Echoes of the cursed

The wind carried the sound of laughter low, twisted, and wrong. It came from somewhere deep within the Wilds, but it felt closer, curling around Lysandra like invisible fingers. A chill ran down her spine.

The prince stiffened beside her. Though his mask hid his face, she could feel the shift in his stance the slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers hovered near his sword.

He had heard it too.

Lysandra swallowed hard. "That laughter…" She turned her glowing eyes toward him. "You recognize it, don't you?"

A long silence stretched between them. Then, at last, the prince nodded.

"It belongs to the Forgotten God."

Lysandra's breath hitched.

She had heard the name before. A deity long lost to time, erased from history for a reason. Some said it had once been worshiped by the old kings, others that it had been cast out by the heavens themselves. The stories varied, but one thing remained the same—it was a god that should not exist.

And yet, its voice still lingered.

Lysandra clenched her fists. "I thought gods couldn't be cursed."

The prince turned his masked face toward her. "Everything can be cursed."

The wind picked up, rustling the twisted branches above them. The Wilds were watching.

Lysandra's body ached from the fight with the guardian, but she forced herself to stay alert. "If that was just a warning," she said, her voice steady, "then what happens when the real threat arrives?"

The prince didn't answer. Instead, he turned, his cloak billowing behind him as he started walking.

Lysandra scowled. "You're avoiding the question."

He didn't stop. "We need to move."

Her frustration flared, but she knew he was right. Whatever had laughed—it wasn't done with them yet.

She exhaled sharply and followed.

The deeper they traveled into the Wilds, the more the air changed. It grew heavier, thick with something unseen but suffocating. The trees leaned inward, their bark covered in strange, pulsing veins of dark gold. The ground beneath them felt wrong, shifting in subtle, unnatural ways.

Lysandra wasn't sure if it was the curse in her blood or something older, but she could feel the land breathing. Waiting.

The prince finally stopped at the base of a massive stone archway, half-buried in roots and vines. Strange symbols were etched into its surface, glowing faintly with a golden light.

Lysandra frowned. "What is this?"

"A doorway," the prince murmured. "To the old world."

Lysandra didn't like the way he said it. "The old world is gone."

The prince glanced at her. "Not entirely."

Before she could press him for answers, something shifted in the air.

The symbols on the archway flared.

Then, from the darkness beyond the doorway, a figure stepped forward.

Lysandra's breath caught.

It was a man—or at least, it had been once. His skin was cracked like stone, faint golden light seeping through the fractures. His eyes burned with something ancient, something wrong. And when he spoke, his voice was layered like many speaking at once.

"You have come far, little beast." His gaze fell on Lysandra. "And yet, you do not understand what you are."

Lysandra felt her heartbeat in her throat. "Who are you?"

The man's lips curled into something that might have been a smile. "A relic of a time before yours. A servant of the god you have already angered."

The laughter from before echoed in her mind.

Lysandra's claws twitched. "And what does your god want?"

The man's burning gaze darkened.

"To take back what was stolen."

Lysandra's pulse quickened. The prince shifted beside her, his fingers once again hovering near his sword.

The man's voice turned sharp. "And it starts with you, cursed heir."

Lysandra barely had time to react before the world shattered around her.

Darkness swallowed her whole.