Chapter 16: Caught In The Act

Joren moved carefully through the narrow streets leading back to Caldris after the harrowing encounter at the bridge. He stuck to the shadows, hoping to avoid prying eyes and questions about his late-night disappearances. But dawn was already creeping in.

His mind dangled with unease, still reeling from Naera's warning. The weight of her words pressed heavily on him—they had to fix everything if there was to be peace. Of all the generations, why did it have to be theirs? Why couldn't the bridge have waited just a little longer? Why now?

His thoughts were cut short by voices ahead. He froze. Who could they be? Had someone finally discovered his secret nighttime visits and reported him?

Moving slightly forward, he listened intently.

"Did they find one of our people at the bridge?"

"Yes, I think so. And actually, I might just know who it is—I followed them."

Two Caldrisian guards. Their voices were hushed, but the weight of their words struck Joren like a hammer.

Panic knotted in his chest. There's no way… No one should know. Unless someone had been keeping a close eye on him. Unless… it was someone who already knew him.

That left only one person. The one person Joren had no desire to face.

He needed to get out of there before he was spotted. Moving swiftly, he crept around a thicket, staying low, nearly past them when—

"Joren."

A single word. A voice as familiar as yesterday's events.

He knew who it was.

Thalric.

Joren slowly rose from his hiding place, hesitantly stepping forward. But his apprehension deepened when he saw Thalric wasn't alone.

Standing beside him was Captain Roen.

Roen—the seasoned war veteran, the man who distrusted Joren's inventions, his defiance, his very place in Caldris. And now, with Joren caught in the act of betrayal, Roen had all the leverage he needed.

"Joren, what are you doing out here at this hour?" Thalric's voice was unnervingly casual, as if he hadn't just confronted Joren earlier at the bridge.

Joren hesitated. Think. "I was searching…" he said, eyes darting away, deliberately fixating on the distant forest to avoid Roen's scrutiny.

"Searching for what?" Roen interjected, his tone sharp.

"New inventions," Joren replied, unconvincingly.

If Joren was a poor liar before, he was downright terrible at it now. His body language betrayed him—shoulders tense, hands twitching.

"At this hour?" Roen scoffed. "Don't insult me, Joren. I know what you've been up to."

"Believe me, Captain, whatever you think you know about me—you're wrong." Joren kept his voice even, but his pulse pounded.

Thalric shifted uneasily. He wanted to intervene, to steer this away from disaster, but even he didn't know what Joren had been doing at the bridge every night. And worse—he suspected Joren had been consorting with a Velmoran. A crime punishable by banishment. Or death.

"I had you followed, Joren." Roen's voice turned cold. "You were at the bridge."

The ground seemed to fall from beneath Joren's feet.

He had to think—fast. If this escalated, he'd be dragged before the Council, stripped of his privileges. Worse, if they'd seen him with Lyria…

His mind scrambled for an excuse.

"I was testing the bridge's structural integrity," he said quickly. "There have been shifts in the stone."

It wasn't a terrible lie. But Roen wasn't convinced.

Thalric, despite his own doubts, stepped in. "Yes, Captain. I forgot to mention earlier—I was with Joren at the bridge. I left before he did. He must have lost something and went back for it. Right, Joren?"

Thalric shot him a look, urging him to take the out.

"Yes," Joren said, seizing the lifeline. "Thalric was helping me. I just lost track of time. It won't happen again."

Roen's eyes turned between them, suspicion heavy in the air. But after a long pause, he let it drop—for now.

Joren wasted no time slipping away, hurrying home before the captain changed his mind.

--

Joren stood before Captain Roen in the dimly lit war room of the Caldrisian barracks. Maps of the contested river territories lay spread across a wooden table, the air thick with unspoken threats.

Roen's gaze was sharp, dissecting every word as Joren answered his questions. He remained composed, but he could tell—the captain wasn't convinced.

Thalric was there too, silent for most of the interrogation, watching his friend weave lie after lie. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to bang his head against the door. Joren was in deeper trouble than he realized. If he didn't stop lying, he was going to get himself killed.

Just when Joren thought he was free, Roen made his decision.

"I will personally oversee the bridge's security in the coming days."

The trap snapped shut.

Joren's stomach turned. He had managed to slip away this time, but now, his every move would be watched.

--

Lyria returned home restless, the scent of damp earth and crushed herbs lingering in the air as she prepared remedies. But her mind was elsewhere.

The spirit's words haunted her. And so did something else—the look on Thalric's face before she fled the bridge.

Did he recognize me?

If he did… she was in danger.

A knock on the door disrupted her from her thoughts.

When she opened it, she found two of her estranged neighbors—Eldrin and Mareth. Both older, both with eyes like stone.

They weren't here for pleasantries.

Eldrin wasted no time. "You were seen near the bridge again."

It wasn't a question.

Lyria's heartbeat faltered. The people of Velmora had nearly banished her once before. If not for Eira's constant pleadings to the elders, she would have been exiled. Even now, some still looked at her with contempt.

Mareth, once a friend of her mother's, stepped forward. Her expression was laced with something between concern and warning. "Lyria, we've been through this before. The bridge. Your mother."

She sat on the porch, her hands folded in her lap, studying Lyria with piercing scrutiny.

"Don't go meddling in things you don't understand," Mareth continued. "You think you're safe, but the bridge always takes its price."

Eldrin nodded. "Those who frequent the bridge become marked. If you keep this up, you'll share your mother's fate."

Lyria sat across from them, her expression unreadable. Was she even listening?

Mareth sighed. "We don't want to see you destroyed by this, Lyria. Whatever you think you're doing—it will only get you killed."

Lyria's jaw tightened. "I appreciate your concern, Mareth. But I'm not doing anything that would cost me my life. And besides—I'm not alone. My mother's spirit watches over me."

Mareth's face darkened, but she said nothing.

When the confrontation ended, Lyria wasted no time. She needed answers.

She set out for the old gathering hall, where Eira waited—where Velmora's past lay hidden in dust and candlelight.

Where secrets refused to stay buried.

--

Lyria stepped into the dimly lit hall, her pulse still unsteady from the confrontation outside. The space smelled of old parchment and dried herbs, the scent of history itself.

Eira was waiting. She stood near the center of the room, her back turned, fingers lightly brushing against the rim of an ancient brass bowl resting on the wooden table before her. The elder woman did not turn as Lyria approached, as if she had expected her all along.

"You came sooner than I thought," Eira murmured. Her voice was quiet but edged with something heavier than mere expectation.

Lyria swallowed, her throat dry. She didn't have time for pretense. "I need to know about Naera."

At that, Eira finally turned. The candlelight carved deep lines into her face, making her look older than she had just that morning. She studied Lyria in silence, and for a moment, it seemed she might refuse. But then, something in her shifted—perhaps a resignation, or a decision long overdue.

Eira pulled out a chair and gestured for Lyria to sit. "If you wish to know the truth, you must understand that the past is never as simple as the stories we tell."

Lyria sat, fingers tightening against the fabric of her skirt. "I don't need stories. I need the truth."

Eira sighed, leaning back, her eyes distant. "Naera was Velmora's most gifted healer. Wise beyond her years. Revered, loved." A pause. "And betrayed."

Lyria frowned. "Betrayed? By whom?"

Eira exhaled, slow and measured. "By her own people."

The words landed like a stone in Lyria's stomach. "That's not possible. The curse—Naera's hatred—was meant for the Caldrisians."

"Was it?" Eira's gaze sharpened. "Or is that only what we've chosen to believe?"

Lyria sat in stunned silence as the elder continued.

"When the war reached the bridge, Naera believed—foolishly, perhaps—that she could stop the bloodshed. She arranged a meeting, Caldrisian and Velmoran alike, under a banner of peace. She thought she could reason with them, make them see past their thirst for war."

Eira's lips pressed into a thin line. "But someone didn't want peace. Someone from Velmora. They sent word to Caldris, warning them. And when the Caldrisians came, they weren't looking for truce."

The candle flickered, the shadows shifting. Lyria felt cold, despite the warmth of the room.

"She survived the slaughter, if only for a moment longer. Long enough to curse the bridge with her dying breath. But her rage wasn't only for the Caldrisians." Eira's voice was barely above a whisper now. "It was for the ones who betrayed her. The ones who buried the truth beneath centuries of war and resentment."

Lyria's mind spun, unraveling the stories she had been told since childhood. Velmora had always painted Naera as a martyr, a victim of Caldrisian cruelty. But if she had been betrayed by her own people, then the truth of the curse—of everything—was far more complicated than anyone dared to admit.

A new kind of dread settled into Lyria's bones.

"If someone betrayed Naera back then," she said slowly, "who? And what would they do to keep that secret buried?"

Eira did not answer.

She didn't have to.

--

The mist coils around them, thick as breath, swallowing all but the glint of torches and the silhouettes moving toward them. Joren steps forward instinctively, shielding Lyria from view, but she is already reaching for her satchel, fingers brushing the glass vials within. A futile defense. If this is an ambush, they are both outmatched.

Thalric's expression is unreadable as he halts a few paces away. The other figures fan out behind him—three men clad in Caldrisian uniforms, swords sheathed but hands resting on the hilts. Yet they are not the only ones. A fourth steps into the torchlight.

A woman. Velmoran.

Lyria's breath catches in her throat. She knows this woman. Mareth. The same one who had stood at her door with warnings dripping from her tongue. The betrayal in her presence here is a sharper wound than any blade could be.

Mareth's gaze flickers over Joren before settling on Lyria. "I warned you," she says, voice steady. "But you did not listen."

A chill runs through Lyria. "You led them here."

"I did what was necessary." Mareth lifts her chin, unreadable in the torchlight. "You've been meddling where you shouldn't. With things you don't understand."

Joren shifts, his stance coiled and ready. "If you think we're just going to let you turn us in—"

"You mistake me," Mareth interrupts. "I did not bring them here to take you." She glances at Thalric. "I came to make sure neither of you were killed before the truth was known."

Silence stretches taut between them. Then Thalric speaks, his voice low. "What were you doing here, Joren?"

Joren meets his gaze, but there's no easy lie this time. The truth hangs between them, undeniable in the mist and Mareth's betrayal. "I think you already know."

Thalric exhales, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "I wanted to be wrong."

A heartbeat of silence. Then, one of the soldiers shifts impatiently. "We should take them in."

Mareth is the one who answers. "Not here. Not now." She steps forward, looking at Thalric. "You have a choice to make."

Lyria stiffens. "What choice?"

Thalric hesitates. And that hesitation is everything.

"You're the only reason he hasn't been taken yet," one of the soldiers mutters to Thalric. "Captain Roen will want to hear of this."

Joren sees the flicker of indecision in Thalric's eyes and presses his advantage. "You don't want to do this."

"I don't want any of this," Thalric says quietly. Then louder, more certain: "Neither of them leaves this bridge without answers."

Lyria swallows against the tightness in her throat. "Then ask your questions."

Thalric studies them for a long moment before turning to Mareth. "Start talking."

Mareth does not flinch. "Naera's curse is not just a tale to keep children from wandering too close to the river." Her gaze flickers to Lyria. "And it is not finished."

Joren's pulse thrums. "What do you mean?"

Mareth looks between them, then takes a slow step forward, lowering her voice. "The spirit did not choose who should live that night," she says. "It chose who should return."

The words settle like a stone in Joren's chest. He looks to Lyria, finds the same realization dawning in her wide eyes. The spirit had not merely been a warning. It had been a test.

Thalric shifts. "Enough riddles. What does that mean?"

Mareth's voice is quiet. "It means the spirit's work is unfinished. And it means the one who betrayed Naera is still among us."

A stunned silence follows. Then, from the depths of the fog, a whisper curls through the air.

Not a voice. Not entirely.

A presence.

A cold gust ripples across the bridge, snuffing the torches to embers. The soldiers swear, drawing weapons, but there is nothing to fight. Only the press of something unseen. 

Lyria grips Joren's arm. "It knows."

The mist thickens, swallowing their surroundings. A shape stirs within it—fleeting, shifting, there and gone. The whisper comes again, curling around them like breath on cold glass.

One must pay the price.

The mist collapses inward, and the bridge shudders beneath their feet.

And then, everything erupts into chaos.