapped. "I'm your friend. Whatever this is, you don't have to do it alone."

Joren's shoulders tensed, and for a moment, he considered telling him. But the pact he'd made with Lyria held him back.

"I appreciate the concern, but I've got it under control," he said, his voice colder than he intended.

Thalric stared at him, hurt glinting across his face. "Fine," he said finally. "Remember Joren, when it all falls apart don't come back crying to me, because in that moment, I shall remember you withholding the truth just to keep your so-called research alive, good luck."

He turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him. Joren exhaled unsteadily, his eyes drifting back to the map. He was really pushing Thalric away.

"What are you hiding?" he muttered, tracing the glowing central sigil.

That night, Joren and Lyria met again at the bridge. The mist was dense than ever, and the carvings seemed to glimmer with a strange, light. Almost something that was not familiar to their world. 'What was it' they inwardly asked themselves.

The map responded as they approached, its lines shifting and rearranging into new patterns. Symbols they hadn't noticed before began to glow, their meanings just out of reach.

The bridge itself seemed alive, humming faintly as they stepped onto its surface. A sudden vibration resonated through the stone, something like a heartbeat.

"Maybe we're not ready for this, maybe we're doing the wrong thing," Lyria said, her voice trembling. She was already thinking of backing out. 

Joren hesitated, his gaze fixed on the carvings. "If not us, then who?" he said softly.

As he extended his hand to touch the stone, the bridge erupted in a blinding light, and everything including what surrounded them, became silent.

In that moment, as the light enveloped them, they both realized they had breached a boundary from which there was no return. Whatever mysteries the bridge concealed, they had now become a part of it.