The night clung to Joren like a second skin as he moved through the narrow alleys of Caldris. The air smelled of damp stone and burning tallow, and each step he took echoed faintly against the towering structures. Dawn was still a whisper on the horizon, and he had little time before the city would awake.
Thalric had sent word—a brief message slipped under his door: Meet me at the old archives. Now. The urgency was clear, but Joren hesitated. After last night's close call with Captain Roen, every move felt like a risk, every shadow a potential betrayal. Yet he knew he couldn't ignore this. If Thalric had discovered something, he needed to know.
The archives were nestled between the remnants of old Caldrisian towers, a forgotten structure that smelled of dust and neglect. When Joren pushed open the heavy wooden door, the hinges groaned in protest. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, the dim candlelight casted shadows against the shelves.
Thalric was waiting, his arms crossed, his stance rigid. He didn't look up immediately, as if steadying himself. When he did, there was an unreadable message in his gaze.
"You took your time," he muttered, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
"I had to make sure I wasn't followed." Joren closed the door behind him, glancing around the near-empty space. "What did you find?"
Thalric hesitated, then reached for a leather-bound tome on the table, flipping to a section already marked. "I was going through old war records," he began. "Something wasn't sitting right with me about the way the conflict escalated when the bridge was first built."
Joren stepped closer, scanning the brittle pages. Ancient ink scrawled across the parchment detailed Caldrisian battle strategies, alliances, and betrayals.
Thalric tapped a passage with his finger. "The prince. The one who was supposed to bring peace between our nations."
Joren frowned. "Prince Aldric?"
"Yes." Thalric's jaw tightened. "He was murdered, but not by the Velmorans."
Joren's breath stilled. "What are you saying?"
Thalric exhaled sharply, pushing another document toward him. "Officially, he was ambushed during negotiations. But this account—an old, classified report—suggests otherwise. It was someone within Caldris who orchestrated it."
Joren's pulse quickened. "That doesn't make sense. Why would they kill their own prince?"
Thalric's eyes darkened. "Because he wanted peace. And some within our ranks wanted war to continue."
A sick feeling twisted in Joren's gut. It had always been a whispered truth among the discontent—war profited those in power. But to kill their own to ensure its longevity?
"This changes everything," Joren murmured, barely hearing his own voice.
Thalric nodded grimly. "We're dealing with something bigger than just a curse. This war—it was never meant to end."
The weight of the revelation settled between them like a leaden chain. The bridge, the curse, the restless spirits—it all tied back to something darker, something designed to keep their nations locked in bloodshed.
Joren clenched his fists. "Then we have to end it."
A sound outside made them both freeze. Heavy boots against stone. Voices hushed but urgent.
Thalric grabbed the documents and shoved them into his coat. "We need to go. Now."
Joren nodded, his heart pounding as they disappeared into the shadows, the truth burning between them like a brand.
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the stone walls of Lyria's dwelling. The small room smelled of dried herbs and ink, the scent mingling with the cold night air that crept in through the open window. Joren sat stiffly on the wooden stool, his fingers absently tracing the edges of a faded parchment they had found just hours ago. The weight of its contents pressed heavy on his chest.
Lyria stood across from him, her arms crossed tightly as if bracing herself. She had seen Joren lost in thought before, but not like this. Not with that look in his eyes—like something had cracked inside him.
"You haven't said a word since we left the bridge," Lyria finally broke the silence. Her voice was quiet but firm.
Joren inhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "I'm still trying to make sense of it."
"There's nothing to make sense of," she said, stepping closer. "The prince was betrayed by his own family. The war—our entire history—was built on a lie."
He shook his head. "No. It's not that simple."
Lyria scoffed. "Isn't it? We saw the records, Joren. Letters from his father, from his own brother. They let him die so they could have their war. So they could control everything."
Joren clenched his fists. He had spent his entire life believing in Caldris' cause, believing in the necessity of their strength, of their struggle. But now, the foundation of everything he had ever known was crumbling beneath him. "If this gets out…" He swallowed hard. "It would destroy Caldris."
Lyria's expression softened slightly. "Maybe it should."
His head snapped up, anger mounting in his gaze. "You don't understand—"
"No, Joren, you don't understand," she cut in. "You're still clinging to a version of Caldris that never existed. The people who sent you to war, who sent generations of our people to die, they don't care about you. About any of us."
Joren looked away, clenching his jaw. The truth of her words stung more than he wanted to admit.
Lyria sighed and lowered herself onto the edge of the table, her voice gentler now. "I know this isn't easy for you. But we can't ignore this."
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping. "So what do we do?"
Lyria studied him for a long moment. "We find proof that the people of Caldris and Velmora deserve to know. And we end this war, Joren. For good."
Silence stretched between them. Outside, the distant howl of the wind carried whispers of a broken past. Joren knew, deep in his bones, that there was no turning back now.
He looked down at the parchment in his hands one last time before meeting Lyria's eyes. "Then we start now."
Joren's chamber, casted restless shadows that seemed to mirror his thoughts. He sat at his worktable, hands gripping the edge, his mind coming to terms with the weight of the revelation he and Lyria had uncovered. The Caldris prince—murdered by his own kin to ensure the war never ended. The knowledge sickened him, but it also made things undeniably clear: the curse of the bridge was not just supernatural; it was built on the blood of a forgotten betrayal.
A sharp knock at his door shattered his thoughts. He tensed, heart hammering. Was it Thalric? Or worse—Captain Roen?
Slowly, he moved to open it, schooling his expression into something neutral. The moment the door cracked open, Thalric pushed his way inside, shutting it firmly behind him. His face was grim, lips pressed into a thin line.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Joren muttered, though he could hardly blame him. He probably didn't look much better.
Thalric ignored the remark. "Roen's onto you."
Joren stiffened. "What?"
Thalric's jaw clenched. "He had you followed again. He knows you've been sneaking to the bridge. He's convinced you're conspiring with the Velmorans."
Joren cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He had been careful—at least, he thought he had. But Roen had always been a man who hunted for treachery, even when it didn't exist. Now that he had reason to suspect Joren, he wouldn't stop until he found something to use against him.
"I can handle Roen," Joren said, though the words felt hollow.
Thalric stepped closer, lowering his voice. "No, you can't. Not this time. He's already petitioned the elders for an inquiry."
Joren's stomach twisted. An inquiry. If the elders deemed him a traitor, there would be no trial. No defense. Just exile—or worse.
Thalric hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say more but was holding himself back. Finally, he exhaled sharply. "There's something else."
Joren's eyes narrowed. "What?"
Thalric met his gaze, and for the first time in years, there was something raw there—something almost like guilt. "I didn't tell Roen about Lyria," he said. "But he already suspects you're meeting with someone."
Joren inhaled sharply. That meant time was running out. If Roen figured out who she was, the consequences would be even worse.
Thalric shifted uncomfortably, raking a hand through his hair. "You need to leave before they force your hand."
Joren stared at him. "And go where? I'm not running."
"You might not have a choice."
Silence hung between them, with everything left unsaid. Thalric was still his friend—wasn't he? But there was a line neither of them could cross, and the space between them felt dangerously thin. Thalric had chosen his loyalty to Caldris, and Joren… Joren was starting to realize his loyalties had shifted long ago.
Thalric's voice was quieter now. "Just be careful."
And then he was gone, leaving Joren alone with the truth and the growing certainty that the real enemy was not across the river—but within the walls of Caldris itself.
Joren paced in his workshop, hands clenched into fists. The dim lanterns casting his shadow, their unsteady glow mirroring the storm in his mind. His conversation with Thalric stormed his thoughts—each word like a dagger twisting deeper. He had known betrayal lurked somewhere in the corridors of Caldrisian power, but to hear Thalric confirm it had shaken him in ways he hadn't anticipated.
Footsteps sounded outside. A sharp knock followed. Joren didn't need to ask who it was. He hesitated before opening the door, his expression guarded.
Lyria slipped inside, her presence an unspoken challenge to the rules that kept them apart. She, too, had her own burden to bear—her encounter with Mareth and Eldrin still fresh in her mind. Yet, it was the truth they had uncovered together that affected them, the most.
"You sent for me," she said, her voice quieter than usual.
Joren exhaled. "We need to talk."
A silence stretched between them, that was laced with uncertainty. Joren turned away, running a hand through his hair. "Thalric knows. He didn't say it outright, but he suspects something—something dangerous. And Roen is watching me."
Lyria crossed her arms, studying him. "Then we don't have much time."
Joren shook his head. "No, we don't. And there's more." He braced himself before meeting her gaze. "The prince's murder—it wasn't Velmora that orchestrated it. It was someone in Caldris."
Lyria's breath hitched, her lips parting as if to argue. But no words came. The truth settled on her like a leaden cloak. "You're sure?"
Joren nodded. "It's why the war has never ended. It's why the bridge is cursed. We've been pawns in a war designed to keep us divided."
Lyria took a step back, her fingers curling into her palms. The past she had been raised to believe in—the one where her people had been the victims of Caldrisian treachery—was unraveling before her. "You expect me to trust that?"
Joren's expression hardened. "I expect you to believe the truth, no matter how much it hurts."
Her jaw tightened. "And what does that truth change? My people still suffered. My mother still died believing in a war that was never meant to end. What do we do with this, Joren? What do we do with a truth that will only get us killed?"
Joren stepped closer. "We break the curse. We expose them."
Lyria laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Expose them to who? To your Council? To your people who would rather watch Velmora burn than hear the truth?"
Joren didn't have an answer. He had spent years thinking of his homeland as flawed but salvageable. Now, he wasn't so sure. The enemy wasn't just across the river—it was within their own walls.
Lyria turned to the door. "This changes everything."
Joren's voice stopped her. "It changes nothing if we let fear decide for us."
She hesitated, then looked over her shoulder. There was fire in her eyes, but beneath it, doubt. "Then tell me, Joren—what are you willing to risk?"
Joren swallowed hard. "Everything."
The silence between them was no longer empty. It was charged, volatile—a thread stretched taut between them, ready to snap at the slightest pressure.
Lyria held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once. "Then we'll see if you mean it."
She was gone before he could say another word, leaving Joren alone with the knowledge that, from this moment forward, there was no turning back.
--
Joren's mind churned like a storm-tossed sea as he paced the dimly lit chamber. Haunted by their discovery—that the Caldrisian prince had been betrayed by his own family to keep the war alive—pressed upon him with suffocating intensity. He could still see the ink-stained documents, the secret correspondence, the undeniable truth laid bare before them. Lyria sat across from him, her fingers anxiously twisting the edge of her cloak, her face a study of defiant determination and quiet fear.
"We can't keep this to ourselves," she finally said, her voice hushed but firm. "If we do, we're no better than the ones who let this war fester."
Joren halted mid-step, his jaw tightening. "And who do we tell? The Council? The people? If this gets out the wrong way, we could ignite a civil war within Caldris itself." He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "We have to be careful."
Lyria stood, crossing the room in two swift strides. "Careful? Joren, people have died because of this lie. More will continue to die if we do nothing. I won't be complicit in their deception."
A muscle in Joren's jaw twitched. "And what if exposing the truth doesn't end the war but worsens it? What if Velmora takes this as proof of Caldris' corruption and retaliates?"
Lyria's eyes flashed with something raw—anger, sorrow, perhaps both. "Then what do you propose? We sit and wait while innocent people are sacrificed to protect a lie?"
A knock at the door shattered the tension.
Joren and Lyria exchanged a wary glance before Joren reached for his dagger, moving cautiously to unlatch it. The door creaked open just enough to reveal Thalric, his expression grim, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"You two need to come with me. Now."
Joren narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"
Thalric hesitated for half a breath before stepping inside, closing the door firmly behind him. "Roen knows," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "About the bridge. About Lyria. And he suspects you know something more."
Joren's blood ran cold. "Damn it."
Lyria's face paled, but her voice remained steady. "How much does he know?"
Thalric's gaze shifted between them, his own turmoil barely masked. "Enough to have you both executed if you don't tread carefully. He's already summoned the Council for an urgent assembly at dawn. If you don't make a move before then, it'll be too late."
There was no time left.
Lyria squared her shoulders. "Then we act tonight."
Joren looked at her, then at Thalric, then toward the sealed documents resting on the wooden table—the undeniable proof of the betrayal. His pulse pounded in his ears.
"A choice must be made," he murmured.
A sound outside made them all freeze.
Footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Closing in.
A sharp rap at the door.
Then a voice that sent ice down Joren's spine.
"Open up. By order of Captain Roen."