The first light of dawn stretched over the River Arath, gilding the water in gold. But there was no peace in its reflection. On either side of the river, armies gathered—Caldrisian banners of deep crimson fluttering in the wind, Velmoran insignias of emerald and silver gleaming under the sun's slow rise. Armor clanked, swords rasped in their scabbards, and the air was thick with the sharp scent of iron and damp earth.
Joren stood at the Caldrisian front, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The weight of his inventions—his war machines—pressed against his conscience. He had built them for defense, for innovation, not for slaughter. But now, they stood ready, their gears clicking ominously, waiting for a command that would set the battlefield ablaze.
Across the river, Lyria was among the Velmoran warriors, her heart pounding in her chest. She had pleaded with the chancellor, begged him to reconsider. But her warnings of the spirit's wrath had been dismissed as superstition. Now, her people stood with swords drawn, convinced this battle was theirs to win.
Between them, the bridge—the cursed, ancient bridge—stood as the silent arbiter of their fates.
Thalric, standing beside Joren, exhaled sharply. "This is madness."
Joren didn't look at him. "Madness was thinking we could stop it."
On the Velmoran side, Eira placed a steadying hand on Lyria's shoulder. "If you go to him now, they'll see it as treason."
Lyria swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to run to Joren, to scream across the battlefield that this war was a mistake. But her people needed her. She had already lost so much—her place in her homeland, the trust of her leaders. Now, all that remained was to make sure Velmora did not pay the ultimate price.
A horn blew from the Caldrisian side, deep and foreboding. It was not a call to charge—it was a summons. A final attempt at negotiation.
Joren and Lyria met at the center of the bridge, the world holding its breath around them.
"I told you this would happen," Lyria whispered, her voice raw. "And still, here we are."
Joren looked at her, his expression unreadable. "I tried."
Velmoran's chancellor, a sharp-eyed man draped in ceremonial armor, stepped forward. "If Caldris lays down their arms and surrenders their claim to the bridge, there will be no need for bloodshed."
The Caldrisian general scoffed. "You expect us to yield our greatest passage to you? We built this bridge."
"The river does not belong to you."
"The river belongs to no one."
Lyria stepped between them, her heart pounding. "The river is alive. The spirit will not allow this. If you fight here, you will not just face each other. You will face something far worse."
Her voice was strong, desperate. But both leaders dismissed her words as fearmongering. The war had already been decided. The negotiations were a formality—no more than wasted breath before steel met steel.
A single arrow flew.
No one knew which side had loosed it, but the moment it struck a Caldrisian soldier, all pretenses of peace collapsed.
The clash was immediate and deafening. The bridge became a bottleneck of chaos as soldiers rushed forward, swords clashing, war cries piercing the air. Joren barely had time to duck before a blade whistled past his ear. He parried, his hands steady despite the chaos. He had never wanted this.
Lyria fought too, but with every strike, her heart twisted. This was wrong. The river pulsed beneath her feet, and she knew it would not stand for this violence.
Then, the water darkened.
A deep, resonant moan rolled across the battlefield. It did not come from any soldier. It came from the river itself.
The current twisted violently, tendrils of water lashing out and pulling men under. The warriors who had waded into the shallows to fight were the first to fall—dragged beneath the surface with screams that ended far too quickly.
The spirit had awakened.
On the bridge, Joren saw shadows rising from the water—figures, translucent and wailing, the dead of battles long past. They clawed at the living, their touch ice and agony. A Caldrisian soldier stumbled backward, his face contorted in terror as his body dissolved into mist.
Lyria's breath caught. "No—no, no, no."
Eira grabbed her arm. "We need to run."
But Lyria was already moving toward Joren, toward the one person who might understand what to do.
Thalric fought beside Joren, his usual arrogance replaced with sheer survival instinct. "Tell me you have a plan," he shouted.
Joren slashed at a spectral figure, the blade passing through it uselessly. "I'm working on it!"
Across the battlefield, Velmoran and Caldrisian soldiers alike turned from their enemies to face the real threat—the river, the spirits, the collapsing world around them. But it was too late to turn back. The curse had been ignored for too long.
The bridge shuddered.
Cracks spread like veins along the ancient stone. The weight of war and the wrath of the river were too much. The cursed structure, once a symbol of unity, now bore witness to the inevitable consequence of human arrogance.
Lyria reached Joren just as the bridge gave way.
For a moment, time seemed to stop. Their eyes met—hers wide with terror, his dark with understanding. Then, the world tilted.
They fell.
The river swallowed them whole.