The war drums had not yet silenced, but Joren knew they would not wait much longer. Time was slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers. The truth burned inside him, yet he stood before a council that had no interest in hearing it.
"The spirit will not allow this war to continue," Joren said, his voice firm despite the weight pressing on his chest. "The bridge is more than just stone and mortar—it is bound to forces older than our histories. If we continue down this path, it will not be the Velmorans who destroy us, nor will it be our own strength that secures victory. The spirit itself will intervene. And none of us will walk away unscathed."
Across the great war table, General Marcan sneered. "You expect us to believe the superstitions of an inventor who has spent too long among the enemy? You sound like one of them."
Joren clenched his fists. He had anticipated skepticism, but the hostility in Marcan's gaze made his stomach twist. He glanced at Thalric, who stood rigid at the general's side, his expression unreadable.
"We have spent generations at war," Joren continued, his voice growing desperate. "And yet we know nothing about the bridge that divides us. If you would only—"
"No more," Marcan interrupted. "You were once a promising mind, Joren. Now you are nothing more than a traitor peddling fairy tales. If you wish to side with Velmora, then perhaps you should join them in their graves."
The guards at the chamber's entrance stepped forward, hands on their weapons. Joren swallowed hard. He turned to Thalric, one last plea in his eyes.
"Tell them, Thalric. You've seen it too."
For a moment, the tension in the air thickened. Thalric's jaw tightened, but he did not speak. Joren's chest ached with the betrayal. The council had already dismissed him. But Thalric… Thalric had always been his friend.
Marcan waved a hand. "Remove him."
The guards advanced, but Joren had spent too much time preparing for this moment to be caught off guard. He moved before they did, ducking between them and knocking over the war table in a calculated distraction. Scrolls and maps scattered as he bolted for the door. A sharp cry rang out behind him—Marcan's fury, no doubt—but Joren did not stop to listen. He needed to escape. He needed to find Lyria.
Lyria's heart pounded as she knelt before the High Matron of Velmora. The chamber was dim, flickering candlelight casting shadows along the walls. The scent of burning incense masked the tension, but it could not silence the weight of the moment.
"I have seen the spirit with my own eyes," Lyria said, voice steady despite the unease gnawing at her. "It is tied to the bridge. It does not seek war—it seeks balance. And if we do not listen, we will suffer its wrath."
The High Matron remained silent, her face unreadable beneath the veil of tradition. Eira stood at her side, her expression schooled into indifference.
"Velmora has suffered too many losses at the hands of Caldris," the Matron finally said. "Now is not the time for caution. Now is the time for vengeance."
"This is not about vengeance," Lyria urged. "It is about survival. The spirit will not distinguish between Velmoran and Caldrisian blood. If we—"
"You speak with the words of an enemy," the Matron interrupted coldly. "You have spent too long in foreign lands. I wonder where your loyalties truly lie."
Lyria's breath hitched. She turned to Eira, expecting—hoping—for even the slightest sign of support. But there was nothing. Eira would not speak in her defense.
The realization cut deeper than Lyria expected.
"The council has already spoken," the Matron continued. "Velmora marches to war."
Lyria rose to her feet, fists trembling. "Then you doom us all."
The Matron gave a slow nod. "You will not leave this city alive."
Lyria did not wait for the guards to seize her. She spun on her heel and sprinted for the exit. Shouts erupted behind her, but she moved like the wind, slipping through the familiar corridors of the temple and vanishing into the city's twisting streets.
She needed to find Joren.
The night air smelled of rain and steel. The hunt had begun.
Joren ran through the dense alleyways of Caldris, his mind racing faster than his feet. He had known the council would reject him. He had known Thalric would not stand against them. But even still, the reality of it burned.
A patrol rounded the corner ahead. Joren ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing himself into the shadows as the soldiers passed. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"There's no way he got far," one of them muttered. "The general wants him dead."
Joren exhaled slowly as they moved on. His fingers brushed against the metal of his tools strapped to his belt. If it came down to it, he would fight. But for now, he needed to keep moving.
Across the city, Lyria's situation was no better. Velmoran soldiers combed the streets, searching for their fugitive. Her lungs burned as she weaved through the labyrinth of alleyways, each turn bringing her closer to the river. The river—the bridge.
That was where they had to go.
Joren reached the river first, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The bridge loomed above him, shrouded in mist. The spirit's presence was there—subtle, a whisper against the current, an unseen force that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Then, footsteps.
He turned, his muscles coiled to fight, only to see her.
Lyria.
Relief and fear warred within him. She was safe. But barely.
They stared at each other, both carrying the weight of what they had lost.
"They wouldn't listen," Joren said, voice hoarse.
Lyria gave a mirthless laugh. "Neither would mine."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the river's restless current. There was no home to return to. No allies left to turn to.
Joren took a step forward. "Then we make them listen another way."
Lyria met his gaze. The city lights behind her made her eyes look like molten gold. "We're outnumbered. They'll hunt us until there's nowhere left to run."
"Then we don't run." Joren reached for her hand, the first steady thing in a world falling apart. "We find another way."
The spirit stirred, unseen but felt.
As war loomed, the bridge between them was all that remained. And neither of them knew how long it would stand.