A silver mist coiled over the shattered stones of the bridge, swirling with the river's dark currents. The air was thick, unnatural, humming with an energy that made the hairs on Joren's arms stand on end. The moon, a pale sickle in the sky, barely pierced the dense fog that seemed to breathe, alive with an ancient will.
Lyria stood at the water's edge, her fingers tightening around the talisman Eira had given her. The weight of unseen eyes pressed upon her, and she knew the spirit was near. A chill seeped into her bones, deeper than the night's cold.
"You feel it too," Joren murmured beside her. His voice was steady, but tension coiled in his stance. His hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger, though they both knew steel would do little against what lurked in the mist.
Before Lyria could answer, the river stilled. The endless rush of water, the ceaseless whisper of its flow—silenced. An eerie hush swallowed the world. And then, a shape emerged from the fog.
The spirit glided forward, wreathed in shadow and moonlight, its form shifting like water given shape. It was neither wholly human nor entirely formless, its face an echo of the past, a visage that flickered between sorrow and something darker. Its voice was a whisper, a ripple through Lyria's mind rather than the air.
"You seek an end to the curse."
Lyria swallowed. "Yes."
The spirit tilted its head, its hollow gaze fixed on her. "And what would you offer in return?"
Joren stepped forward, his jaw tight. "That's not how this works. The curse should never have existed in the first place. It's time to end it."
A soft, breathless laugh. Not cruel, not kind. Simply knowing. "It is not so simple." The mist around them thickened, images swirling within—visions of the past. The bridge, whole once more, its towering arch bathed in dawnlight. Soldiers crossing, banners snapping in the wind. Then, war. Blood seeping between the stones. A woman standing at the heart of it all, hands raised, a final whisper sealing fate itself.
Lyria flinched as a surge of pain lanced through her chest, as if the memories did not belong to the spirit alone, but to her as well. She felt the weight of the bridge's sorrow, the echo of all who had suffered.
The spirit drifted closer, and though it had no breath, no warmth, Lyria swore she felt it exhale against her skin. "A guardian must remain to hold the curse at bay. If I am to leave, another must take my place."
Lyria's breath hitched. "You want me to—"
"Become the bridge's keeper. In binding yourself, you will silence the past's wrath. The war will end. The dead will rest." The spirit's voice was like the river—calm on the surface, hiding unseen depths. "A life for a hundred. A fair bargain."
Joren's hand grasped Lyria's arm, pulling her back a step. "No." His voice was iron. "That's not happening."
Lyria's heart pounded. The weight of the choice crushed her chest. She had wanted to break the curse, to save lives—but could she doom herself in the process? The thought of staying here, bound to the bridge for eternity, alone in the mist, chilled her deeper than the spirit's presence.
But if she refused, would the curse ever truly break?
The spirit's gaze burned into her, waiting. The river stirred once more, restless. The choice had been laid before her. And the weight of it pressed down, heavy as stone.
The wind howled through the ruins of the bridge, carrying the echoes of whispers that had lingered for centuries. The spirit's form flickered like a dying ember, its luminous gaze locked onto Lyria. Joren stood at her side, breath uneven, his grip tight around her wrist as though afraid she would slip away like the mist curling over the river.
"You know the cost," the spirit intoned, voice woven with sorrow and inevitability. "One must take my place. The bridge demands a guardian."
Lyria's heart pounded against her ribs. She could feel the weight of unseen eyes watching—those who had been bound before, those who had given up everything to keep the curse contained.
"There has to be another way," Joren said, voice sharp, cutting through the tension. "You claim to be the bridge's keeper—then keep it without taking another life!"
The spirit's form shimmered, sorrow etched into the hollow light of its features. "I am but an echo of what once was. The bridge does not serve me—it binds me. Without another to take my place, it will unravel, and with it, the fragile balance between your warring nations. The river remembers. The river waits."
Lyria swallowed hard. She could feel the river pulsing beneath them, its currents alive, twisting in unseen currents. "You would have me become you. Bound to this place. A life unlived." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"You would become something greater," the spirit countered. "A protector. A force beyond bloodshed."
Joren turned to Lyria, his expression dark with unspoken fear. "This is madness. We'll find another way. You don't have to do this."
But Lyria knew the truth. The bridge had awakened because of them. The curse had stirred, hungering, because of their defiance, their love. And now, the price had been named.
A choice had to be made.
Lyria closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of damp stone and the river's ceaseless murmur. Her life in Velmora, the garden where she learned the secrets of healing, the moments stolen with Joren beneath the cover of darkness—it all stretched before her like a fragile thread, one tug away from breaking.
"Lyria—" Joren's voice cracked, raw with desperation. He reached for her hand, gripping it as though he could tether her to the present, to him. "I won't let you do this."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back. She had always known that love demanded sacrifice. But this—this was too much.
"You must decide," the spirit urged. "The bridge does not wait. The river does not forgive."
Lyria's chest tightened, and she forced herself to meet Joren's gaze. The storm of emotions in his eyes mirrored her own—grief, fury, love.
And then the world shifted.
A deep tremor rocked the bridge. The stones groaned beneath them. The river surged, lapping hungrily at the supports. Shadows bled from the spirit, unraveling, stretching toward Lyria as if sensing its new vessel.
Joren yanked her back, his voice a desperate plea. "Don't do this. Don't leave me."
The spirit raised a translucent hand. "Choose, Lyria of Velmora."
Lyria's breath shuddered as she realized—there was no escaping this.
She had to choose.
The wind howled through the ruins of the bridge, carrying the whispers of something unseen. The river below churned violently, as if in protest. Joren stood at the edge of the crumbled stone, his hands clenched into fists. Lyria, breathless from the encounter with the spirit, took a cautious step toward him.
"You heard what she said." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "If I accept her offer, the curse is broken."
Joren turned sharply, eyes flashing with something she couldn't quite place. Anger? Fear? Betrayal? "And what? You just—leave?"
Lyria swallowed. "If it means saving our people, Joren—"
"You think this is the answer?" He scoffed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "You're willing to sacrifice yourself based on the word of a spirit who has done nothing but manipulate us from the start?"
"She's the only one who's given us any answers!" Lyria snapped, stepping closer. "Caldris and Velmora will never listen to us. You saw what happened at the council. We're running out of time."
Joren's jaw tightened. "So that's it? You'll just let her take you? Do you even hear yourself?"
Lyria's chest rose and fell sharply. "This isn't about what I want."
"No." His voice was low, controlled. "It's about what you're willing to do, and you didn't even think to tell me. You just—what? Decided on your own?"
A silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Lyria looked away, unable to meet his gaze. She had known this moment would come, but the weight of it was heavier than she had imagined.
Joren exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You promised we'd do this together."
Lyria hesitated. "I still want to."
His laugh was bitter. "No, you don't. You've already made up your mind."
The wind picked up, rustling the loose fabric of their cloaks. The tension between them was almost unbearable. A few steps away, Thalric and Eira watched in silence. Thalric's face was unreadable, but Eira's lips pressed together in quiet concern.
Finally, Joren took a step back, his expression hardening. "If you go through with this, Lyria—if you let that spirit take you—you're not just breaking the curse. You're breaking us."
Lyria flinched as if struck. The words cut deeper than she had expected. "Joren—"
He turned away before she could finish, walking toward the remains of the bridge, leaving her standing alone in the cold night air.
Eira approached carefully, placing a gentle hand on Lyria's shoulder. "Some choices can't be undone."
Lyria blinked against the sting in her eyes, nodding once. "I know."
The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and river mist, but all Lyria could feel was the weight of Joren's silence. He hadn't spoken a word since the spirit had disappeared, since she had refused its offer. Now, they stood at the edge of their makeshift camp, the fire between them casting flickering shadows over their faces.
Lyria crossed her arms, trying to steady the tremor in her hands. "You haven't said anything."
Joren exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "What do you want me to say? That I'm relieved? That I'm furious? That I don't know if I should be thanking you or cursing you for refusing?" His voice was strained, caught between anger and something rawer.
She stepped forward. "I made my choice. I'm not leaving you."
His eyes flashed. "And what if that choice means the curse remains? That the war continues? That more people die?" He took a step back, shaking his head. "You think this was noble, but what if it was selfish? What if—"
"Selfish?" The word stung more than she expected. "You think I should have just—just let myself become some eternal warden of that cursed bridge? Give up everything—everyone? Joren, I can't do that. I won't."
His jaw clenched. "And what if you're dooming us all because of it? What if this was our only chance?"
"You don't know that." Her voice was unsteady. "You're blaming me for wanting to live, for wanting us—"
"I'm blaming you for making a choice that might not just cost you, but cost everyone else too!" His voice rose, then he sucked in a breath, visibly reigning himself in. "Lyria, I—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I don't know. I don't know what to feel right now."
The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating. For the first time since this journey began, Lyria felt something fracture between them, something deeper than trust—an understanding, a unity that had held them together despite everything. Now, it felt as though the weight of the world had finally settled between them, splitting them apart.
"I need some air," Joren muttered, turning away before she could say another word.
Lyria watched him disappear into the dark, the cold pressing in where his warmth used to be. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring into the fire, wondering if she had just lost more than a battle.
Maybe she had lost him too.
The silence between them was a heavy thing, thick with unspoken words and the weight of betrayal. Lyria stood near the edge of the bridge, her back to Joren, her breath shallow, trembling. The spirit's presence had faded, but its echoes still clung to the air, thick with expectation and unfulfilled bargains.
Joren took a step forward, cautious, as though afraid his words might shatter what little remained between them. "Lyria," he murmured, his voice hoarse, "you have to understand. I—I couldn't just let you—"
"You couldn't let me choose." Her words were quiet but sharp, each syllable slicing through the cold night. She turned, her eyes burning with something raw. "You made the decision for me."
Joren flinched. "I was trying to save you."
"I didn't need saving," she whispered. "Not like that."
The river below churned, its dark waters restless, as though mirroring the storm between them. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The world around them had gone still—too still. Even the wind dared not breathe between them.
Then came another voice, low and weighted with judgment. "This was a mistake."
Thalric. He emerged from the shadows at the edge of the bridge, his stance rigid with disapproval. His gaze flickered between Joren and Lyria, lingering on their frayed expressions. "You think Velmora will let this stand?" he asked, his voice cold. "You think Caldris won't strike first?"
Lyria's hands curled into fists. "This isn't about our nations."
Thalric scoffed. "It's always about our nations." His sharp eyes cut to Joren. "You made your choice, Joren. Siding with her, with a Velmoran, instead of your own people."
Joren stiffened. "I haven't turned my back on Caldris."
"Haven't you?" Thalric took a step closer. "You've spent more time chasing ghosts and lost causes than protecting the people who need you. And now, you've doomed us all."
Lyria stepped forward, fury sparking in her gaze. "The curse is real. If we don't stop this war, the spirit will never break its hold. This isn't about Velmora or Caldris anymore."
Thalric's expression darkened. "Tell that to the ones sharpening their swords right now."
Joren exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "We can still stop this."
"No," Thalric said, shaking his head. "You've already lost."
A warning horn sounded in the distance, its eerie wail cutting through the night like a blade. The sky had shifted, the first traces of dawn creeping over the horizon, but the light felt cold, unnatural. The world was on the cusp of something inevitable.
Lyria turned to Joren. "What do we do?"
But Joren had no answer. Because, for the first time, he wasn't sure there was anything left to do.
Above them, the bridge stood unchanged, but something in the air had fractured, unseen yet undeniable. A bond broken. An alliance shattered.
And war was coming.