The man chuckled, the sound low and menacing. "Just a messenger. But the message I carry is one you won't like."
Without warning, the man lunged. Dorian barely had time to draw his sword and block the attack. The clash of metal echoed through the ruins as sparks flew between them.
Elara watched in horror, her mind racing. She wanted to help, but she didn't know how. Her fingers brushed against the small dagger hidden in her belt, but fear kept her rooted in place.
"Run!" Dorian shouted as he parried another blow.
Elara hesitated, torn between obeying and staying to help. But before she could decide, another figure appeared behind her, grabbing her arm and pulling her back.
She twisted, her dagger flashing in the dim light as she slashed at her attacker. The man cursed, releasing her just long enough for her to slip free.
"Elara, go!" Dorian shouted again, his voice desperate.
This time, she didn't argue. She turned and ran, her heart pounding in her chest as the sounds of the fight grew fainter behind her.
When she finally stopped, she was in a part of the ruins she didn't recognize. The air was colder here, and the shadows seemed deeper.
"Elara…"
She froze, her blood turning to ice. The voice was faint but unmistakable. It was the same voice she'd heard before, whispering her name in the darkness.
"Elara…"
She turned slowly, her eyes searching the shadows. "Who's there?"
There was no answer, only silence. But the feeling of being watched was overwhelming.
She took a step back, her hand gripping her dagger tightly. "Show yourself!"
The silence stretched on, and just when she thought she might be imagining it, a figure stepped into the faint light.
It was a woman, her face obscured by a veil, but there was something hauntingly familiar about her presence.
"Elara," the woman said, her voice soft and melodic. "You've come so far, but you're not ready for what lies ahead."
Elara's heart raced as she took another step back. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"
The woman tilted her head, her veil shifting slightly to reveal a faint smile. "The same thing you want, child. The truth."
Before Elara could respond, the ground beneath her feet cracked, and she felt herself falling.
Dante stood in the shadows of the ancient library, his eyes scanning the darkened shelves as his thoughts churned. Every whisper in his mind had led him here, but something gnawed at the edges of his resolve. The flickering flame from a nearby candelabra cast fleeting shadows on the stone walls, but it did little to comfort him.
Marcus entered silently, his presence only confirmed by the soft creak of the door. "You've been waiting too long," he remarked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dante didn't look up. His hands gripped the edges of an old tome on the table. It was a book that had belonged to his parents, a relic of the past that had only ever been opened once before. He hadn't been able to bring himself to read it until now. The weight of his decision was heavy, pressing against his chest. But the voice, Elara's voice, had led him here—led him back to a past he had tried to bury.
"You think this will change anything?" Dante's voice was hoarse, filled with bitterness.
Marcus stepped closer, his movements measured. "You sought answers, Dante. Now you've found them. There's no turning back."
The sound of footsteps echoed outside the door, slow and deliberate, like a warning. Dante's grip on the book tightened. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He could feel her presence in his bones.
"Elara," he breathed, his voice barely audible. He hadn't realized how much he had been waiting for her—how much her return had shifted everything.
The door creaked open, and she stepped into the room, her presence as commanding as ever. Her eyes, still unfamiliar and distant, locked onto his. The air between them crackled, the tension palpable, but it was more than just the animosity between them. It was something deeper, something that neither of them fully understood.
"You've come for answers, but what if the truth is worse than the lie?" Elara's voice held an edge of warning.
Dante finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I'm not afraid of the truth."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "No, you never were."
There was a moment of silence, and then she stepped closer, her every movement deliberate. "But you don't understand what you've awakened. You never should have called me back."
He stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. "You think I didn't know what I was doing?"
Her eyes softened for a brief second before hardening again. "You have no idea what you've unleashed, Dante. The past is not something you can control."
He stepped toward her, his voice low and challenging. "Then tell me, Elara. What exactly did I unleash?"
Before she could answer, a deafening crash from the floor above shook the room. A cold gust of wind swept through the library, extinguishing the flames. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the weight of something about to explode.
Dante's instincts kicked in. "We need to move. Now."
Elara didn't flinch, but she gave him a brief nod. Without another word, she turned toward the door. The shadow that lingered in the corners of the room felt heavier than ever before, as if something dark was closing in on them.
They moved swiftly through the halls, their footsteps echoing in the silence. The tension between them was undeniable, but neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The truth was close, and they could both feel it.
As they reached the stairwell, the cold air intensified, and a chilling laugh echoed through the stone walls. A figure emerged from the shadows—a man cloaked in darkness, his face hidden beneath a hood. His presence seemed to drain the very light from the room.
"Well, well," the man's voice was low and mocking, "If it isn't the prodigal son, back from the dead."
Dante's heart skipped a beat. The figure before him was someone he had hoped never to see again.
"Ronan," Dante growled, his voice filled with venom.