The morning sun barely pierced the misty streets of the town, casting the world in muted gray. Lyra adjusted the straps of her armor, its weight now familiar yet still strange—a constant reminder of the whispers trapped within. Emmy hugged her tightly before she left, her small arms clinging as though letting go might make Lyra disappear. "Be safe," Emmy whispered, her voice trembling with worry. Lyra kissed the top of her sister's head, masking her own nervousness with a confident smile.
The day's mission wasn't going to be easy—not because of the task itself, but because of what it might reveal. Her cover story was simple enough: exterminating a growing rat infestation in the sewers, a typical F-rank task. But Lyra's instincts, bolstered by the whispers and her growing suspicions about the organization, hinted at something deeper. A nagging unease settled in her stomach, but she knew she couldn't ignore it. With her dagger secured at her side and a pack of supplies strapped to her back, she left the inn and headed toward the adventurers' guild.
The receptionist barely looked up as Lyra approached the desk. The young woman, her tone as uninterested as her expression, slid the mission scroll across the counter. "The sewers are a maze," she said lazily, twirling a strand of hair. "Take enough torches so you don't get lost. Happens more than you'd think."
Lyra offered a polite nod and left quickly. She didn't like lingering at the guild. The crowded hall buzzed with chatter and scrutiny, and the weight of her recent rise to E-rank was enough to turn curious eyes her way. Though she had earned it, Lyra felt like a fraud. There was too much about her armor and her abilities she didn't understand, and the whispers inside seemed to amplify her unease.
The rain started as a light drizzle when she reached the sewer entrance, quickly escalating into a steady downpour. Lyra pulled her hood tight and lit a torch, descending the slick, moss-covered steps. The stink hit her first—thick and cloying, a mix of rot, mildew, and decay. She gagged slightly but pressed on, her boots splashing through shallow puddles as she moved deeper into the tunnels.
The air grew colder with every step, the dampness clinging to her skin like an unwelcome touch. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering and shifting with the torchlight. Lyra tightened her grip on the handle, her other hand hovering near her dagger. The whispers stirred faintly in her armor, a low murmur at the edge of her mind, but they felt muted, restrained. It was as if they were waiting.
"Not now," she muttered under her breath, shaking off their pull. "I can handle this."
The first hour was uneventful, and Lyra found herself almost relaxing. She dispatched a handful of rats with ease, their shrill squeaks silenced by her dagger's swift strikes. The work was dirty and tedious, but no more than what she'd expected from the mission. Yet, as she ventured further into the labyrinth of tunnels, the air grew heavier, the silence pressing against her like a physical weight.
That was when she noticed the scratches.
Long, jagged marks marred the stone walls, deep grooves that could only have been made by something with claws—and something much larger than a rat. Lyra knelt to examine them, running her fingers along the rough edges. They were uneven, almost desperate, as if the creature had been in a frenzy. A faint shiver crawled up her spine. Whatever made these marks wasn't just strong; it was violent.
She stood and scanned the area, her torchlight revealing little beyond the immediate gloom. Her ears strained for any sound beyond the steady drip of water and the occasional scurrying of unseen vermin. The whispers in her armor shifted, their tones growing more insistent, more urgent. They weren't words exactly, but impressions—danger, caution, fear.
"What is it?" she whispered to herself, glancing around nervously. The marks weren't the only thing out of place. There were other signs too: patches of matted fur snagged on jagged stones, scattered bones stripped clean, and, most disturbing of all, a trail of drag marks leading deeper into the tunnels. Lyra's heart quickened. This wasn't a normal infestation.
For a moment, she considered turning back. Reporting what she'd found to the guild might be the safer option. But then she thought of Emmy, of the organization's shadow over the town, and of the countless unanswered questions haunting her steps. If there was even a chance this could lead to something important, she had to press on.
Her father's voice echoed in her memory as she moved deeper into the sewers. "The shadows hide more than monsters, Lyra. They hide secrets best left undisturbed." He had always spoken with a quiet authority, a steady presence she had taken for granted. Now, his words felt more like a warning than wisdom.
She shook her head, focusing on the path ahead. Dwelling on the past wouldn't help her now. The whispers surged suddenly, louder and sharper, cutting through her thoughts. She froze, her torchlight flickering against the damp walls. The air seemed to vibrate, a low rumble building from somewhere deep within the tunnels.
And then she heard it: a growl, low and guttural, accompanied by the scrape of claws against stone.
Her blood ran cold as a shape emerged from the darkness. At first, it was little more than a shadow, but as it moved closer, the torchlight illuminated its grotesque form. The creature was massive, its matted fur slick with grime and its glowing yellow eyes fixed on her with predatory intensity. Its limbs were elongated and twisted, each clawed paw scraping against the stone with an unnatural gait. This was no ordinary beast. It moved like a nightmare, its presence filling the tunnel with a suffocating dread.
Lyra's instincts screamed at her to run, but she forced herself to stand her ground. She dropped the torch, plunging the tunnel into near-darkness, but the whispers in her armor surged, sharpening her senses. She didn't need light to see—not entirely. The whispers guided her movements, filling her with a strange clarity as the beast lunged.
She sidestepped just in time, the creature's claws raking the air where she had stood moments before. Her dagger flashed as she struck, but the blade barely pierced the creature's thick hide. It snarled, whirling around with terrifying speed. Lyra stumbled back, her heart hammering in her chest.
The whispers pushed harder, urging her to strike again, to embrace their power fully. But she resisted, gripping the dagger tightly as she searched for an opening. This wasn't a fight she could win through brute force. She needed to think, to find a weakness.
The creature lunged again, and Lyra dove to the side, rolling across the wet stone. Her free hand found the fallen torch, and she swung it wildly, the flames hissing as they caught the beast's fur. The creature roared, thrashing violently as it retreated. Lyra didn't waste the opportunity. She scrambled to her feet, her mind racing.
"Think, Lyra, think," she muttered under her breath, her eyes darting around the tunnel. The whispers continued their relentless pull, their tones desperate and insistent. She couldn't afford to give in, not here, not now.
The battle raged on, a brutal dance of dodges and strikes, each moment pushing Lyra closer to her limits. Finally, she saw her chance. The creature lunged, its massive jaws snapping inches from her face, and Lyra drove her dagger into its exposed neck. The blade sank deep, and the beast let out a guttural howl before collapsing in a heap.
Lyra stumbled back, her chest heaving. Her arms ached, her legs trembled, and the whispers in her armor were louder than ever, their hunger almost overwhelming. She forced them down, silencing their chorus with sheer willpower. The fight was over, but the cost lingered.
As she stared at the fallen creature, a single thought burned in her mind: What was it doing here?
She knelt beside the beast, examining its twisted form. Its unnatural shape, its glowing eyes—none of it made sense. This wasn't just a mutated animal; it was something far more sinister. The organization's reach, she realized, might extend even deeper than she feared.
Lyra stood, her exhaustion mingling with a growing sense of dread. She needed answers, but for now, she needed to leave. The whispers in her armor hummed faintly, their hunger sated for the moment. With one last glance at the fallen beast, she turned and began the long trek back to the surface, the weight of the encounter pressing heavily on her shoulders.