Meanwhile, Lyra found herself in a completely different part of the chamber, surrounded by shifting walls and eerie silence. Her instincts screamed at her to move, but every path seemed to lead in circles. The glyphs on the walls seemed alive, twisting and rearranging themselves as she passed.
"Kallan! Cyrus!" she shouted, her voice echoing endlessly. "Where are you?"
A faint laugh echoed in response, cold and mocking. Lyra spun around, dagger at the ready, but there was no one there.
"You cannot save him," a voice whispered, soft yet menacing. "His fate is already written."
"Says who?" she snapped, gripping her weapon tighter. "I don't believe in fate."
The glyphs flared, and a figure stepped out of the shadows—a younger version of herself. The doppelgänger smirked, mirroring Lyra's stance. "You should," it said. "After all, it was fate that left you alone, wasn't it?"
Lyra clenched her jaw. "You're not real."
"Real enough," the figure replied, advancing. "Tell me, Lyra—if you could rewrite your past, would you? Would you give up your pain to save yourself?"
Lyra hesitated. The question struck a nerve she didn't want to acknowledge. But before she could answer, the ground beneath her shifted, and the figure disappeared. She stumbled into a new chamber, where Cyrus was waiting, his expression grim.
"About time you showed up," he said, though his usual sarcasm was absent. "This place is playing tricks on us."
"Tell me about it," Lyra muttered, glancing around. "Any sign of Kallan?"
Cyrus shook his head. "No, but I've been studying these glyphs. They're not just decoration—they're part of the Solstice's mechanism. It's testing us, seeing if we're worthy of its power."
"And what happens if we're not?" Lyra asked.
Cyrus didn't answer, but the look in his eyes said enough.