Siora held Lyra tightly, her embrace trembling with unspoken grief. Lyra's body shuddered with sobs she could no longer hold back. The truth she had overheard—that their child died to protect her—was too much.
"I'm sorry…" Lyra cried. "I didn't know… I'm so sorry…"
Siora hushed her gently, stroking her hair.
"No, my child… it was never your fault," she whispered, voice thick with sorrow. "He chose that path. Just as I did. You were never the reason… You're the reason we keep going."
They stayed like that, the room quiet save for the crackling fire. Their grief mingled like rivers meeting at dusk—neither pulling away. Between them, a silent understanding formed. Of loss. Of love. And of something far greater than either had yet understood.
A Few Days Later...
Peace, soft and fragile, settled over the manor. The children resumed their lessons. Warriors returned to their routines. Laughter returned to the halls—hesitant at first, then easier.
But the air carried something strange. As if the calm itself were being watched.
Then, one evening, as the last orange hue faded from the sky, a figure appeared at the front gates.
No one saw him arrive. No footsteps. No sound. Just a presence beyond the iron archway—a shape wrapped in shadow.
Not quite man. Not beast.
His body blurred at the edges, like smoke caught in dying light. No eyes. No face.
And yet… it stared.
The guards raised their weapons, but didn't move.
One whispered, "Is it… looking for something?"
The shadow lifted its arm. Slowly. Deliberately. It pointed toward the main house.
Then—
Fire erupted from its body.
Black and violet flames twisted around it, crackling through the air. Still, it didn't scream.
Not at first.
Then came the cry.
A single, inhuman scream—piercing, guttural, bottomless. It echoed through the entire estate. Not pain.
Grief. Rage. Madness.
It tore through bone and soul. Children screamed. Horses reared. Guards dropped their weapons, clutching their ears.
The elders came running, robes whipped by the wind, just as the figure crumbled into ash. The fire vanished into the soil like it had never been.
The eldest knelt at the scorched earth, pale-faced.
"Something has awakened," he whispered.
A few nights later, moonlight pierced the high windows. But from the far horizon, a cloud crawled toward the estate.
Not gray. Not even black.
A shade beneath black—like a bruised void.
The air thickened. Wind lashed the estate like an angry spirit. Purple lightning forked across the sky in slow-motion bursts.
Windows shook. Candles sputtered.
And the earth groaned.
Then—he appeared.
High above the courtyard, in the storm's swirling heart, a tall figure emerged.
Cloaked in shadow.
Its body undulating like liquid smoke.
Its face hidden behind a jagged, bone-white mask.
And from that mask came a voice—
Not spoken, but thundered into the minds of all who heard it:
"She is there..."
"Give her to me… Give her to me…"
Each repetition shook the walls. The voice was not sound—it was a presence, inside the soul, pressing.
Panic spread.
Servants fled.
Guards stood frozen.
Mothers clutched their children.
Fathers gritted their teeth and looked to the skies, helpless.
The elders gathered in the great hall, forming a ring around the estate's heart. They knelt. Ancient words poured from their mouths—mantras older than kingdoms.
Light bloomed in a circle across the estate.
A barrier.
The air snapped with energy.
Above, the shadow writhed, shrinking against the light. But before it vanished, it growled one last time:
"I will return... I will…"
And then it was gone.
The storm vanished, as swiftly as it came.
But the fear remained.
The estate locked down.
Guards doubled. Children and women were moved to a fortified manor on the eastern edge. Magical barriers shimmered faintly around it—layered, ancient.
No one was allowed to leave.
Even the walls seemed to breathe now—old power awakened.
Auren paced outside the glowing wards, his face grim.
"It wasn't just a message," he told Siora.
"It was a warning."
Inside, the children huddled close.
Thalen clutched his satchel of protective scrolls.
Aylea sat beside Lyra, holding her hand in silence.
Lyra stared out the window.
The sky still pulsed faintly with the afterglow of that storm—violet, unreal.
Something inside her pulled. A low hum beneath her ribs.
A calling.
The voice hadn't spoken her name.
But somehow, she knew.
It was for her.
And it would return.