Lyra's fingers lingered on the edges of the map, her heart
pounding in time with its faint pulse. There was something
magical about it, something alive. She could almost hear it
whispering to her—words she couldn't quite understand but
that resonated deep within her soul.
Master Oren grunted softly, clearly unimpressed. "Lyra, you've
spent enough time with that thing. The day's wasting away, and
there's always more work to be done in the shop."
But Lyra was barely listening. She had spent years learning the
art of mapmaking under Oren's tutelage, but this—this was
different. She could sense that her craft was no longer just a way
of making a living; it was becoming a doorway to something far
greater.
"I need to figure out what this is," she muttered more to herself
than to Oren. "I can't just leave it alone."
Oren's sharp gaze softened as he leaned over her shoulder, his
interest piqued despite himself. "What makes you think it's
anything special, girl? It looks like the work of an old wanderer,
scribbling out some forgotten paths."
Lyra shook her head. "No, it's more than that. The lines—they're
not just places. They're..." She paused, as if the right word was
just out of reach. "They're a story. A warning, maybe."
A sudden rapping at the door startled them both. Before Oren
could protest, the door creaked open, and a tall, slender figure
stepped into the room. He was dressed in a dark green traveling
cloak, his hood pulled low over his face, but his eyes—sharp and
calculating—were unmistakable.
"Lyra Alaris?" His voice was soft but commanding.Lyra instinctively straightened up. There was something about
this man that put her on edge, though she couldn't place why.
She nodded slowly, watching him carefully.
"I am Elior Drathorne," he continued, stepping further into the
room. "I've heard whispers of your skill as a mapmaker. I'm here
because I believe you have something I need."
Oren scowled. "This is a private workshop, friend. We don't take
visitors who barge in uninvited."
Elior didn't seem to notice the old man's irritation. His eyes
were fixed on the map in front of Lyra, and his voice dropped to
a near whisper. "The map you have, Lyra—it is unlike any I've
seen before. It holds the key to an ancient prophecy, one that
has been hidden for centuries."
Lyra's pulse quickened. Could he possibly know what it meant?
"How do you know about it?"
Elior's gaze flickered briefly to Oren before returning to Lyra.
"I've spent my life studying maps of this kind—maps with magic
woven into their design. The one you have is one of the oldest,
and it's more dangerous than you might realize. It speaks of a
city lost to time, a place that could either save or destroy
everything you know."
Lyra felt a chill run down her spine. She had always suspected
there was something more to the map than mere geography,
but this was beyond anything she could have imagined.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady but her mind
racing.
"I am a scholar of the forgotten arts," Elior replied, his tone
grave. "But my studies have led me to something far darker than
ancient knowledge. This prophecy speaks of a coming disaster—a war that could break the world apart. The map you hold may
be the only key to preventing it."
Oren stepped forward, eyeing Elior with a mixture of suspicion
and concern. "What's this all about, then? What kind of disaster
are we talking about?"
Elior's eyes narrowed, as if deciding how much to reveal. "The
prophecy speaks of a kingdom—the Kingdom of Aeldros—falling
into ruin unless certain steps are taken. The map holds the clues
to where that downfall will begin, and more importantly, how it
can be stopped. But it is not just about finding the city. There
are forces at work who would do anything to control the magic
of this map."
Lyra's head swam. The kingdom? Her kingdom? The one she had
lived in her entire life?
"Why come to me?" Lyra asked, her voice still calm despite the
storm of thoughts in her mind. "What makes you think I can
help?"
Elior's eyes softened, his gaze almost pleading. "You are a
mapmaker, Lyra. You see the world in ways most others cannot.
Your father was the same way. He had a gift—a gift that I've
been searching for. I believe you are the only one who can
decipher this map fully. If you do not help, then I fear it may be
too late for all of us."
Lyra looked at Oren, whose expression was one of concern. He
had never been one to believe in prophecies or magic, but even
he seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation.
"I don't know," Lyra said, her voice quiet. "I've always stayed out
of things like this. My maps are just tools, nothing more."
Elior stepped closer, his tone urgent. "This is not just about your
maps, Lyra. This is about your future, the future of your kingdom—and the future of everyone you care about. The
prophecy must be understood before it's too late. Please, I need
your help."
Lyra felt a weight settle in her chest. The map was more than
she had ever known. The power it held—she could no longer
deny it. She glanced at Oren once more. The old man gave her a
resigned nod, as if he had expected this moment to come.
With a deep breath, Lyra stood. "All right," she said, her voice
steady with newfound resolve. "I'll help you. But I need to know
everything. No secrets."
Elior smiled faintly, his relief palpable. "Of course. I will tell you
everything."
As the door closed behind them, Lyra couldn't shake the feeling
that this was just the beginning. The journey ahead would be
dangerous, but it was one she could no longer avoid. The map
had chosen her, and she would follow its path—wherever it led.