The wind howled through the fractured stones, carrying the whispers of a thousand years. The bridge—once unyielding, defiant against time and war—groaned like a living thing. Fissures stretched like veins through its foundation, glowing faintly with an eerie light, the remnants of ancient magic unraveling.
Lyria stood in the center, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. She could still feel the spirit's lingering presence, its cold fingers receding from her skin. The bargain had been struck. The curse was lifting. But the price… the price had been heavier than she had imagined.
A crack shot through the stone beneath her feet.
From the northern bank, the Velmoran forces stood frozen, their torches flickering against the darkness. On the southern shore, the Caldrisian army mirrored their stillness, their swords drawn but useless against the forces at play. Both sides watched in silent awe, their rivalries momentarily forgotten as they bore witness to something beyond their control.
Joren's breath came sharp as he staggered forward. Dust and shards of stone rained from the arches above, crashing into the river below. The bridge was coming apart. But Lyria was still on it.
He reached for her. "Lyria! Get off the bridge—now!"
She turned to him, and for a moment, he saw hesitation in her eyes. A flicker of something she wasn't saying.
Another tremor. The ground beneath them buckled.
She didn't move.
"Lyria!" His voice was raw now, laced with something dangerously close to desperation.
"I can't," she whispered.
Something inside Joren twisted. He took another step, but a jagged crack split between them, forcing him to halt. Dust swirled around her as she wavered on the crumbling stone.
"You can," he ground out. "Whatever this is—whatever hold it has on you—we can fight it."
Lyria's lips parted, but no words came. Instead, a sharp gust of wind roared through the ruins, carrying with it a whisper only she could hear.
It is done.
She gasped as the weight of it settled onto her shoulders. A tether tightened around her, something invisible but unyielding. The bridge wasn't simply collapsing—it was pulling her with it.
Joren saw it. The way her body tilted as though unseen hands were dragging her down. His hands clenched. He had spent too long fighting to lose her now.
He took a step forward.
Another violent tremor.
A massive slab of stone from the western arch crumbled free, slamming into the river below with a deafening roar. The bridge shuddered, and suddenly, whole sections of it caved inward, tumbling into the abyss.
A cry went up from the gathered armies. The tension that had held them in place snapped, and movement erupted along both shores. Velmoran archers lowered their bows, their commanders shouting orders that went ignored. Caldrisian warriors, so long accustomed to battle, hesitated, their instincts useless in the face of something they could not fight.
From the heights, Commander Veylen of Caldris turned to his second-in-command. "Get them back! That bridge is coming down!"
The man hesitated. "But sir—"
"Now!"
Across the river, Lady Eira was already barking orders of her own. "Pull everyone back from the shore! Healers, stand ready!"
But even as the soldiers retreated, their eyes remained fixed on the two figures still trapped on the dying bridge.
Joren lunged forward. "Take my hand!"
Lyria hesitated. Just a second. Just a breath. But it was enough.
The bridge shuddered violently, and the stone beneath her feet crumbled away.
She fell.
Joren's body moved before his mind did. He dove, arm outstretched, fingers grasping blindly.
Contact.
His hand closed around her wrist just as she vanished over the edge. His other arm slammed against the cracked stone, his body bracing against the weight of her fall.
"Hold on!" he gasped, his muscles straining.
Lyria dangled over the abyss, her fingers curling around his wrist in a desperate grip. The river below was a churning void, thick mist rising from its depths.
Her wide eyes met his. "Joren—"
"I swear—if you say 'let me go,' I will drag you up here myself," he growled, sweat beading at his temple.
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to argue. But there was no time.
The stone beneath Joren shifted. The bridge was nearly gone.
From the northern bank, Thalric cursed under his breath. His sword was useless in this moment, his instincts screaming at him to move. "Damn it," he muttered. Then, louder: "Someone get a rope!"
But there was no rope long enough. No way to reach them.
The bridge groaned a final time.
Lyria's gaze locked onto Joren's. "You have to let go."
"No." His grip tightened. "Not happening."
A new sound filled the air. A deep, shuddering crack that echoed like a death knell. Then, suddenly—
The bridge gave way.
Time fractured. Joren felt the stone crumble beneath him, felt the weightlessness of free fall. The roar of the river rose up to meet them, and for a moment, the world was nothing but wind and gravity and the cold pull of fate.
Then—
Darkness.
The river churned, swallowing the remains of the bridge like a beast consuming its prey. Massive stone pillars crashed into the depths, sending geysers of mist and shattered rock skyward. The once-great bridge of Arath—the structure that had stood for centuries, the symbol of division and war—was gone.
On the riverbanks, silence fell.
The people of Velmora and Caldris stared, not as enemies, but as witnesses to something greater than their conflict. The bridge had defined them for generations. Now, it was nothing but ruins.
And in its place, an uncertain future loomed.