Erythion

“State your business,” one of the guards barked.

“Travelers, seeking shelter and trade,” Alina replied smoothly, pulling back her hood.

The guard’s eyes lingered on her, then flicked to Elias. His expression was skeptical, but after a tense pause, he stepped aside. “Don’t cause trouble,” he warned.

“No trouble,” Alina promised, though the weight of her words felt thin in the air.

Inside, Erythion was a maze of narrow streets and bustling markets. Merchants shouted over one another to advertise their wares, from exotic spices to intricate jewelry. Children darted through the crowd, and the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and incense.

Elias tried to take it all in, but the sheer noise and movement left him feeling disoriented.

“This way,” Alina said, tugging him toward a quieter alley.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Elias asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“I have an idea,” Alina replied. “There’s someone here who might help us. A scholar—an expert in old magic. If anyone knows about the harp, it’s him.”

“And how do you know this scholar?” Elias pressed.

Alina hesitated before answering. “We’ve… crossed paths before. Let’s leave it at that.”

Elias didn’t push further, though her evasiveness didn’t sit well with him.

They arrived at a modest, unmarked building tucked away in a quieter part of the city. Alina knocked three times, her movements precise and deliberate.

After a long pause, the door creaked open, revealing a wiry man with graying hair and sharp, piercing eyes. He wore a simple robe, but there was an unmistakable air of authority about him.

“Alina,” he said, his tone both surprised and wary. “You have some nerve showing up here.”

“I didn’t have a choice, Joran,” Alina replied. “We need your help.”

Joran’s gaze shifted to Elias, his eyes narrowing. “And who’s this?”

“A friend,” Alina said quickly. “We’ve found something, Joran. Something dangerous. We need answers.”

Joran studied her for a moment before stepping aside. “Come in.”

The interior of Joran’s home was cluttered but organized, with shelves lined with ancient tomes and strange artifacts. A faint smell of parchment and herbs lingered in the air.

Elias felt a sense of unease as he took in his surroundings. There was power here—subtle but undeniable.

“What is it you’ve found?” Joran asked, his tone sharp.

Alina glanced at Elias, who hesitated before speaking. “A harp,” he said. “In the ruins near Asteris. It… called to me.”

Joran’s eyes widened slightly, though his expression remained guarded. “The Harp of Astra,” he murmured.

“You know of it?” Alina pressed.

“I’ve studied the legends,” Joran admitted, pacing the room. “The harp is said to be a fragment of an ancient power—a remnant of the Song weavers, who shaped the world with their music. It’s more than just an artifact; it’s a conduit for immense magic. Dangerous magic.”

Elias felt a chill run through him. “What kind of magic?”

Joran stopped and fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Magic that can reshape reality itself. The Song weavers were said to use their instruments to create and destroy with a single note. If the harp has bonded with you, it means you’ve been marked by its power. And that power will attract others—those who seek to control it, or destroy it.”

Alina frowned. “Then how do we stop it? How do we break its hold on him?”

Joran shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The harp doesn’t just bond with anyone. It chooses its bearer, and its bond is nearly impossible to sever. The only way to rid yourself of it Is to return it to its source.”

“Where is the source?” Elias asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Joran hesitated before answering. “The Forgotten Spire. A place lost to time and myth, deep in the heart of the Wastes. If the harp’s power is to be neutralized, it must be taken there and sealed away.”

The room fell silent as the weight of Joran’s words sank in.

“Do you know how to get there?” Alina asked finally.

Joran nodded slowly. “I’ve studied the maps and texts. I can guide you, but the journey will be perilous. The Wastes are treacherous, and the Spire is protected by ancient wards. Not to mention the others who will be hunting you for the harp’s power.”

Elias clenched his fists. “We don’t have a choice. If the harp’s power is as dangerous as you say, we can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”

Joran studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. I’ll help you. But you must understand—this journey will test you in ways you can’t imagine. The harp’s power will grow stronger, and it will try to consume you. You must be prepared to face that.”

Elias met his gaze, his resolve firm. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

As night fell over Erythion, the three of them began their preparations for the journey ahead. The harp’s faint melody lingered in Elias’s mind, a haunting reminder of the power he now carried.

The path to the Forgotten Spire was fraught with danger, but it was the only way to end the harp’s hold on him—and to prevent its power from being unleashed upon the world.

Preparations for the journey to the Forgotten Spire began after they retrieved the harp. The quiet hum of Erythion’s night was their backdrop. Joran’s study, dimly lit by flickering lanterns, felt like a sanctuary and a trap all at once. Elias stood at the edge of the room, his eyes fixed on the weathered map spread across the table.

“The Forgotten Spire lies here,” Joran said, pointing to a dark, unmarked spot in the center of the Wastes. “Few venture this far. Fewer return. The terrain itself is merciless—shifting dunes that swallow travelers whole, cliffs that crumble underfoot, and ruins teeming with dangers best left undiscovered.”

Elias frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a journey anyone survives.”

“Most don’t,” Joran admitted. “But the terrain isn’t the worst of it.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “The Wastes are haunted by echoes of the past—remnants of the magic that once shaped this land. Illusions, whispers, things that can bend your will or your sanity if you aren’t careful.”

“And the harp?” Elias asked, his voice tense.

Joran turned his sharp gaze toward him. “The closer you get to the Spire, the stronger its pull will become. The harp isn’t just an object, Elias—it’s alive, in a way. It will test you, tempt you, and if you aren’t strong enough, it will break you.”

Elias swallowed hard, the weight of the harp slung across his back growing heavier. He hadn’t dared touch it again, but its melody still lingered faintly in his mind, like the distant hum of a storm on the horizon.

Alina leaned over the map, her expression unreadable. “What about the people hunting us? Kael warned us the harp’s power draws attention. Will they follow us into the Wastes?”

Joran’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If they’re desperate enough, they will. The harp’s song is like a beacon to those who seek power. It doesn’t discriminate—it calls to all, whether they mean to use it or destroy it.”

Elias looked between them. “So we’re walking into a desert full of dangers, with enemies on our heels and a cursed artifact on my back. Am I missing anything?”

Alina smirked faintly. “You forgot to mention the chance we’ll lose our minds along the way.”

“Comforting,” Elias muttered.