The inn was quiet, save for the faint creaks of settling wood and the distant murmurs of other guests. Lyra sat in the dark, her chair pulled close to the window, where the faint glow of a streetlamp barely touched the edges of her room. The shard of obsidian she had taken from the shadow entity rested on the table before her, its surface glinting faintly in the dim light. She hadn't told Emmy about it yet; she didn't want to worry her sister.
Her fingers brushed the shard's surface, and the whispers in her armor stirred faintly, a soft hum in the back of her mind. They weren't speaking clearly, more like murmuring, as though even they were unsure of the object's nature.
What am I holding? Lyra thought to herself. The shard felt cold, almost unnaturally so, and the faint patterns etched into it seemed to shift when viewed from the corner of her eye. It was unnerving, yet she couldn't bring herself to discard it. It was connected to the shadows somehow, and she needed answers.
As dawn crept through the window, Emmy stirred in her bed. Lyra turned to watch her sister wake, the way she stretched and rubbed her eyes in a gesture so innocent it almost made Lyra forget the dangers looming over them.
"Morning, Lyra," Emmy said sleepily, her voice soft and warm.
"Morning, Em," Lyra replied, smiling despite the weight in her chest. She rose from her chair and ruffled Emmy's hair as she passed. "I'll grab us some breakfast. Stay here and don't open the door for anyone, okay?"
Emmy nodded, sitting up and wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like a cocoon. "Be careful."
"I always am," Lyra said, though the words felt hollow. She slipped the shard into her pouch, checked her sword, and headed downstairs.
The common room of the inn was sparsely populated, with a handful of travelers nursing their morning tea or poring over maps. Lyra kept her head down as she approached the counter, exchanging a few coins for a modest meal. She noticed a pair of adventurers at a nearby table discussing a contract—something about a missing merchant caravan.
Her ears perked up at the mention of an attack. "Tracks were weird," one of them said, his voice low. "Like something big dragged itself through the woods."
A chill ran down Lyra's spine. She didn't linger to eavesdrop; she didn't need to draw attention to herself. Instead, she returned to her room with the food and began strategizing her next move.
Later that day, Lyra ventured into town, Emmy's laughter still ringing in her ears from their shared breakfast. It was a reminder of what she was fighting for, why she couldn't falter. The obsidian shard weighed heavily in her pouch as she navigated the crowded streets.
She stopped at a market stall, feigning interest in the wares while subtly listening to the conversations around her. The whispers in her armor buzzed faintly, as if urging her to remain vigilant. Bits of gossip floated past her ears—rumors of strange disappearances, sightings of unusual beasts, and talk of a growing unease among the townsfolk.
One conversation caught her attention. A cloaked figure spoke in hushed tones to a merchant, the two of them exchanging glances as if wary of being overheard.
"It's getting worse," the cloaked figure said. "They're spreading further. If the guard doesn't act soon—"
"They won't," the merchant interrupted, his voice bitter. "Too many of them are in their pockets. The rest are too scared."
Lyra felt her pulse quicken. Them. The organization, no doubt. She casually moved closer, pretending to examine a display of herbs.
"They say the shadows are protecting someone," the cloaked figure continued. "But who would—"
The merchant silenced him with a sharp glare, his eyes darting around. Lyra quickly moved away, blending into the crowd before they could notice her.
As the sun dipped low, Lyra found herself on the edge of town, standing before the entrance to a dilapidated chapel. The whispers in her armor were louder here, an eerie symphony of warning and curiosity. The building was abandoned, its windows shattered and its doors hanging askew. Vines crept along the stone walls, reclaiming the structure for nature.
She pushed open the door, her sword drawn, and stepped inside. The air was thick with dust and decay, but there was something else—an undercurrent of energy that made her skin crawl.
The whispers guided her to the altar, where a faded tapestry hung loosely from the wall. The image it depicted was strange: a figure cloaked in darkness, holding a thread that extended into a swirl of stars.
As Lyra reached out to touch it, the obsidian shard in her pouch grew cold, sending a sharp jolt through her hand. She pulled back, her heart racing. The whispers in her armor grew frantic, their tones almost pleading.
"What is this place?" she murmured, scanning the room for answers.
The tapestry stirred as if caught in an unseen breeze. A faint voice echoed through the chapel, barely audible over the whispers.
"Beware… the threads."
Lyra's blood ran cold. The voice was not one of her whispers; it was something else entirely. She backed away, her sword raised, but nothing emerged from the shadows.
She left the chapel with more questions than answers, the shard in her pouch now feeling like a burden. The tapestry's warning echoed in her mind as she made her way back to the inn. The threads. Could it have been referring to her armor? The whispers? Or was it something larger?
When she returned to her room, Emmy greeted her with a bright smile, oblivious to the weight Lyra carried. For a moment, Lyra set aside her fears and let herself enjoy her sister's presence. They played a simple game with stones Emmy had found, their laughter filling the room.
But even as she smiled, Lyra couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows were closing in. The shard, the whispers, the organization—they were all threads in a larger tapestry, one she was only beginning to unravel.
That night, as Emmy slept, Lyra sat by the window again, her hand resting on the shard. The whispers in her armor were quiet now, their tones subdued as if reflecting her own exhaustion. She stared out at the town, the faint glow of lanterns dotting the streets.
"I won't stop," she whispered to the night. "No matter how dark it gets."
The shard pulsed faintly in her hand, as if in response. Lyra's grip tightened, her resolve hardening. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it head-on. For Emmy, for her parents, for herself.
The darkness would not break her.