The fog hung low and heavy over the River Arath, thickening as the evening deepened. Velmora's side of the river was silent save for the faint rustle of reeds shifting in the breeze. Shadows clung to the gnarled trees at the edge of the water, their twisted forms just visible through the mist. In the far-off background, the gentle song of a bird pierced the stillness, yet Lyria hardly acknowledged it.
As she approached the bridge, the gravel path yielded softly beneath her boots. The subtle luminescence of the bridge's surface appeared to beckon her, serving as a guiding light amidst the darkness. She adjusted her hold on the strap of her satchel, feeling the dual nature of its contents—a mixture of herbs, tinctures, and her mother's aged journal—providing both a sense of stability and a weighty responsibility. Her cloak billowed around her ankles, the moist air adhering to the fabric.
As the glistening stretch of the bridge emerged before her, Lyria halted abruptly. Her heart raced within her chest, and she placed a hand on the coarse bark of a nearby tree to regain her composure.
It was real.
For years, she'd heard the stories—how the bridge appeared at random, a spectral phenomenon that lured the desperate and the curious to their doom. Her mother had been one of them. Lyria's family had whispered of curses, of unnatural forces, but she'd always dismissed those tales as superstition.
Until now.
She approached with measured steps, her breath forming clouds in the cold atmosphere. The bridge sparkled like moonlight reflecting on a tranquil surface, its delicate form gracefully spanning the river below. Unusual symbols adorned the railing, softly illuminating the surrounding mist. Lyria knelt at the brink, her gloved hands gently tracing the engravings. They radiated warmth, throbbing subtly, as though imbued with life.
"My mother walked this bridge," she whispered, her voice scarcely rising above the gentle sound of the river beneath. She shut her eyes, the image of her mother's face dancing in her thoughts. A decade had passed since her family disappeared, leaving her solitary in a world that seemed to grow ever more empty.
She opened her eyes to find her surroundings enveloped in mist. "And she never returned."
Lyria paused, her hand lingering just above the railing. After taking a deep breath, she proceeded to step onto the bridge.
The bridge's surface was even and polished under her boots, but it exuded an unsettling warmth. With each step she made, a wave of light appeared to ripple through the mist, causing the symbols on the railing to alter as though reacting to her arrival. She gripped her satchel firmly, her senses sharpening while being fully attentive.
As she progressed, the mist grew denser, cloaking the edges of the bridge and concealing the nearby scenery in an ethereal haze. The illumination beneath her feet served as the sole beacon, a spectral guide navigating her through the obscurity.
A faint sound reached her ears.
She froze, her heart leaping into her throat. The sound came again—soft, rhythmic. Footsteps.
Lyria leaned against the railing, her breathing shallow. The sound of footsteps grew louder, deliberate and resolute. She focused intently on piercing the fog, her hand instinctively moving towards the dagger hidden beneath her cloak.
A figure materialized from the mist, his outline sharply defined against the illuminated bridge. He possessed a tall and robust frame, his garments marked by soot and his hair in disarray. A satchel dangled at his side, and he clutched an open journal in one hand, murmuring to himself as he examined the engravings.
Lyria's grip on her dagger tightened. "A Caldran," she whispered, her voice laced with venom.
She stepped forward, the sound of her boots drawing his attention. The man startled, his journal slipping from his grasp before he caught it midair. He raised his hands instinctively, his wide eyes locking onto her.
"Whoa," he said, his voice quick and disarming. "I'm just—hold on. There's no need for that."
Lyria realized her dagger was out, its blade glinting faintly in the bridge's light. She didn't lower it. She inquired with a piercing tone, "Who are you, and what brings you here?"
The man blinked, his hands remaining elevated. "I am engaged in study," he replied deliberately, as though the response were self-evident. "I am an inventor, From Caldris."
"That much is clear," Lyria snapped. "You're trespassing."
"I didn't realize the bridge belonged to Velmorans," he retorted, his tone growing defensive.
"It doesn't," she said, stepping closer, her dagger still poised. "But you're on our side of the river. That makes you a trespasser."
The man sighed, lowering his hands slightly. "Look, I'm not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to study the bridge. It's—well, it's fascinating."
"Fascinating?" Lyria's voice was ice. "Do you have any idea what this bridge has done to my people? What it's taken from us?"
The man faltered, his gaze flickering to the symbols on the railing. "I know the stories," he admitted. "But I don't believe in curses. There has to be a logical explanation for all this."
Lyria's jaw tightened. "Not everything can be explained by your machines and science, Caldran."
Their words hissed with tension, the weight of their nations' animosity pressing between them. Lyria's grip on her dagger wavered, her mind racing. Who was this man to waltz onto the bridge, dismissing its dangers as mere folklore?
Before she could respond, the bridge began to hum.
The sound was low and vibrant, a vibration that seemed to rise from the very stones beneath their feet. Both froze, their argument forgotten. The glow of the bridge intensified, the symbols along the railing shifting in hypnotic patterns.
"What's happening?" the man—Joren, she assumed—asked, his voice heavy with unease.
"I don't know," Lyria said, her knuckles white as she gripped the railing. The warmth beneath her boots grew hotter, almost unbearable.
The hum deepened, vibrating through their bodies. The symbols flowed like liquid, their patterns twisting into shapes that seemed both alien and creepily familiar.
A sudden tremor shook the bridge, throwing Joren off balance. He stumbled into Lyria, who shoved him away with a glare.
"Move," she snapped, her voice cutting through the rising chaos.
The bridge shuddered again, cracks of light streaking across its surface. The air grew heavier, the mist swirling in agitated spirals.
Lyria grabbed Joren's arm, dragging him toward the Velmoran side. "Run!" she yelled.
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on the shifting symbols, but another tremor spurred him into motion. They ran together, the bridge quaking beneath their feet. The glow intensified, casting eerie shadows in the mist.
"Don't look back!" Lyria shouted, her voice barely audible over the rising hum.
The edge of the bridge came into view, its glow flickering like a dying flame. They stumbled onto solid ground just as the tremors stopped.
Gasping for breath, Lyria and Joren stood on the Velmoran bank, the river a dark, roiling mass behind them. The bridge had fallen silent, its light dimming to a faint pulse.
"What was that?" Joren asked, his voice hoarse.
Lyria stormed on him, her dagger still in hand. You are the one trespassing upon our territory by the river," she retorted sharply. "Should you fail to depart immediately, I will ensure that you come to regret your decision."
Joren raised his hands again, his expression caught between awe and frustration. "Fine. But this isn't over."
He stepped back into the mist, disappearing before Lyria could respond. She stood there, her chest heaving, her mind racing.
The bridge's glow flickered, the mist swallowing it whole. Lyria knelt by the riverbank, pressing her hand to the ground. Her gaze was fixed on the faint light that lingered where the bridge had been.
"What are you hiding?" she whispered.
The mist grew denser, enveloping the surroundings like a veil.