Chapter 25: The Midnight Hour

A hush settled over the River Arath, thick and unnatural, as if the very air held its breath. The bridge, ancient and worn, loomed in the moonlight, its stones whispering of old grievances. The final stroke of midnight approached, and with it, the moment that would decide the fate of nations.

Joren stood at the center of it all, his gaze locked onto the swirling mist rising from the river, forming shapes that dissolved before they could fully manifest. The air smelled of damp stone and something older—something laced with the metallic tang of sacrifice. His fingers curled at his sides, fists tightening around the choice he had made.

Behind him, Lyria's breath came uneven, her presence a tether to something human amidst the supernatural tide creeping toward them. He had to do this. There was no other way.

"You don't have to," she said, her voice sharp with desperation. "We can find another way."

Joren forced himself to look at her. The moon cast her in silver, her dark eyes reflecting the war of emotions raging inside her. Fear. Determination. Love. "If I don't, the war doesn't end."

"And if you do?" she challenged, stepping closer. "What if it changes nothing?"

His throat tightened. He didn't know. But the spirit—the entity bound to this bridge—had whispered of blood and choice, of endings that could not be rewritten, only accepted.

A gust of wind rushed through the bridge, carrying with it a low, mocking laughter. The mist thickened, coiling into the vague outline of a figure, neither man nor shadow, its voice an echo of something long buried.

"Ah, the foolish hero," the spirit drawled. "So eager to bleed for a curse that is not even his own."

Lyria stepped in front of Joren before he could respond, her chin lifting in defiance. "If the curse was never his, then whose is it?"

The spirit tilted its head, considering her. "A question asked too late."

The bridge groaned beneath them, as if weary of holding the weight of their fate. Joren exhaled slowly, then stepped forward, placing himself between Lyria and the spirit. "If it takes my blood to end this, then take it."

The spirit's laughter grew sharper. "And what if that is not enough?"

Joren faltered. The words carried a cruel edge, a suggestion that he had misunderstood something vital. He felt Lyria's fingers brush against his arm—a silent plea. He couldn't look at her. If he did, he might waver.

The spirit extended a hand, palm up, as if offering something invisible. "Do you know why this bridge is cursed?"

Joren swallowed. "Because it was built on betrayal."

The spirit hummed, stepping closer. "Betrayal, yes. But not of war. Of love."

Lyria stiffened beside him. Joren felt the shift in the air, a current of something unseen, moving through them like a forgotten memory surfacing.

"The healer," Lyria murmured. "She—"

"She gave everything to forge peace," the spirit finished. "And when she was cast aside, she took something in return. A promise. A debt."

Joren's pulse pounded. He had heard the legends, but the truth—the weight of the truth—had never been spoken like this.

"So, what is the price?" he asked, voice steady despite the dread unfurling in his chest.

The spirit's form shimmered, its edges fraying like unraveling thread. "A sacrifice, yes. But not merely of life. A sacrifice of love."

Lyria's grip tightened on his wrist. Joren turned to her, seeing the flicker of realization in her eyes. If the bridge had been built on betrayed love, then the only way to break the curse was to sever love itself. Not through death—but through choice.

"No," Lyria whispered. "There has to be another way."

"There isn't." Joren lifted a hand to her cheek, tracing the familiar lines of her face, memorizing her. "If we don't do this, the war will never end. The curse will keep feeding it."

Lyria's eyes glistened, her breath shaky. "Then let me do it."

Joren froze. "What?"

"If someone must sacrifice, let it be me." Her voice didn't waver, but he could see the pain twisting behind her resolve. "I am of the healer's line. The blood that made the curse runs in me."

The spirit shifted, watching them with something akin to curiosity. "An intriguing offer."

Joren's heart clenched. "No."

Lyria turned to the spirit. "I invoke my right. Let me be the one to break the bond."

The air around them thickened, the mist swirling faster. The spirit regarded her for a long moment before nodding once. "Very well."

Joren moved before he could think, grabbing her wrist. "Lyria—"

She placed a hand over his, her fingers warm despite the cold around them. "We always knew it would come to this, didn't we?"

His throat tightened. "I—"

The spirit raised its hands, and suddenly, the world shifted.

The bridge beneath them blurred, its form stretching and twisting into something ancient, something untouched by time. The river below darkened, the water turning to shadows, swirling with faces lost to history.

Joren and Lyria stood at the center of it, caught between past and present.

Lyria let go of his hand.

And Joren felt it instantly. The severing of something unseen, something tethered between them. It wasn't just love—it was memory.

The bridge demanded more than pain. It demanded forgetting.

Lyria exhaled, a shuddering sound. Her gaze met his one last time before her expression softened, emptying like a fading ember.

Joren reached for her—

But she stepped back, and the moment shattered.

The mist exploded outward, engulfing them both. The spirit's voice echoed in the darkness. It is done.

When the mist cleared, Joren stood alone.

The river below was calm. The bridge, silent.

Lyria was gone.

And he could not remember her name.