Shadows of Vorr

The morning air carried a strange scent—like copper and frost. Rico and Lyra had barely slept after their skirmish with the archers. Every sound, every snapping twig in the woods felt like a warning.

"Are we being followed?" Lyra asked without turning.

Rico shook his head, studying the enchanted compass in his palm. The needle spun erratically. "No… worse. We're being watched."

Lyra tensed, her hand dropping to her dagger. "Then we need to move. Vorr doesn't send shadows for fun."

They moved swiftly down a forgotten trail through the gorge, their boots quiet on damp moss. Somewhere behind them, the artifacts buried near Dunhaven pulsed faintly—like beacons. Lyra knew it. Rico knew it. Vorr definitely knew it.

---

Two hours later, they arrived at a clearing near the ruins of an old watchtower. The stones were scorched black from some magical fire decades ago, and ivy had since grown over most of it. But the stones hummed—faintly.

Rico stepped cautiously toward the base of the tower. "This used to be one of the Old Alchemic Wells."

Lyra frowned. "Wells?"

"Not for water," Rico explained. "For knowledge. They say ancient alchemists stored living memories here. Recipes. Warnings. Secrets."

"You're saying this place... remembers?"

"Possibly."

Rico knelt and placed his hand on the mossy ground. A sudden surge of heat ran up his spine. The world blurred—then blinked.

---

He stood in a different place.

The tower was whole. The skies above were aflame with swirling auroras, and hooded alchemists chanted around a well of glowing mist. One stepped forward—an old man with silver tattoos crawling up his neck.

"You who seek redemption..." the voice echoed in Rico's skull.

"You who wield destruction masked as salvation..."

Rico tried to speak but his voice didn't carry.

"A time will come when the blade of guilt weighs more than the war itself. When that time arrives—choose not to run. Choose to renounce... or be consumed."

The vision shattered like glass.

---

Rico gasped and staggered back. Lyra caught him.

"What did you see?"

"Something old. Something warning me."

She looked concerned. "Are you alright?"

"No. And that scares me more than anything else."

---

They left the ruins, heading southward toward the Bleeding Hills—the last location Voro had mentioned. But the path there was cursed.

As night fell, a storm rolled in, painting the sky in jagged streaks of lightning. The rain was acidic—light enough not to burn skin but strong enough to poison streams. They camped under a hollowed tree, relying on Rico's alchemy to purify small puddles of water.

Lyra watched him work, fascinated.

"You ever think about teaching?" she asked.

Rico chuckled bitterly. "Me? Teaching?"

"You know more about alchemy than half the Guilds combined."

"I also invented a poison that melted flesh in under five seconds."

"Fair point."

They sat quietly for a moment.

"Why did you stop?" she asked gently. "Why give it all up?"

He didn't answer right away.

"I was working for a cartel called the Crimson Vow," he said at last. "They wanted an invisibility elixir. I gave them one… but it wasn't stable. They used it anyway. Twenty-seven people died in one night. One of them was my younger brother."

Lyra didn't speak.

"I didn't even know he'd joined them. He just wanted to be near me. To learn."

She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. For once, he didn't flinch.

"You can't undo it," she said softly. "But you can rewrite what comes next."

He looked at her.

And for the first time in years, Rico believed he might be able to.

---

The next day, they reached the outer rim of the Bleeding Hills. Crimson grass swayed like silent flames across the valleys, and strange monoliths jutted out like black teeth from the ground. Magic ran through this place—wild, unstable, angry.

At the hill's peak, they spotted the caravan.

It was smaller this time. Just two wagons. Guards in strange armor stood at attention—not mercenaries, but Vorr's personal knights. Each wore masks shaped like animals—wolves, hawks, serpents—and carried both blade and staff.

"They're not just warriors," Lyra whispered. "They're hybrids."

"Warlocks with a loyalty spell," Rico agreed. "Mind-bonded. They'll fight to the death without question."

They circled around, hiding behind a mound of rock.

"I count twelve," Lyra said. "And Vorr isn't here."

"No," Rico murmured, focusing on one of the wagons. "But his voice is."

They crept closer. A low humming came from inside the first wagon. Then—a voice, low and haunting.

"He walks still, the Alchemist. The false Redeemed. Let him come. Let him taste what true magic can become."

Lyra frowned. "It's a spellbound recording."

"No," Rico said. "It's worse. It's a soul-bound prophecy. Vorr knows I'm here."

The wagon suddenly burst open, and a spectral creature slithered out—a wraith made of smoke and shadow, with eyes that glowed like hellfire.

"Move!" Rico shouted.

The wraith screamed and lunged. Rico hurled a freezing flask, but it passed through the creature harmlessly.

Lyra drew her twin daggers and struck, slicing across the wraith's form. It screamed but reformed instantly.

"It's not alive!" she shouted.

"No, but it's bound," Rico yelled back, rummaging through his pouch. "We need to break the tether."

He found what he needed—a vial of soul-sand, rare and illegal in most kingdoms.

"Cover me!"

Lyra jumped and kicked one of the masked knights into another. They scrambled, confused for a second.

Rico rushed toward the wraith, uncorking the vial. The sand glowed bright violet as it reacted with the creature's essence.

"Return to ash!" Rico screamed, hurling the sand directly into the wraith's core.

It howled—long and mournful—and then dissolved into dust.

But the battle wasn't over.

---

The remaining knights attacked with terrifying precision. One threw a flaming spear; Lyra dodged and stabbed him through the visor. Another unleashed a shockwave that sent Rico flying.

He landed hard, blood in his mouth, ribs screaming.

"Rico!" Lyra shouted, slashing a serpent-masked knight across the throat.

Rico forced himself up, pulling a concussion bomb from his belt.

"This is for my brother," he growled, and hurled it into the crowd.

The explosion rocked the hills, sending three knights crashing to the ground.

Lyra moved like a blur, her blades slicing and spinning. She fought like someone who had nothing left to lose.

In minutes, the field was quiet again.

They stood among the dead, breathing hard.

Rico turned to the remaining wagon. Inside, they found another artifact—larger than the last, humming with chaotic energy. It was a cube of shifting symbols, locked in a containment field.

"What the hell is that?" Lyra whispered.

"I don't know," Rico said, "but it's talking to me. And it knows my name."

---

They secured the artifact and began the long trek back to the hidden grove where they stored the others. Every step of the way, the cube whispered.

Rico… Alchemist… Traitor… Savior…

Lyra looked at him more than once, worry in her eyes.

He didn't tell her the worst part.

The cube didn't just know his name.

It knew the names of everyone he had ever killed.

And it was reciting them… one by one.

---