The forest was silent, save for the whisper of wind through the skeletal branches. A pale mist curled between the trunks, veiling the ground in an eerie hush. Dawn had yet to break, but the sky bore the first fragile hints of gray, heralding the sun's slow ascent. Joren and Lyria sat huddled near the remains of a dying fire, its embers pulsing like the last vestiges of hope clinging to life. Their clothes were torn, damp with river water, and streaked with mud.
Joren winced as he flexed his fingers, trying to work the stiffness from them. His body ached from the narrow escape, the memory of clashing steel and desperate flight still fresh in his mind. His gaze drifted toward Lyria, who sat across from him, unwrapping a strip of cloth from her arm. Blood had seeped through the fabric, a deep, angry red staining the pale linen.
"You should have told me you were hurt," Joren murmured, breaking the silence.
Lyria exhaled sharply, her fingers working with quiet efficiency to replace the bandage. "We were running for our lives. A little pain wasn't my biggest concern."
Joren let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Fair point." He hesitated, watching her expression shift—guarded, distant, yet determined. "We can't go back. Not to Caldris. Not to Velmora."
Lyria's fingers stilled. "I know."
It was a truth neither had spoken aloud until now, though it had been pressing against them since their escape from the bridge. They were fugitives, branded as traitors by both sides, and even if they tried to return, their own people would not hesitate to turn on them.
Joren raked a hand through his damp hair, his mind racing. "We have to make them listen. Somehow. The bridge—the curse—none of this war is real, not the way they think it is."
Lyria's lips pressed together, her gaze flickering to the darkened sky. "You think they'll listen?"
Joren didn't answer immediately. He wanted to believe it, but he had lived long enough under Caldrisian rule to know the truth—leaders did not yield to reason; they yielded to power.
Lyria must have sensed his hesitation, because she let out a bitter laugh. "Years ago, I tried to speak against the council. When I was barely more than a child, I told them the bridge was more than just stone, that something within it stirred when people crossed. They laughed at me. Called it foolish superstition." Her eyes darkened. "And when I tried to prove it, they called me reckless. Said I was endangering our people."
Joren studied her, seeing something raw beneath her calm facade. "You never told me that."
She shrugged. "What would it have changed?"
Everything, he thought but didn't say. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice quieter now. "So what happened?"
"I stopped speaking," she admitted. "I buried what I knew, focused on what I could control—herbs, remedies, the things they would accept from me. It was easier."
He frowned, not because he didn't understand, but because he understood too well. "It shouldn't have to be easier."
She met his gaze, something tired and resigned flickering in her eyes. "No, but that's the way the world is. And if we're going to change anything, we can't just tell them the truth. We have to make them see it for themselves."
Joren nodded slowly. "Then we need a plan. One they can't ignore."
The fire crackled between them, its glow casting shadows that stretched into the trees like silent specters. The weight of the past pressed upon them both, but neither looked away from what lay ahead.
--
The candlelight flickered, throwing jagged shadows against the stone walls of the abandoned mill where Joren and Lyria had taken refuge. The damp air carried the faint scent of flour and mildew, a lingering ghost of the building's past life. Outside, the river whispered, its currents winding toward the bridge that had bound and divided their people for generations.
Lyria sat cross-legged on a fraying blanket, grinding dried herbs between her fingers in an absent-minded motion, her gaze fixed on Joren. He paced near the boarded-up window, jaw tight, eyes distant. The weight of the night pressed down on them both.
"They won't listen," he said finally, voice low, raw. "The truth doesn't matter when war is more convenient."
Lyria studied him. "Then we make them listen."
Joren scoffed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "And how do you suggest we do that? March into the halls of Velmora and Caldris, tell them we've uncovered a curse? They'll call us liars. Or worse, traitors."
Lyria set down the herbs and leaned forward. "Not if we have proof."
Joren turned, skepticism etched across his face. "What proof?"
She exhaled slowly, choosing her words with care. "The spirit. The one tied to the bridge. It's more than a legend, Joren. If we can summon it—make it undeniable—then neither side can ignore the truth."
A silence stretched between them. The fire crackled, its warmth failing to chase away the chill settling in Joren's chest.
"You want to summon the spirit?" His voice was a whisper, laced with disbelief. "That thing nearly killed us."
Lyria's fingers curled into her palms. "I want to break the curse. But we can't do that if we don't understand what binds it. If we don't make the others see it for what it is."
Joren shook his head. "And if it won't listen? If it turns on us again?"
Lyria met his gaze, unyielding. "Then we find a way to bind it before it binds us."
The words hung between them like a blade suspended in midair. Joren let out a long breath, rubbing his temples. The sheer audacity of her plan sent a pulse of fear through him—but also something else. A flicker of possibility.
Lyria took his silence as permission to continue. "I know of an old rite. Eira mentioned it once in passing. It's risky, but if we do it right, we can draw the spirit into the physical realm, force it to speak."
Joren crossed his arms. "And what does this 'rite' require?"
Her hesitation was brief but telling. "A sacrifice."
His stomach clenched. "Lyria—"
"Not a life," she said quickly, though her voice wavered. "But something of meaning. Something binding."
Joren exhaled sharply, glancing toward the boarded-up window as if seeking an escape from the weight of her words. They had risked their lives enough. And yet, every road ahead was paved with risk. Perhaps this was the only way.
He turned back to her, his decision written in the set of his shoulders. "Then we'll do it together."
A flicker of relief passed through Lyria's eyes, but it was brief. There was no victory yet—only the shadow of what lay ahead.
The river hummed beyond the walls, its voice carrying whispers of fate. Whatever came next, there was no turning back now.
The moon hung high over the ruins of the ancient shrine, casting its pale light over the broken stones and creeping vines that wove through them like silent sentinels. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and aged parchment, as if time itself had settled into the cracks of the forgotten altar. Joren and Lyria stood at its edge, the weight of history pressing against their backs.
"This is where it began," Lyria murmured, running her fingers over the carvings half-swallowed by moss. "And perhaps where it will end."
Joren adjusted the strap of his satchel, his jaw tight. "We need to find proof. Something undeniable." His fingers grazed the brittle pages of an old Velmoran text they had salvaged from the archives—a fragmented account of the bridge's construction and the calamity that followed. The language was archaic, its meaning twisted through centuries of superstition and omission.
Lyria stepped closer, her breath a whisper of warmth against his shoulder. "It speaks of a pact," she said, tracing the faded ink. "A sacrifice demanded by the river itself. But this…" Her voice caught, her brow furrowing. "This part is different from the Caldrisian records."
Joren took the book from her, scanning the passage she pointed to. His mind worked through the inconsistencies, fitting the pieces together like a broken mechanism desperate to turn again. "The bridge wasn't just cursed. It was designed to be cursed." His voice was sharp, almost disbelieving.
Lyria swallowed. "The spirit—the one bound to the river—it wasn't meant to protect Velmora. It was meant to keep the two nations divided."
A gust of wind whispered through the ruins, lifting the pages of the book as if the past itself sought to reveal its truth. The realization settled like stone in their chests.
Joren let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "That means… the war, the hatred, all of it… was manipulated. Sustained. For generations."
Lyria's hands clenched at her sides. "But why? Who would want to maintain such a thing?"
"The question isn't who," Joren said, his voice dark with understanding. "It's how many."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken possibilities. If they revealed this truth, it would shatter the foundation of everything their people believed. And yet, the alternative—allowing the cycle to continue—was unthinkable.
Lyria looked to him, her green eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "Then we have our proof."
Joren met her gaze, determination hardening in his own. "Now we just have to make them listen."
The wind howled through the ruins as if the spirit itself was stirring.
And in the distance, a shadow moved.
The wind carried the scent of rain, thick and foreboding, as Joren and Lyria stepped onto the worn stone path leading away from the ruins. The night was eerily silent, save for the distant murmur of the river—an ever-present reminder of the curse they were attempting to unravel.
"We don't have much time," Joren said, tightening the strap on his satchel. "If the Velmoran court hears whispers of what we're planning, they'll send someone to silence us before we can even speak."
Lyria nodded, pulling her hood over her hair. "And if Caldris catches wind of this, your people will think you've turned traitor."
A tense quiet stretched between them, the weight of what they were about to do pressing on their shoulders. They had uncovered a secret buried for centuries—a truth that could unite or destroy them both. But would anyone listen?
They slipped through the abandoned pathways of the lower city, keeping to the shadows. The marketplace—once bustling with merchants and travelers—was nearly deserted at this hour, save for the occasional patrol. A group of soldiers lingered at the corner of a tattered stall, their armor glinting beneath the torchlight.
Joren exhaled sharply, tugging Lyria back behind a stack of wooden crates. "We can't risk drawing attention."
Lyria peered past him. "They look tense."
The soldiers spoke in hushed tones, their voices urgent. One of them—a grizzled man with a deep scar running across his jaw—glanced warily toward the bridge.
"They know something's coming," Joren whispered.
Lyria's fingers curled around his wrist, pulling him away. "Then we need to move faster."
They made their way toward an old apothecary on the outskirts of the city—a hidden sanctuary within Velmora's walls. Eira was waiting for them inside, her sharp eyes scanning the street before pulling them through the door.
"You're late," she said, shutting the heavy wooden door behind them.
Joren dropped his satchel onto the table, pulling out the ancient texts they had recovered. "We found proof," he said. "The curse—it was orchestrated. The bridge was never meant to be a symbol of peace. It was designed to keep our nations at war."
Eira's expression darkened as she flipped through the fragile pages. "And you think the leaders will listen?"
Lyria sat down, rubbing a hand over her face. "We don't have a choice. If we don't try, this cycle will never end."
Eira exhaled slowly. "You'll need allies. More than just me."
Joren met her gaze. "Then tell us where to find them."
Eira hesitated, then turned toward the flickering lantern on the table. "There's someone who may help. But trusting them is a risk."
Outside, the wind howled, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
The storm was coming.
--
The air inside the apothecary was thick with the scent of dried herbs, damp wood, and the faint bitterness of alchemical tinctures. The small room, lit only by a flickering lantern, seemed to shrink under the weight of what they had uncovered.
Joren stood near the window, his fingers resting on the sill, gaze fixed on the storm brewing outside. The sky churned with dark clouds, reflecting the turmoil within him. Behind him, Lyria and Eira pored over the old texts, their whispered discussions barely audible beneath the distant rumble of thunder.
Joren turned to face them. "Even with this proof, what's to stop them from dismissing us? They benefit from this war. They'll do whatever it takes to keep the truth buried."
Lyria looked up, her expression set with determination. "Then we make them listen. We don't ask for an audience—we demand one."
Eira closed the book in front of her. "That's not a demand they'll grant easily. The leaders of Velmora and Caldris don't take kindly to threats, especially from those they consider traitors." Her sharp gaze settled on Joren. "You risk everything by going back to Caldris with this."
Joren held her stare. "If I don't, more people will die."
Eira exhaled, shaking her head. "Then you have a choice to make."
Silence filled the space between them.
Lyria's hand rested lightly on the book's frayed cover. "We take different paths," she said quietly. "I go to the Velmoran court, you return to Caldris. We spread the truth from within, force them to see that the bridge isn't just stone and mortar—it's a lie."
Joren's jaw tightened. The thought of being apart after everything felt like a battle he wasn't ready for. "And if we fail?"
Lyria met his gaze, her voice steady despite the storm outside. "Then at least we fought."
A gust of wind rattled the windowpane. Joren turned back toward the storm, the weight of their decision pressing down on him.
The time for running was over.
The time for war had begun.