Chapter 15: The Spirit's Warning

Over at Caldris, just past the bridge, a six-year-old child was playing hide and seek with his brother. They were both boys, the same age—one with dark brown hair and blue eyes, the other with light brown hair and the same striking blue eyes. Both had fair skin.

As they played, Liam darted toward a bush to hide, unaware of the six-foot-wide hole behind it. Before he could stop himself, he stumbled backward—and fell straight in.

Jacob stood nearby, counting down from ten. When he finally opened his eyes, he stepped into the dense, bushy forest, calling out, "Liam! I'm gonna get you this time, and then it'll be your turn to chase!"

His ears were sharp, listening for any sound. He didn't want Liam to outrun him again—he was already tired of doing most of the chasing. Just as he took another step, nearing the hidden pit, he heard a faint cry. He grinned mischievously. "Looks like your round is up."

Stepping carefully, he glanced around—only to suddenly trip over a twisted vine stretched between two trees. He crashed to the ground, barely missing a jagged stone that could have struck his head. He groaned, wincing. "Liam, if this is you trying to trick me, I'm done with this game."

"H-e-l-p m-e."

The voice was distant but growing clearer.

Jacob's pulse quickened. He pushed himself up, brushing off dirt, and scanned his surroundings. Then, just a few paces away, he spotted the hole.

"So this is where you've been hiding," he teased. "Gotcha!"

But when he reached the edge, he gasped. Liam was at the bottom, blood trickling down his forehead. His voice trembled as he called out, "Jacob..."

Jacob's chest tightened. His throat felt dry. The only words that came out were a panicked yell—"SOMEBODY HELP!"

Joren was making his way through the forest. The evening air was cool, and a faint golden glow still lingered between the trees. He was heading toward the bridge to meet Lyria, his thoughts consumed by the kiss they had shared the night before. A grin played across his lips, his heart light as he swung his satchel, barely able to contain his excitement.

Then, a distant cry shattered his daydream.

"SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP!"

His heart lurched. Was that—Lyria?

Panic shot through his body as he sprinted toward the sound, branches snapping underfoot. He ran through the underbrush, barely noticing the scratches left by twigs and thorns. When he finally reached the clearing, his heart almost stopped.

Lyria stood beside the pit.

"Joren?" she breathed, eyes wide with shock.

"Lyria?" His heart hammered in his chest.

--

"Thank you for saving my brother," Jacob said, brushing dirt from Liam's hair. "I was really scared he'd be stuck forever!"

Liam, still shaken, managed a small, grateful smile. His wound wasn't too deep—Lyria had cleaned it with herbs she carried, their healing properties soothing the fresh cut.

"Thank you," Liam murmured. "When I grow up, I promise to help people too."

They chuckled at his earnestness.

"Anyone would have done the same," Lyria said gently. "Just promise you'll be more careful next time, alright?"

Both boys nodded in unison.

Joren ruffled their hair playfully. "Well, we had some great little helpers today! Couldn't have done it without you two. Now, head home before it gets dark. Be careful next time, alright?"

"Yes, sir!" they chimed, then dashed off, no doubt afraid of getting scolded for wandering too far.

As Joren and Lyria approached the bridge, the mist thickened, curling around them like ghostly fingers. The other side of Velmora was barely visible through the haze.

"You know," Lyria mused, gripping her satchel, "when I heard that scream, I thought it was you who got hurt." A small smile grew across her lips.

Joren exhaled, still shaken. "I thought it was you too. When I ran toward the sound and saw you standing there, I—" His voice softened. "I was relieved." His gaze lingered on her face, tracing every familiar line.

"When I heard footsteps crashing through the forest, I thought it was another Caldrisian." Her grip on her satchel tightened. "I was terrified I'd be caught. But... I didn't care. I had to help you."

The memory lingered between them. Lyria had been torn that day—between the fear of being caught breaching Caldris and the instinct to save Joren. She had chosen him, despite the risk. A risk that could have ended everything.

"I've been thinking about that a lot lately," Joren admitted. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me." His voice dropped. "I don't want to be the reason it happens."

"Lyria, that's why—"

A sudden noise cut him off.

Both of them stilled.

"Did you hear that?" Joren asked, his body tense.

Lyria nodded. "Yes. It was faint, but..." Her gaze darted past the trees, searching for movement.

The mist thickened, swallowing the silence.

The mist curled around them like living tendrils, thick and soundless, swallowing the world beyond the bridge. The night had been quiet a moment ago—too quiet. Now, the air felt heavy, pressing in, laced with something ancient and watching.

Joren's breath misted as he turned sharply toward the sound. Footsteps. Light, deliberate. Not an animal.

Lyria stiffened beside him. She wasn't looking at the trees. Her gaze was fixed ahead, toward the shifting mist on the bridge itself.

"Joren," she whispered.

The river stirred beneath them, its dark waters lapping at the stone. The chill that swept through was not the kind born of nightfall—it reached into the marrow, as if the air itself had aged centuries in an instant.

A voice drifted through the reeds, a whisper threading through the mist. Low. Almost melodic. But wrong.

Joren swallowed hard. "Did you hear—"

"Yes." Lyria's fingers ghosted over the charm at her wrist, the carved wood burning cold against her skin. A ward against restless spirits. Useless.

The mist shifted. A shape emerged.

A woman.

Tattered robes clung to her like old echoes, the fabric barely there, shifting between flesh and shadow. Her hair, long and unbound, floated in the unmoving air. Her face bore no malice—only sorrow, lined deep into every feature, like grief given form.

Joren's grip tightened on his dagger. It felt absurdly small against the weight of what stood before them.

The spirit's gaze settled first on Lyria. Her lips barely moved, but the words came as if drawn from the wind itself.

"Blood of my blood."

Lyria flinched.

The spirit's eyes—clouded, knowing—flickered toward Joren.

"And yet, you stand with an enemy."

Joren forced himself to hold her gaze. "Who are you?"

The mist shuddered. Shapes flickered—shadows of a past buried beneath centuries. Velmoran soldiers falling. Caldrisian blades flashing. And in the center, the woman, kneeling over the body of someone unseen, her scream swallowed by the night.

"I was Naera." The spirit's voice hardened. "A healer, before I became something else."

The mist carried the echo of that long-dead name, twisting around them, heavy with the weight of what had been lost.

Joren swallowed. "Why are you here?"

The spirit raised one skeletal hand toward the bridge. The arches seemed to shift under her touch, the stone groaning as if remembering something long buried.

"The curse is woven into the bones of this land," she murmured. "It cannot be reversed without a cost."

Lyria's voice was barely above a whisper. "What cost?"

Naera's gaze held them both, ancient and unyielding.

"One of you must give your life."

The words dropped like stones into the silence.

Lyria was shocked while Joren's hands clenched at his sides.

"If we refuse?" Joren's voice was steady, but his pulse thundered in his ears.

Naera's sorrow deepened. "Then the curse remains. And the bridge will take what it is owed another way."

The wind rose, rushing through the reeds, carrying an unspoken warning: death was not so easily denied.

Then—movement in the trees.

Joren turned sharply, hand on his dagger. But it wasn't just one figure emerging from the mist.

Thalric.

And he wasn't alone.

Lyria's fingers brushed Joren's wrist—a silent warning. Run? No. Nowhere to go.

Thalric's expression was unreadable, but the weight in his eyes was clear. He had seen enough.

"I'd ask what in the gods' name is going on," he said, voice quiet, sharp. "But I think I already have my answer."

The spirit watched, silent now, waiting.

Lyria shifted, moving just slightly in front of Joren. A subtle, instinctive shield.

Joren forced himself to breathe evenly. "It's not what you think."

Thalric's jaw tightened. "Then tell me what it is. Because from where I stand, it looks like you're consorting with a Velmoran—and something far worse."

Lyria's fists curled. "We don't have time for this."

Naera's voice cut through them, cold and final.

"Time is the only thing you no longer have."

The mist thickened. The spirit's form darkened, twisting. She did not need to stay. The choice had been given.

"You will choose," she murmured.

Then she was gone.

The silence left behind was not empty. It pressed in, heavy with the weight of what had just been laid before them.

Joren and Lyria stood frozen.

And Thalric watched.

His expression unreadable.

But dangerous.

The night no longer belonged to them.

And they were no longer the only ones who knew.