The air was thick with humidity as Lyra ventured into the forest outskirts the next morning. The sun struggled to pierce through the dense canopy, leaving the path ahead dappled with shifting shadows. Her sword hung at her hip, and her patched-up cloak was draped over her shoulders. Emmy had pouted at being left behind at the inn, but Lyra had promised to return before sunset.
The task today was straightforward: gather medicinal herbs for a local apothecary. It was a simple, low-paying job, but it kept food on the table and gave her time to clear her thoughts. Lyra welcomed the quiet of the forest, far removed from the noise of the town—and the whispers in her armor.
But the quiet didn't last.
The moment she stepped into the deeper woods, the whispers began again, soft at first, like the rustling of leaves. Lyra paused, her hand resting on her sword. She scanned the area, her senses on high alert. The forest felt different here, heavier, as if the very air carried a burden.
She took a cautious step forward. The whispers grew louder, distinct words forming in the back of her mind.
Help… find me…
Lyra's heart skipped a beat. She'd heard whispers during battles, felt their guidance, but this was different. These voices weren't coming from her armor—they were coming from the woods themselves.
She crouched low, peering into the shadows. The trees seemed to lean closer, their branches like skeletal fingers. Ahead, a faint, flickering light danced among the trunks. It wasn't the warm glow of sunlight but something cold, ethereal.
Her instincts screamed to turn back, but the whispers compelled her forward. Clutching her necklace for courage, Lyra stepped off the path, her boots crunching on the underbrush. The light drew her deeper, its glow growing stronger until she emerged into a small clearing.
In the center stood a weathered gravestone, its surface covered in moss. The light emanated from a figure kneeling beside it—a translucent form, pale and shimmering. Lyra froze, her breath caught in her throat.
It was a spirit, its shape vaguely human but insubstantial, as if a strong wind could blow it away. The figure raised its head, empty eyes locking onto hers. The whispers surged in her mind, louder now, filled with sorrow and desperation.
"Who are you?" Lyra asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to stay calm.
The spirit didn't answer, but the whispers shifted, forming a single phrase: They left me here… forgotten…
Lyra's hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. "What happened to you?"
The spirit's form flickered, its outline fading in and out. Another rush of whispers filled her mind, fractured images flashing before her eyes: a man with a sword cutting down the spirit's body, the figure being dragged into the woods, its grave hastily dug and abandoned.
The emotions hit her like a wave—anger, grief, a yearning for justice. Lyra staggered back, clutching her head. The spirit drifted closer, its form solidifying slightly as the whispers grew insistent.
"You want me to avenge you," Lyra said, piecing the fragments together. Her voice steadied as she added, "That's why you're still here."
The spirit nodded, its movements slow and deliberate. Lyra felt the weight of its plea settle on her shoulders. She didn't know how or why she could communicate with it, but the connection was undeniable.
"Fine," she said, her jaw set. "Tell me who did this."
The spirit extended a hand, its fingers almost brushing against her armor. A new image appeared in her mind—this time, clearer. It showed a man with a scar across his cheek, a sneer on his lips as he stood in a dimly lit tavern. The vision lingered, the details seared into her memory.
Lyra exhaled shakily. "I'll find him."
The spirit seemed to relax, its form dimming slightly. The whispers softened, their tone more subdued. Lyra took a step back, the forest returning to its oppressive silence as the spirit faded away completely.
She stood alone in the clearing, the gravestone her only companion. The whispers in her armor remained quiet, almost as if they were respecting the spirit's departure.
"Great," Lyra muttered to herself. "Now I'm taking orders from ghosts."
Still, she couldn't ignore the pull of the task. She left the clearing, her steps quicker than before as she retraced her way back to the path. The image of the scarred man burned in her mind, his sneer a challenge she couldn't ignore.
By the time she returned to town, the sun was dipping low on the horizon. Lyra dropped off the herbs at the apothecary, earning a few coins and a polite nod of thanks. Her thoughts, however, were elsewhere.
Back at the inn, Emmy greeted her with a tight hug, her earlier pout forgotten. Lyra hugged her back, savoring the comfort her sister always brought. But even as Emmy chattered about her day, Lyra's mind drifted to the task ahead.
That night, after Emmy had fallen asleep, Lyra sat by the window, her armor laid out on the table. She ran her fingers over its dark surface, the whispers barely audible now.
"Why me?" she whispered, her voice barely louder than the murmurs.
The armor didn't answer, but she felt its presence, steady and waiting. Whatever power the whispers held, it had chosen her for a reason. The question was whether she had the strength to bear it.
With a deep breath, Lyra stood and began sharpening her sword. Tomorrow, she would visit the tavern. She didn't know what she'd find, but one thing was certain—she wouldn't rest until she fulfilled her promise to the forgotten spirit.