Lyra's eyes fluttered open to darkness. At first, she thought she was still dreaming—caught in that soft, murky place between wakefulness and sleep. But slowly, awareness crept over her, and with it came a strange, aching sensation in her bones. Every inch of her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by invisible chains.
She reached out, her fingers brushing against something cool and metallic. She was lying on a flat, cold surface, surrounded by walls of smooth metal. She tried to sit up, and with great effort, managed to push herself into a sitting position. Her head pounded, and her vision blurred, but gradually the haze began to clear.
As she took in her surroundings, her mind raced. This wasn't her bed. This wasn't her room. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in her own bed, her room dimly lit by the streetlight outside her window. But this place… it was like something from a nightmare.
The walls were lined with dull, flashing lights and machines that hummed softly in the darkness. Cables and tubes snaked across the floor, connected to her bed—or was it a table?—and she realized with horror that some of those tubes had been attached to her. She pulled them away, shuddering at the cold sensation as they disconnected.
A rush of questions surged in her mind, each more frantic than the last. Where am I? What happened? How long have I been here?
Swinging her legs over the edge of the table, she tested her strength. Her muscles felt weak, unused. She looked down at her clothes and frowned. She was wearing a simple white jumpsuit, one she'd never seen before. This only heightened her sense of unease.
Stumbling forward, she found a nearby panel, pressing her hand against it instinctively. It slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a narrow corridor dimly lit by overhead lights that flickered sporadically. Shadows danced along the walls, lending an eerie quality to the place.
She took a deep breath and stepped out, her bare feet padding against the cold metal floor as she moved through the corridor. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the hum of the machines and the occasional creak of metal.
After what felt like an eternity, she reached the end of the corridor and pushed open another door. A wave of stale, cold air washed over her, carrying a strange, metallic scent that stung her nose.
The room beyond was vast and empty, with towering, cracked windows that stretched along one wall. She crossed the floor, which was littered with dust and broken pieces of machinery, and peered through the glass.
Outside, the world was… unrecognizable. Where there had once been bustling cities, streets lined with trees, and the faint glow of lights from distant buildings, there was only desolation. The skyline was broken, jagged structures reaching like skeletal fingers into a gray, lifeless sky. The land was scarred, twisted, and darkened, with strange, inky clouds that churned above, casting an eternal twilight over everything.
Lyra's heart pounded. This isn't possible. This can't be real.
She staggered back from the window, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of it all. Had there been a war? A catastrophe? How long had she been asleep?
And then, a voice—a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—echoed through the room, chilling her to her core.
"So, the sleeper awakens."
She froze, scanning the room. It was empty, save for the wreckage and dust. But the voice was unmistakable.
"Who… who are you?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a tremor.
The voice laughed, a low, sinister sound that seemed to rattle the walls. "You don't remember, do you? No, of course not. It's been a long time, little one."
Lyra clenched her fists, trying to steady herself. "How long? How long have I been asleep?"
"One hundred years," the voice replied, each word laced with dark amusement. "A century since you closed your eyes and slipped into oblivion."
The words hit her like a punch to the gut. A hundred years. It was impossible. She tried to speak, but her mind was spinning, grasping for any explanation that made sense.
"What happened?" she managed to choke out. "What… what did you do to the world?"
Another chuckle, this one colder. "I didn't do anything to the world. The world did it to itself. Humanity was always destined to fall. I simply… helped it along."
Lyra's hands shook as anger welled up inside her, mingling with the fear. "Who are you?"
The air grew heavy, and for a moment, it felt as though something was pressing down on her, suffocating her with its presence. Then, the shadows near the corner of the room began to coalesce, taking form, shifting and writhing until they shaped into something almost human—but not quite.
The figure that emerged was tall and shrouded in darkness, its features obscured save for two glowing eyes that burned like embers.
"I am known by many names," it said, its voice a twisted echo. "But you may call me Azaroth, for that is the name your kind once feared."
Azaroth. The name resonated within her, sparking a memory she couldn't quite place. Stories her mother used to tell her as a child, of a great demon who lay in wait, watching humanity's every misstep, waiting for the chance to rise. She'd laughed it off back then, dismissing it as just another bedtime story.
But now… now she wasn't so sure.
"Why did you keep me alive?" she demanded, forcing herself to stand tall despite the trembling in her legs. "Why am I here?"
Azaroth's eyes gleamed with a twisted kind of amusement. "Because, my dear, you are special. You're not like the others. You… carry something within you, something powerful. Something that I have been waiting for."
Lyra's breath hitched. "I don't understand."
"You will," he said, his voice a dark promise. "In time. For now, I suggest you take in the world around you, this world that you helped create."
"I didn't do anything!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the empty room.
Azaroth tilted his head, as if studying her. "You humans are all the same. Blind to your own faults, blaming others for the consequences of your actions. But I am a patient creature. I have waited a century for you, and I can wait a little longer."
The figure dissolved into shadows, leaving her alone once more. The silence that followed was deafening, and the weight of his words hung heavy in the air.
Lyra stumbled back, her legs giving way as she sank to the ground. Her mind was reeling, her heart pounding in her chest. A hundred years. The world destroyed. And her, alone, in the ruins of a civilization she barely recognized.
She sat there for what felt like hours, trying to make sense of the impossible. But there was no comfort, no answers, only the endless silence of a world left in ruins.
Finally, she forced herself to stand. If there was even a sliver of truth to Azaroth's words, then she needed to find out. She needed to know what had happened to the world she once knew—and why she had been spared when everything else was lost.
And as she took her first step into the desolate wasteland beyond, she made a vow: she would find answers, no matter how long it took. And if Azaroth was truly behind this destruction, then she would stop at nothing to see him fall.