Chapter 8: Echoes of the Past

The moon's light over the Velmoran forest looked beautiful, filtering through the jagged canopy and spilling like liquid silver over the mossy ground. The shadows of ancient trees danced in the gentle breeze, and the air carried a faint chill, whispering secrets that had been buried for centuries. In the heart of this secluded woodland stood a crumbling stone cabin, its walls cloaked in ivy and its windows dim with the flash of a firelight.

Inside, Lyria sat cross-legged on a threadbare rug, her cloak draped over her shoulders. She stared into the hearth, watching the flames coil and writhe like serpents. The events of the past few days replayed in her mind: the chamber beneath the cursed bridge, the healer's voice echoed in the air, the haunting vision of the prince reaching out with sorrow stamped into his face. She had been a witness to a very painful history, a stone she couldn't dislodge.

Her fingers traced the hem of her cloak, an unconscious gesture of comfort. The fabric was fraying, the once-deep emerald now faded with age. She had mended it countless times, yet each stitch felt like an echo of the past, as though she were sewing together fragments of her own history.

The creak of the door startled her. She looked up to see Eira, the elderly healer who had taken her in all those years ago. Eira's steps were slow but steady, her lumpy hands carrying a wooden tray with a steaming cup of tea. Her gray hair was tied back in a loose braid, and her intense eyes softened as they met Lyria's.

"Still brooding, are we?" Eira said, setting the tray down on the low table beside Lyria. Her voice was warm, shaded with a gentle scolding.

Lyria managed a faint smile. "Just thinking."

"That's your problem, child. You think too much and say too little." Eira lowered herself onto a stool with a groan, her joints protesting. "Now, drink this before your thoughts drown you."

Lyria took the cup, the herbal aroma filling her senses. "Thank you." She sipped the tea, the warmth spreading through her, but it did little to ease the storm inside her.

Eira watched her carefully. "What did you see, Lyria? What has you so tangled up?"

Lyria hesitated. She hadn't spoken of the vision to anyone—not fully. The words felt like an abomination, as though saying them aloud would make them irrevocably real. But Eira's gaze was patient and steady. If anyone would understand, it was her.

"There was a healer," Lyria began, her voice barely above a whisper. "And a prince. They were trying to… to save their people. But something went wrong. Their magic twisted, and now—" She faltered, her throat tightening. "Now they're bound to that bridge. To the hatred between our nations."

Eira's expression darkened, her eyes fluttering with recognition. "So it's true, then," she murmured, more to herself than to Lyria. "The river's curse."

"You've heard of it?" Lyria asked, leaning forward.

Eira nodded slowly. "When I was your age, the elders used to speak of the river god, of how it wept for the blood spilled on its banks. They said the bridge was a wound, carved into the land by hands that defied nature." She sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I thought they were just stories. Tales to scare us into obedience. But now… I wonder if the river never wanted revenge. Maybe it just wanted to be heard."

The information was too much to comprehend and it got Lyria wondering. She stared into her tea, the ripples reflecting her inner turmoil. "What if I can't stop it?" she whispered. "What if I make it worse?"

Eira reached out, her hand resting on Lyria's. "Cycles are like rivers, child. They can wear you down if you fight them, but if you're brave enough to cross, you might find a way to change their course."

Across the river, in the crowded city of Caldris, Joren sat hunched over his workbench, his hair untidy and his hands stained with soot. H e was also affected a little bit by the events that took place at the bridge when they opened the last compartment. The dim light of a single lantern cast shadows across his messy room. With half-finished inventions littering every surface, but his attention was fixed on the glowing shard before him. Its faint, ethereal light glowing in time with his heartbeat, as if the artifact were alive.

He sketched furiously in his notebook, lines and symbols flowing together in a chaotic dance. His mind raced with possibilities, the connections forming like lightning strikes. The shard was more than just a piece of the bridge—it was a key, a fragment of the magic that bound it. If he could understand it, harness it, he might finally unlock the secrets that had dodged scholars for generations.

"If they knew…" he muttered, his voice a mix of wonder and frustration. "If they just knew how much we've missed."

The door slammed open, startling him. He looked up to see Thalric, his friend that he never seems to include in the loop of every dangerous thing that's happening, standing in the doorway. Thalric's face was filled with worry, his broad shoulders heaving as if he'd run all the way here.

"Joren," Thalric said, his voice low and urgent. "What are you doing?"

Joren frowned, his pen hovering over the page. "Working. What does it look like?"

"It looks like you've been gone for days," Thalric snapped, stepping into the room. "People are talking. Do you want the patrols at your doorstep?"

Joren rolled his eyes. "I'm not doing anything illegal."

"That's not the point." Thalric's gaze shifted to the shard, his expression darkening. "You went back there, didn't you? To the bridge."

Joren didn't answer, once again, his silence confirmed Thalric's suspicions. Thalric let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. At this point he must've thought Joren was crazy.

"You can't keep pushing boundaries without thinking about the cost," Thalric said. "Do you remember what happened last time? How many people you nearly—"

"This is different," Joren interrupted, his voice sharp. "I'm not playing with fire. I'm uncovering the truth. Don't you see? This shard—it's part of something bigger. Something that could change everything."

"For better or worse?" Thalric shot back. "You're not just playing with history. You're playing with something alive."

The words struck a nerve, but Joren refused to show it. He clenched his jaw, his eyes blazing with defiance. "If you're so afraid, then leave. I don't need your approval."

Thalric stared at him, a mix of anger and hurt hinting in his eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension was heavy enough to choke on. Finally, Thalric turned away, his shoulders slumping.

"Just… be careful, Joren," he said quietly before leaving the workshop.

Joren watched him go, the silence that followed feeling more ambiguous than the argument itself. He looked back at the shard, its glow steady and unyielding. A part of him wanted to believe Thalric was wrong, that he wasn't playing with forces he couldn't control. But another part—the part that had driven him to the bridge in the first place—whispered that the risk was worth it.

By the time Joren reached the Velmoran forest, the sky was streaked with the first light of dawn. He found Lyria waiting near the edge of the clearing, her cloak drawn tightly around her. She looked up as he approached, her expression a mix of relief and apprehension.

"You came," she said softly.

"I said I would," he replied, holding up the shard. "And I brought this."

They sat together on a fallen log, the shard and the ancient scrolls laid out before them. The morning light filtered through the trees, casting a golden glow over their work. As they pieced together the fragments of the story, information of the past settled over them like a veil.

"The prince and the healer," Lyria said, tracing the Velmoran symbols with her finger. "They tried to unite their nations, but their magic wasn't pure. It was stolen. Twisted. And when it failed, it cursed them—and the bridge."

Joren read the Caldrisian text aloud, his voice steady with unease. "The healer's spirit cursed the bridge to vanish daily at sunset, a reminder of their short-lived love. She said only two pure-hearted souls could break the cycle."

Lyria's hands trembled as she rolled up the scroll. "What if we're not enough?" she whispered. "What if we're just repeating their mistakes?"

Joren placed a hand over hers, his touch grounding her. "Then maybe we're doomed," he admitted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "But isn't it worth trying anyway?"

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade. In that shared gaze, there was fear and hope, doubt and determination. It wasn't a promise, but it was enough.

As they packed up their findings, the air around them grew colder, and the forest fell suspiciously silent. A faint glow appeared in the distance, growing brighter with each passing second. They turned to see the glittering figure of the healer, her form translucent and wreathed in light. Her face was drenched in sorrow, her eyes filled with an ancient pain that seemed to have never healed. 

"The river watches," she said, her voice like the wind through the trees. "The bridge divides. Only truth can unite."

The healer's gaze lingered on Lyria, her expression softening. "You carry their strength," she said. "But will you carry their burden?"

Lyria felt an overwhelming connection, as if the healer's spirit could see into her very soul. Before she could respond, the vision faded, leaving only the rustling of leaves and the faint glow of the shard.

"She wasn't angry," Joren said, his voice barely audible. "She was… sad."

They stood in silence, processing the healer's words settling over them. In the distance, the cursed bridge emerged, its carvings glowing faintly in the rising sun. It was a reminder of the choices ahead, of the cost of breaking the cycle.

Lyria tightened her grip on her cloak. "If we do this, there's no going back."

Joren glanced at Lyria with a sense of determination, he was ready to risk it all. "Then we go forward."

As they were unaware, a Caldrisian patrol moved through the forest, their footsteps muffled by the undergrowth. At their head was Thalric, his expression grim, his loyalty hanging by a thread.