Chapter 5 – Whispers of the Dead

The silence after the battle was deafening.

Voss knelt beside Soren, pressing a hand to his chest. Still breathing. Barely.

Drakonix's massive form loomed beside her, his silver eyes cold and unreadable.

"You are not ready," he had said.

But for what?

Voss clenched her fists.

The knight had known her. Had spoken her name with certainty.

And when he removed his helmet—his face.

A face she had buried in the past. A face that should not exist.

Her stomach twisted. Who was he?

The storm had cleared, but the air was thick with something else.

A presence.

Something had changed.

The ruins of Vael'Tharas no longer felt abandoned. They were watching.

---

The Echoes of the Fallen

Voss hoisted Soren onto Drakonix's back. He groaned but didn't wake.

Drakonix rumbled. "We should leave."

Voss hesitated.

Something in the ruins called to her.

She turned toward the crumbling temple at the heart of the ruins.

She had felt it before—the whispers. The voices lurking just beyond her reach.

But now?

Now they were louder.

Her feet moved before she could stop them.

Drakonix growled. "Voss."

But she didn't listen.

She stepped into the temple.

And the world shifted.

---

A Memory That Was Not Her Own

The temple was not in ruins.

The air was warm. Alive.

Golden banners hung from the high ceilings, embroidered with a crest she did not recognize.

And ahead of her—a throne.

A figure sat upon it, clad in silver armor, a sword resting across their lap.

Their face was hidden in shadow.

But the voice—she knew it instantly.

The knight.

"You should not be here," he said again.

Voss tried to speak—but she had no voice.

She was not in control.

This was a memory. A vision.

The figure on the throne lifted their head.

And for the first time, she saw—

Not a knight. A king.

His eyes burned with cold fire.

Not blue. Not silver.

But something older. Something wrong.

And then—

"You are mine."

The vision shattered.

---

Return to the Present

Voss gasped, staggering back.

The temple was in ruins again.

The throne was nothing but rubble.

Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs.

What had she just seen?

A memory? A warning?

Drakonix's voice rumbled behind her.

"Now do you understand?"

Voss turned to face him.

"What was that?" she whispered.

Drakonix regarded her for a long moment.

And then, with ancient certainty, he spoke:

"The Forgotten King has awakened."

The temple ruins pressed in around Voss like a tomb.

She struggled to steady her breathing, but her pulse thundered in her ears.

The Forgotten King has awakened.

Drakonix's words lingered in the air like a curse.

Voss clenched her fists. "What does that mean?"

Drakonix's silver eyes gleamed in the dim light. "It means the war has changed."

The weight of his words settled over her like iron chains.

She had fought battles. Killed warlords. Stolen victory from the jaws of defeat.

But this was something else.

That knight—no, that king—had spoken to her as if she belonged to him.

You are mine.

Her stomach twisted.

She did not belong to anyone.

She turned back toward the ruined throne, scanning the rubble.

Nothing remained of the vision—no banners, no gleaming armor, no silver blade resting on a king's lap.

Only broken stone and the whispers of the past.

Soren groaned weakly from where he lay slumped against Drakonix. His breathing was still labored, his wounds deep.

I don't have time for ghosts.

Voss forced herself to move. "We're leaving."

Drakonix didn't argue this time.

As they stepped from the ruins, the wind shifted, carrying with it a voice that was not entirely real.

A voice that should not exist.

"You will return to me."

Voss did not look back.

---

Night fell by the time they reached the edge of the valley.

They made camp beneath the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, half-buried by time and war.

Voss sat beside Soren, tending his wounds in silence.

His face was pale, his breathing slow. She had pushed them too hard.

The fight had nearly cost them their lives.

And for what?

Her grip tightened around the bloodstained cloth in her hands.

She had faced an enemy who knew her name. A king who did not belong to this world.

And somewhere, deep within the heart of Eldridge, the High Lord was preparing his next move.

She could feel it.

A storm was coming.

And she was running out of time.

Drakonix lay curled nearby, his massive form barely visible in the darkness. His breath rumbled like distant thunder.

She knew he was awake. Watching. Thinking.

Always thinking.

Finally, he spoke. "You are afraid."

Voss didn't answer at first.

Then, quietly, she admitted, "I don't know what I saw."

Drakonix shifted slightly, his silver eyes reflecting the dying firelight. "You saw a remnant of a war long forgotten. A war that should have ended."

"But it didn't," she said.

Drakonix rumbled. "No. And now it begins again."

Voss exhaled slowly. Another war. Another enemy.

As if the High Lord wasn't enough.

She looked down at Soren, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

I need to be stronger.

This wasn't about revenge anymore.

This was about survival.

And she had no intention of dying.

--------------------------------------------------

Far from the ruins of Vael'Tharas, within the frozen halls of Eldridge, the High Lord stood at the edge of his war chamber, staring into the flames of an enchanted brazier.

The frost-coated stone walls pulsed with an eerie blue light, flickering as if alive.

He did not move as the doors behind him opened.

A figure strode inside, clad in midnight-black armor, his presence like a shadow stretching across the floor.

borth.

"My Lord," the warrior said, kneeling. "She escaped."

The High Lord's gaze did not waver.

"And?"

borth hesitated. "She encountered him."

The flames in the brazier flared violently, casting the entire chamber in a deathly glow.

The High Lord's fingers twitched at his side, ice creeping across his gauntlet.

For the first time in centuries, his voice was edged with something almost human.

Fury.

"So… the Forgotten King has returned."

A slow breath escaped his lips, curling into frost.

Then, with terrifying calm, he turned to face borth.

"Summon the riders."

borth bowed, fists clenched. "Shall we hunt her down?"

The High Lord smiled.

"No."

He stepped forward, placing a hand on the brazier's edge. The flames twisted, darkening, revealing a vision of the battlefield yet to come.

His icy breath whispered across the embers.

"Let her run."

Then, his smile widened.

"She cannot escape me forever."