The streets of Ebonreach were eerily quiet in the early hours before dawn. The flickering lanterns lining the alleys had burned low, their glow barely enough to illuminate the twisting paths. Lyra moved ahead of me, her steps measured and deliberate, her hand never far from her sword.
"We're being watched," she muttered, her voice low but certain.
I didn't question her. The oppressive weight of unseen eyes had settled over me, too, making my every step feel like a risk. The city felt alive in a way that had nothing to do with its people—its shadows stretched too long, its air too thick.
"Do you think it's the watchers?" I asked, keeping my voice just as low.
"No," Lyra said. "This isn't their style. It's someone else."
That didn't make me feel any better.
We turned down a narrow alley, the cobblestones slick with moisture. Lyra stopped suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the darkness ahead. I followed her gaze but saw nothing unusual—just the same shadows and faint flickers of light from the occasional lantern.
"What is it?" I asked.
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she drew her sword, the faint hum of magic rippling through the air as the blade caught the dim light.
"Stay close," she said.
We continued down the alley, the tension mounting with every step. The city seemed to close in around us, its towering buildings leaning over the street like they were listening. I gripped the hilt of my sword, the warmth of the pendant against my chest the only thing keeping my nerves from unraveling.
Then I felt it—a faint ripple in the air, like the softest whisper against my skin.
"Lyra—" I started, but she was already moving.
A figure lunged from the shadows, its movements fast and precise. Lyra met it head-on, her sword flashing as she parried the attack. The clash of steel echoed through the alley, breaking the stillness like a thunderclap.
The figure retreated just as quickly, melting back into the shadows. It was followed by another, then another, their movements too fluid to be natural.
"Ambush," Lyra hissed, stepping back to position herself between me and the attackers.
I drew my own sword, the runes along its blade flickering faintly as I held it ready. "Who are they?"
"Doesn't matter," Lyra said. "Just focus."
The attackers moved in unison, their faces obscured by dark hoods. Their weapons gleamed in the dim light—short, curved blades designed for speed and precision. They didn't speak, but their movements were coordinated, like they shared a single mind.
One lunged at me, its blade cutting through the air with deadly intent. I blocked instinctively, the force of the impact jolting up my arm. My counterattack was clumsy, more instinct than technique, but it forced the figure to retreat.
Lyra, meanwhile, moved like a dancer, her blade weaving through the air as she deflected and struck in quick succession. One of the attackers fell, its body crumpling to the ground without a sound, but two more took its place.
"This isn't random," she said between strikes. "They're testing us."
"Testing us for what?" I asked, dodging another attack.
"To see if we're worth killing," she said grimly.
The fight dragged on, each clash of blades a reminder of how out of my depth I was. Lyra held her own, her movements fluid and precise, but I struggled to keep up. My strikes were wild, my defenses barely holding against the relentless assault.
Then, without warning, the attackers retreated. They melted back into the shadows as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving nothing but the faint hum of tension in their wake.
Lyra didn't lower her sword, her eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. "They're gone," she said finally, though her tone was far from relieved.
"What was that?" I asked, my breath ragged.
"A warning," she said.
"From who?"
She sheathed her sword, her expression dark. "We'll find out soon enough."
The rest of the journey to the inn was uneventful, though the weight of the ambush lingered heavily between us. The inn itself was small and unremarkable, its wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of ale and smoke. The innkeeper barely glanced at us as we entered, his attention focused on a ledger spread out on the counter.
"One room," Lyra said, sliding a few coins across the counter.
The innkeeper nodded, handing her a key without a word.
The room was small, with a single bed and a chair by the window. Lyra dropped her pack on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, her sword resting across her lap.
"You've been quiet," she said, glancing at me.
"Just thinking," I admitted, sitting in the chair. "About what happened back there."
"It's Ebonreach," she said simply. "This city doesn't let anyone walk through it untested."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we're not just outsiders—we're threats," she said. "To someone, at least. And they're not going to wait for us to figure out why."
Her words settled over me like a weight. The pendant at my chest pulsed faintly, a reminder of the danger we carried with us.
"And the Scholars' Quarter?" I asked. "You really think we'll find answers there?"
Lyra's gaze hardened. "If the Vanguard left any trace of their legacy, that's where it'll be. But getting in won't be easy."
"Why not?"
"Because the Scholars' Quarter isn't just a library—it's a fortress," she said. "And its doors only open for those who have the right connections."
"Then we make connections," I said firmly.
Lyra smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Easier said than done, Aric. But we'll figure it out. For now, get some rest. We'll need it."
As she settled back against the wall, her sword still within reach, I stared out the window, the city's shadows stretching endlessly into the night.
Ebonreach wasn't just a city of knowledge—it was a battlefield, and every step we took felt like walking deeper into enemy territory.