Echoes of Pursuit

The hurried echo. Of Lya and Eren's footsteps. Reverberated. Through the silent corridors. Of the Tower of the Aether. The air, heavy with dust. And ancient magic. Seemed denser. As if each breath. Was watched. By invisible eyes. They had left the library. Without looking back. But the weight. Of invisible gazes. Clung to their backs. A constant shiver. That Lya couldn't ignore.

"Do you think. We were discovered?" she murmured. Her voice. In a whisper. Broken by adrenaline.

Eren paused for a brief moment, gazing suspiciously into the suffocating gloom of the tomb. He let his gaze wander over every dark nook, every cobweb-filled alcove, and every rip in the old stone walls. His eyes, normally twinkling with a devilish delight, now spoke of a primeval darkness. He was hunting-not just looking. In tune with the minute shifts in air, the scarcely noticeable flickering of movement along his peripheral vision, he was listening, finally, over and above the wild pounding of his heart, the stillness of the tomb. Whispering voices, that low, dreary sound that grazed the edges of one's understanding-the telltale sign of the very creatures that hunted them, he knew they were there. . . occupied, just beyond that nebulous veil, and their presence bore down on the already heavy air. He could feel the stiff cold creeping out of the deeper shadows, the tangible malice that oozed into the damp stone. He wasn't merely watching; he was sensing. He was tuned to the very vibrations of the crypt-the substantial shift in temperature, the faint metallic tang that told of some ancient evil. He was trying to pinpoint where that creeping dread poured from into the small study space, where the unseen eyes bore down on them from the communication dark. He moved slowly, deliberately, one step at a time, heightened senses, body coiled to spring into action. Soon he knew they were near-closer than Lya would ever suspect-thick and masquerading in an atmosphere fraught with terror. He just had no way of knowing just how close.

Suddenly, a blue glow. Ran across the vaulted ceiling—an alarm spell. Lya's heart leaped.

"Run!" Eren exclaimed. Pulling her by the hand.

The city of sorcerers. Was not lenient. With intruders. Tower guards. Dressed in black cloaks. Intertwined with silver threads. Emerged. From alleys and hidden passages. Their eyes gleamed. With lethal intent. And spells crackled. Between their fingers.

Running through narrow alleyways. Jumping over boxes. And dodging spells. That exploded. In flames and blinding light. Lya felt despair. Mix with something else—a raw energy. Dormant. Awakening within her.

Trapped in a dead end. With the guards approaching. Eren prepared to fight. But, before he could cast a spell. Lya instinctively raised her hands. A silent scream. Echoed in her mind. And an explosion. Of golden light. Erupted. From her palms. The air twisted. And a wave of energy. Pushed the enemies back. Creating a temporary gap. In the wall—a passage. That shouldn't exist.

Eren grabbed her. Until she caught her breath. And they crossed together.

On the other side. The world seemed darker. An underground labyrinth. Forgotten. Lya fell to her knees. Gasping. Her heart pounding. More strongly than fear itself.

"What was that?" she murmured. Her voice hoarse.

Eren looked at her. With a mix of astonishment. And concern.

"That was magic. Your magic."

Even there. Hidden among shadows. And ancient stones. The feeling of being watched. Never disappeared. Lya felt a chill. On the back of her neck. The premonition. That something or someone. Was watching them. Distant sounds—footsteps? whispers?—echoed. Disappearing. Every time Eren tried. To identify them.

They found a temporary refuge. In an abandoned crypt. The walls covered. With runes erased by time. The silence there. Was not a relief. It was oppressive. Eren examined the space. But his eyes betrayed. The same unease. That Lya felt.

"We're not alone, are we?" she asked. In a whisper.

Eren didn't answer. His silence. Was answer enough.

The shadows moved. In the dim light. Sliding between the cracks. Of the ancient stones. Never fully belonging. To the world of the living. They watched. They always watched. But now, Lya's awakened magic. Attracted them. Like a beacon. In the eternal night.

They were the Beings of Darkness—vestiges of consciousness. Long dissolved. In the void. Debris of forgotten sorcery. And immortal hatred. They had no eyes. But they saw. They had no voices. But they whispered. Filling the silence. With echoes. That should never exist. They gathered. In the shadows of the crypt. Flowing like dense fog. Each movement. A promise. That the veil between worlds. Was more fragile. Than Lya and Eren imagined.

Her magic... so pure... so errant... so ours.

The words were not spoken. But they were felt. Vibrating in the bones. Resonating. Like a funeral chant. The Beings of Darkness. Did not see the sorcerers. As flesh and blood. For they did not possess eyes. To see. In the trivial way. For them, mortals were. Flickering flames. In the veil of existence. Sparks of energy. That oscillated. Between light and shadow. Each sorcerer. Had a unique glow—some faint. Like candles about to go out. Others intense. Like stars. That did not yet perceive. Their own decline.

But for the Beings of Darkness. Light was not beauty. It was a mistake. A slip of creation.

They saw the sorcerers. As fragile creatures. Made of fear and desire. Constantly struggling. Against their own mortality. Ridiculous. In their belief. That time belonged to them. Ignorant. To the fact. That everything returns. To darkness. Each beat of the heart. For the beings. Was a drum. Resounding in the void. A countdown. To the inevitable moment. When the last breath. Would be taken.

Those who possessed magic. Shone brighter. And this made them. Doubly interesting—not just prey. But paradoxes. Magic burned. Created. Molded realities... and yet. Every spell. Had a price. The light attracted the shadows. And Lya's magic? Ah, that was different. That called the Beings. Like a beacon calls. The night tides.

For them. The sorcerers were. Just passing cycles. Echoes of something greater. They could fight. They could run. They could cling. To illusions of victory. In the end. Everything returned. To silence. And darkness. Always waited.

The shadows trembled. A slight tremor. Ran through the ground. As if the stone itself. Reacted. To the presence of the specters. They could not touch. Not yet. But they waited. They watched. Smiling. In the vastness. Of the invisible. For they knew that. Sooner or later. Darkness always claimed. What was its. And Lya was theirs.