Lyra stumbled as the world around her dissolved into shadow. The garden, the mirror, even Caelan's sharp gaze vanished, replaced by a cold, suffocating void. The air hummed with power, ancient and untamed. She felt like she was falling, though the ground stayed solid beneath her feet.
"Lyra," Caelan's voice cut through the dark like a blade, calm but commanding. "Don't panic."
"Don't panic?" she snapped, her voice trembling. "I'm standing in nothingness with you and some malevolent shadow whispering about my fate. Tell me again how I'm supposed to stay calm!"
A faint glimmer appeared ahead of her, a thread of light that grew brighter with every step she took toward it. Caelan's silhouette emerged, his presence as steady as a monument. He wasn't looking at her, though. His attention was fixed on the light.
"It's showing us something," he said, more to himself than to her.
Lyra approached reluctantly, every instinct screaming to run. But where would she go? The void was endless, and the only anchor in this madness was Caelan.
The light unraveled like a tapestry, revealing a vision. A vast throne room came into view, its walls lined with shimmering obsidian. In the center of the room stood a throne carved from black stone, vines of thorns twisting around it. A figure sat on the throne, its face obscured by shadow, but Lyra could feel its power—a dark, suffocating force that pressed against her chest.
"That's it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "That's the curse, isn't it?"
Caelan stepped forward, his sword in hand, though he didn't raise it. "It's not just the curse," he said, his voice low and measured. "It's the one who bound it here."
The vision shifted, and Lyra saw the figure rise, its form twisting like smoke. Before the throne, a woman stood—Elara. The resemblance was unmistakable now. Lyra's breath caught as she watched Elara reach out, her hands glowing with a golden light. But the shadow on the throne lashed out, consuming her.
The vision froze, the golden glow snuffed out. Then, slowly, the shadow turned its eyeless gaze toward Lyra.
"You're next," it hissed, its voice cutting into her like shards of ice.
Lyra stumbled back, the void around them trembling. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm not her. I won't end up like her."
"You don't have a choice," the shadow said.
"Enough." Caelan's voice boomed through the void, silencing the whispering shadows. He turned to Lyra, his face a mask of control, though his eyes held a flicker of something she couldn't name—determination, or perhaps desperation. "We're leaving."
The void pulsed around them, the vision dissolving into nothing. For a moment, Lyra thought they might be trapped here forever. Then, with a sharp motion, Caelan slammed his sword into the ground. The void split, and light spilled through the cracks.
Lyra blinked against the brightness as they were pulled back into the Hall of Glass. The room was still trembling, the mirrors fractured but intact. She fell to her knees, her breath coming in gasps.
"What the hell was that?" she demanded, looking up at Caelan.
He sheathed his sword, his movements precise and controlled. "The truth," he said simply.
Lyra pushed herself to her feet, her hands shaking. "That thing… it said I'm next. What does that mean?"
Caelan didn't answer right away. He turned to one of the larger mirrors, his expression unreadable. "It means the curse recognizes you," he said finally. "And it's afraid."
"Afraid of me?" Lyra let out a bitter laugh. "I can barely figure out what's happening, let alone fight something like that."
"You don't need to understand everything yet," Caelan said, his tone sharper now. "But you need to be ready."
"For what?" she asked, her frustration boiling over. "To die like Elara? To fail like she did?"
Caelan's gaze snapped to her, icy and unyielding. "To survive."
Before Lyra could argue, the door to the Hall creaked open. Eryss slithered in, her black scales glinting faintly in the dim light.
"Well, that looked like fun," the snake said, her voice dry and full of sarcasm. "Did you find what you were looking for, or are we still pretending this isn't a disaster waiting to happen?"
Caelan ignored her, but Lyra crossed her arms. "You knew, didn't you?" she accused the snake. "You knew what was in the mirrors."
Eryss tilted her head, feigning innocence. "I might have had an inkling," she said. "But where's the excitement in spoiling the surprise?"
Lyra glared at her, but the snake only chuckled. "Don't worry, darling. You'll get used to the doom and gloom eventually. Or you'll die. Either way, problem solved."
"That's enough, Eryss," Caelan said sharply.
The snake sighed. "Fine. But you might want to speed things along, Caelan. She's not exactly radiating confidence, and you know what's coming."
Caelan ignored her and turned back to Lyra. "There's something else you need to see," he said.
Lyra groaned. "I think I've seen enough for one night."
"No," he said firmly. "You haven't."
Reluctantly, Lyra followed him out of the Hall, her dress whispering against the cold stone floor. Eryss slithered behind them, her sharp commentary thankfully muted for the moment.
They climbed a spiraling staircase that seemed to go on forever, the air growing colder with every step. Finally, they reached a circular chamber at the top of one of the castle's tallest towers.
In the center of the room stood a large glass case, its surface frosted with ice. Inside was an ancient book, its leather cover cracked and worn.
"The Prophecy," Caelan said, his voice low.
Lyra stepped closer, her breath fogging the glass. The book's pages were open, revealing an intricate illustration of a woman in a white dress, surrounded by roses. Her face was identical to Lyra's.
"What does it say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Caelan hesitated, his expression unreadable. "It says the one who breaks the curse will either save the castle… or destroy it."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over her.
Lyra reached out to touch the glass, but Caelan grabbed her wrist, his grip firm. "Don't," he warned.
"Why not?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Because once you start," he said, his eyes locking onto hers, "there's no turning back."
The frost on the glass began to melt, the ice retreating as though drawn to her presence. Lyra's reflection flickered, shifting to something she didn't recognize.
And then, the faintest sound—a whisper, so quiet she almost missed it.
"She awakens."