The room was quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the wooden chair as Lyra leaned back, staring at the obsidian shard on the table before her. Its surface shimmered faintly, reflecting dim candlelight in jagged patterns. Though it looked like an ordinary piece of rock at first glance, Lyra could feel the unnatural energy radiating from it—a cold, oppressive presence that made her stomach churn.
The whispers in her armor had been more erratic since she'd taken it. Normally a muted hum, they now flared unpredictably, fragments of unintelligible words scratching at the edges of her mind. Sometimes the whispers brought clarity or focus during a task, but now they seemed to feed on her unease.
Lyra clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm. I can't lose control. Not now. Not ever.
"Lyra?" Emmy's soft voice broke through the silence. The girl was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her wide eyes fixed on her sister. "You've been staring at that thing for a long time. Are you okay?"
Lyra forced a smile and slipped the shard into her pouch. "I'm fine, Em. Just… thinking about stuff."
Emmy didn't look convinced, but she didn't press further. Instead, she crawled across the bed and wrapped her arms around Lyra's waist. "You're always thinking too much. You'll get wrinkles."
Lyra chuckled despite herself and ruffled Emmy's hair. "I'll try to avoid that."
The hug was grounding, a small moment of warmth that helped push the whispers to the background. Lyra held her sister close, silently vowing to keep her safe no matter the cost.
Later that day, Lyra took on a task patrolling the outskirts of the town. It was a routine job—an easy way to earn a few coins while keeping an eye on the less-traveled roads. She'd told Emmy to stay at the inn, warning her to lock the door and not open it for anyone.
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the dirt path. Lyra's steps were measured, her senses sharp. She'd learned to be cautious during these jobs. Bandits often preyed on solitary adventurers, and she couldn't afford to let her guard down.
The whispers stirred as she passed a dense thicket, faintly urging her to stop. Lyra hesitated, her hand moving instinctively to the hilt of her sword.
A moment later, a trio of figures emerged from the shadows of the trees. They were rough-looking men, their mismatched armor and leering expressions marking them as bandits.
"Well, well," the leader drawled, his greasy hair falling into his eyes. "Look what we have here. A little bird all on her own."
Lyra's grip on her sword tightened. "I'm just passing through. Leave me alone, and I won't bother you."
The man laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Oh, I don't think so. You've got coin, don't you? And maybe a few other things we'd like."
The whispers surged, their tones sharp and insistent. Fight. Protect. Destroy.
Lyra drew her blade in one fluid motion, her expression cold. "You don't want to do this."
The bandits didn't heed her warning. The leader lunged first, his rusty dagger aimed at her chest. Lyra sidestepped, her sword slicing through his arm with a precision that startled even her. He screamed, dropping his weapon and clutching the bleeding stump.
The other two bandits hesitated, but only for a moment. They rushed her simultaneously, one swinging a club while the other brandished a short sword. Lyra ducked under the club, her blade flashing as she slashed at the man's leg. He collapsed with a grunt, clutching his thigh as blood pooled beneath him.
The last bandit hesitated, his confidence faltering. Lyra's gaze locked onto his, her armor thrumming with an almost predatory energy.
"Run," she said, her voice low and dangerous.
The man didn't need to be told twice. He turned and fled into the woods, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Lyra stood amidst the carnage, her chest heaving. The whispers in her armor were a cacophony now, fragments of voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony. For a moment, she felt a surge of satisfaction, a dark thrill at her victory. But as the adrenaline faded, so did the whispers, leaving behind a hollow ache in her chest.
She looked down at the fallen bandits. The leader was still alive, moaning softly as he clutched his mangled arm. Lyra sheathed her sword and walked away without a word.
By the time Lyra returned to the inn, it was well past sunset. Emmy greeted her with a bright smile, oblivious to the weight Lyra carried.
"Did you finish your job?" Emmy asked, bouncing on her toes.
"Yeah," Lyra said, forcing a smile. "It was nothing exciting. Just some walking."
Emmy tilted her head, her expression curious but not suspicious. "Well, I'm glad you're back! I saved you some bread."
Lyra accepted the small loaf with a grateful nod. As she sat down to eat, Emmy began chattering about the games she'd played while waiting, her voice a comforting backdrop.
But Lyra's mind was elsewhere. She replayed the fight in her head, the whispers, the thrill of the kill. Was this who she was becoming? Someone who thrived on violence and fear?
She glanced at Emmy, her sister's cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to her own turmoil. No. She couldn't let herself fall into the darkness. For Emmy's sake, she had to stay in control.
That night, Lyra sat by the window, the obsidian shard in her hands. The whispers had quieted, but their presence lingered like a shadow at the edge of her thoughts.
She held up her mother's necklace, letting the moonlight catch on its delicate chain. The familiar warmth of the charm soothed her, a reminder of the woman who had always been her guiding star.
"I won't lose myself," Lyra whispered to the night. "No matter what, I'll stay me."
The shard pulsed faintly in her hand, as if acknowledging her vow. Lyra stared at it for a long moment before tucking it back into her pouch. She didn't have all the answers yet, but she knew one thing for certain: she would protect Emmy, no matter the cost.
And if that meant walking the line between light and shadow, so be it.