The dawn emerged gradually over Caldris, its typical urgency subdued by the thick fog that enveloped the riverbanks like a veil. Joren positioned himself on the slender balcony of his residence, a chipped coffee mug held in one hand while the other absentmindedly rubbed the stubble on his jawline. Before him lay the city, its smokestacks releasing wisps into the frigid air, with factory whistles remaining silent for a few more precious hours.
The air was infused with the scents of iron and soot, blended with the subtle tang of the river; however, beneath the familiar aromas of home, there was an unusual presence. It was not merely a scent, but rather a change in the atmosphere, a vibration that sent a shiver down Joren's spine.
He narrowed his eyes toward the river. A thick fog enveloped the water, its surface hidden beneath swirling mists. Suddenly, he noticed it: a faint glimmer, initially subtle yet unmistakable, slicing through the haze like a knife. Joren leaned in, his heart racing.
There it was—the bridge. A legendary structure, its name murmured by superstitious elders and dismissed by rational thinkers like himself. He blinked rapidly, questioning whether it was merely an illusion caused by light or fatigue, but upon looking again, the glow had intensified. Stone arches emerged from the fog, shimmering as if sculpted from moonlight, the surface gently undulating like water stirred by a breeze.
"By the gods…" The words escaped him in a breathless whisper.
He went back inside, the door slamming behind him. His workshop was cluttered with gears, blueprints, and incomplete devices, yet his hands operated with determination, clearing tools aside as he reached for his journal. With fingers stained by charcoal, he drew with passionate urgency, striving to immortalize the form and feel of the bridge before it disappeared.
His hand trembled. The lines came out too thick, the perspective skewed. He cursed under his breath and forced himself to slow down. He couldn't lose this moment—not to his own impatience.
Memories stirred as he worked: his mentor, Alaric, warning him as a boy, "Curiosity can kill quicker than steel, Joren. Some doors are best left closed, some paths never walked." The old man's face had been grim, his voice edged with fear. He'd spoken of the bridge as if it were alive, a predator waiting in the fog.
But Joren had never been one to heed warnings, especially when they were shrouded in superstition. Myths were just puzzles waiting to be solved, mysteries begging for light.
"This isn't a story," he muttered to himself, shoving the journal into his satchel. "It's real."
He grabbed his lantern from the workbench, a clunky brass-and-glass device of his own design. It sputtered to life, casting a sharp beam through the shadows. He packed a small dagger—more out of habit than expectation—and a handful of tools before slinging the satchel over his shoulder.
As he buckled the strap, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
"Joren?"
He froze, cursing inwardly. "Thalric," he muttered. The last thing he needed was his nosy neighbor prying into his plans.
The door creaked open, revealing Thalric's broad frame. The man's blond hair was damp from the mist, his blue eyes sharp as he took in Joren's packed bag.
"Off somewhere early?" Thalric leaned casually against the doorframe, though his tone betrayed his suspicion. "You're not heading into trouble again, are you?"
"Not trouble," Joren replied quickly, forcing a grin. "Just… research."
"Research?" Thalric's eyebrows shot up. "You've got that look again—the one that usually ends with you crawling back covered in grease and swearing you'll 'never try it again.'"
Joren rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Thalric. Just working on something new. I'll explain later, all right?"
Thalric crossed his arms, but after a long moment, he sighed. "You're too stubborn for your own good, you know that? Don't make me come looking for you."
"Noted," Joren said, ushering him out with a firm pat on the shoulder.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Joren let out a breath. There wasn't time to dwell on Thalric's concern. The bridge was out there, waiting.
The riverbank exhibited an unusual tranquility, with the city's noises subdued by the enveloping mist. Joren navigated the overgrown trail, the frost-laden leaves crunching beneath his boots. The lantern illuminated the surroundings, casting elongated shadows that transformed the underbrush into sharp, shifting forms as he moved forward.
As he approached the water's edge, the air became increasingly dense, pressing against his chest with a palpable heaviness. The hum he had sensed earlier intensified, reverberating through his very bones.
And then he saw it again.
The bridge rose from the fog like a specter, its translucent stone glowing faintly. Symbols carved into its surface shifted in the light, almost imperceptibly, like they were alive. Joren's breath caught. He'd thought his sketches exaggerated the details, but no—this was far more intricate, far more real than he'd imagined.
He stepped closer, the edge of the bridge just a few feet away. The mist seemed to part for him, revealing the water below—a churning, chaotic rush that made his stomach turn.
He reached out, fingers brushing the stone. It was warm. Not just warm, but pulsing, as if it had a heartbeat.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The bridge offered no answer, but the hum grew louder, reverberating in the stillness.
His journal came out again, and he sketched quickly, capturing the strange symbols etched into the arch. Some of them looked like runes; others were shapes he couldn't even begin to name. His hand faltered as the lantern flickered, casting the carvings in sharp relief.
With a deep breath, he stepped onto the bridge.
The moment his boot touched the surface, the air seemed to shift. The hum turned into a low, resonant note, and the symbols glowed faintly. Joren froze, half-expecting the ground to collapse beneath him, but the bridge held steady.
Step by step, he ventured further. The mist thickened around him, obscuring the far end of the bridge. The river roared below, a sound that seemed to grow louder with every step.
At the midpoint, he stopped. The railing caught his attention—its surface was carved with figures, two entwined bodies locked in an embrace. Their faces were sorrowful, their hands reaching for something unseen.
Joren frowned. He'd seen art like this before, in old Velmoran texts his mentor had collected. It was a depiction of grief, a love story entwined with tragedy.
A shiver coursed through him as he hastily recorded the details in his journal. The lantern flickered once more, and for an instant, he believed he perceived a sound—a soft whisper drifting on the breeze.
He turned sharply, his hand tightening on the dagger at his belt. "Who's there?"
The mist swirled, but nothing emerged. The whisper faded, leaving only the sound of the river.
Joren swallowed hard. His rational mind told him it was just the wind, but his gut churned with unease.
The sky grew dim as the sun descended beyond the horizon. The bridge started to radiate with an intensified glow, its surface sparkling like flowing starlight. Joren felt his heart race.
The stories were wrong about one thing: the bridge wasn't cursed. It was alive.
By the time Joren returned to the riverbank, his mind was racing. He'd seen enough to confirm the bridge's existence, but the questions it raised were endless. Why had it appeared now, after centuries of silence? What were the carvings trying to tell him?
In his workshop, he laid out his sketches on the table, annotating them in the margins. The resonance of the bridge lingered in his ears, a sound that seemed to convey a warning rather than a beckoning.
When the clock struck midnight, he turned his gaze toward the window, anticipating the distant glow. The mist had deepened, shrouding the horizon from view.
Joren's hand hovered over his journal. He knew he should leave it alone, but the bridge's mystery was too intoxicating to ignore. Whatever secrets it held, he would uncover them.
And he would return.