The adventurer's guild in Ashmore was quieter than Lyra had expected. It was a far cry from the bustling guildhall she was used to in her hometown, where boisterous adventurers shared tales of their exploits over mugs of ale. Here, the atmosphere was subdued, almost cautious, as if the shadow of the nearby forest loomed over the townsfolk even indoors.
Lyra stood before the quest board, scanning the parchment notices pinned haphazardly across its surface. Most were routine: calls for hunters to cull wild beasts encroaching on farmland, requests for materials from the forest, and the occasional escort mission. But one stood out—a plea to clear a cave believed to be haunted.
According to the notice, strange sounds and sensations had driven hunters and woodcutters away from the area. The villagers claimed it was cursed, but the guild classified it as a low-threat anomaly. An adventurer capable of handling themselves against E-rank threats could manage it. The reward wasn't large, but Lyra didn't hesitate.
"Clearing out ghosts, huh?" the guild clerk had said when she handed in the signed quest slip. "Brave of you. Most won't go near that place."
"Just stories," Lyra replied with a shrug, though the unease in the air told her it might be more than that.
Still, she couldn't ignore the chance to learn more about her abilities. If whispers of the dead were truly tied to her armor, then dealing with restless spirits seemed like an opportunity—albeit a daunting one.
The clerk had warned her to be cautious, handing her a small token to mark her as the quest-taker and a rudimentary map to guide her to the cave. Now, as she stood at its entrance, she wondered if she had underestimated the task.
The cave was nothing remarkable at first glance—a dark maw in the hillside surrounded by creeping moss and lichen. But as Lyra approached, the air grew heavy, almost suffocating, and a chill ran down her spine. It felt as though the cave itself was watching her, waiting for her to enter.
She drew her sword and adjusted her lantern. This was no time for second thoughts.
The villagers' tales of wailing cries and shifting shadows echoed in her mind as she stepped into the darkness.
Lyra's footsteps echoed in the stillness as she ventured deeper into the cave, the flickering lantern casting long shadows on the uneven walls. The air was thick with moisture, the scent of earth and mildew heavy around her. It felt colder here, the temperature dropping noticeably with each step she took, and the deeper she went, the more suffocating the atmosphere became. The whispers in her armor were faint at first, a soft hum that seemed to resonate with the cave's chill, but the further she moved, the louder the whispers grew—though still indistinct, like murmurs in a crowd just out of reach.
The tunnel twisted and turned, each bend offering only more darkness. Lyra kept her sword ready, her grip firm and steady, as she made her way through the winding path. She had been warned by the guild clerk that the cave was thought to be cursed. Local hunters had given it a wide berth, and the few who had dared to venture in reported strange sensations—uneasy, unsettling, but nothing concrete.
Yet something here felt different. The air felt alive in a way she couldn't quite explain, heavy with expectation. The further she pressed, the more oppressive the feeling became, like she was not just walking through stone and dirt but through something more tangible, something that clung to her with invisible hands.
As Lyra turned another corner, the sound of soft, distant murmurs reached her ears—voices, low and indistinct. She halted, holding her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. The voices weren't just whispers in her armor this time. No, these were real. Real voices—ghostly, but distinct.
She took a cautious step forward, her lantern light quivering in her grasp as if it too could sense the presence in the air. A low sigh filled the cave, followed by another whisper, this one clearer than before. It was a woman's voice, soft and pleading.
"Help…"
Lyra stiffened, her heart racing. She wasn't sure if the voice was a trick of the cave, but something about it felt genuine, the raw sorrow in it unmistakable. She moved closer, each step deliberate, trying not to disturb the fragile silence that seemed to settle around her. The voices were becoming louder now, rising and falling in a rhythm, but always quiet—like a chant, a sorrowful song from long ago.
As she rounded a bend in the path, the figure of a spirit slowly materialized before her. The apparition was faint at first, barely a shimmer in the air, but as Lyra approached, it grew clearer. A woman, dressed in tattered robes, her face gaunt and hollow, the eyes sunken as if hollowed out by grief.
"Who are you?" Lyra asked, her voice a murmur as she took another step forward.
The woman's form flickered like a dying candle flame, and her hand slowly rose, pointing deeper into the cave, into the shadows that seemed to twist and writhe unnaturally.
"Help…" the spirit's voice echoed again, barely more than a whisper. "Find… the peace."
Lyra's chest tightened as the words settled in. She didn't know if this was a spirit lost to time or something more recent, but she knew she couldn't just leave it like this. It was clear the spirit sought help, but for what? And what did she mean by "peace"?
Taking a cautious breath, Lyra extended her hand toward the spirit, but the woman recoiled as if in pain, her form flickering violently before she disappeared, leaving only an empty space where she had been.
"Damn…" Lyra muttered under her breath, frustration mounting. The whispers in her armor rose again, this time louder, more insistent, but she couldn't make sense of them. The spirit's sorrow seemed to have infected the very air around her, and Lyra knew that she wasn't just dealing with some mindless ghost. This was something more—a plea, a cry for release that echoed through the cave.
The whispers in her armor pulsed with urgency, and Lyra instinctively drew her sword, scanning the shadows warily. She was about to move forward when the sound of soft footsteps behind her made her freeze.
Lyra spun, her sword raised in an instant, but there was nothing there—nothing but the stillness of the cave. But she could feel it now—a presence, just out of sight, pressing in from the darkness.
A shadow flickered at the edge of her lantern's light, and in a split second, a form emerged—another ghost, but this time, it was a man. His face was twisted in agony, his eyes locked on Lyra, filled with a sorrow so deep that it made her heart ache.
"Leave…" the man's voice was raspy, barely audible. "You shouldn't be here."
The words were followed by a pulse of energy that rippled through the air, and Lyra instinctively stepped back. The spirit's energy—its sorrow—was palpable, and she felt the chill of it invade her very bones. This wasn't just a ghost wandering aimlessly. This was a being in torment, a spirit that had not found its way to peace.
Lyra lowered her sword, her pulse steadying as she took in the apparition. "I can help you," she said softly, unsure if the spirit could hear her, but trying to reach through to it.
The spirit's eyes flickered, a glimmer of recognition passing through them. "You…" he whispered. "You can't help."
She took a step closer, this time careful not to provoke the spirit. "I can. Tell me what happened to you."
But the spirit was already fading, his form dissipating like smoke in the air, leaving only the faintest trace of his sorrow.
Lyra felt an overwhelming surge of helplessness wash over her as the last of the ghost's form vanished into the shadows. The whispers in her armor seemed to echo in time with her own heartbeat, low and almost pleading. But she wasn't sure who or what they were pleading to—herself or the spirits she had encountered.
She glanced down at her sword, the familiar weight of it offering some comfort. The whispers had become more intense after the encounter. This was different from anything she had experienced before. This wasn't simply a matter of fending off spirits or dispatching them. These were souls that were asking for something—something she wasn't sure she could provide.
"Maybe… maybe I can help," Lyra muttered to herself. The words felt almost like a promise.
Her gaze flickered to the narrow passage ahead. The journey had only just begun.