Meeting Lyra
Smoke still curled from Urath's corpse, the ground beneath its ruin slick with molten blood slowly hardening to glass.
And in that silence, he felt it.
Eyes. Watching.
He turned slowly, blade heavy in his hand, breath ragged. The ash settled around him in muted waves, and beyond it—stillness. Not the stillness of absence, but of restraint.
"Come out," Solace said, his voice low, eyes fixed on the shadows. "I know you're there."
Something held its breath.
She stepped forward.
She did not come from the shadows. She was the shadow, simply deciding to take shape.
Her hair was black silk torn by storm winds, falling over shoulders draped in robes that shimmered and fractured the eye. Patterns coiled and unwound, impossible to follow. Her skin was pale, but not bloodless—the pallor of moonlit bone. Her eyes… molten gold, deep and endless, burning without heat.
Solace did not move.
"You fight well," she said, quiet, edged with something cold. Her tone carried no praise. Only observation.
The blade pulsed at his side, uneasy.
"You felt me watching," she continued. "Good."
She stepped closer. Her feet made no sound against the scorched stone.
"I could end you here."
The blade shifted, lengthening slightly in his hand, hungry.
"But I won't."
She smiled, barely. It didn't reach her eyes.
"I am Lyra."
The name slid into the air like oil on black water. Heavy. Ancient. Not meant for mortal tongues.
He said nothing.
Her gaze flicked over him. Measuring. Weighing.
"You've killed what should not die. Wielded what should not be touched. And yet… here you stand."
She tilted her head. "You don't even know what you are yet."
He breathed in, slow through clenched teeth.
Her eyes turned to Urath's ruin. "They built temples to it once." Her voice carried something almost wistful. "Now it rots at your feet."
Her gaze returned to him. "Others will not be so forgiving."
The blade pulsed again—not warning. Waiting.
"I could teach you," she murmured.
He said nothing.
Her smile thinned. "But you wouldn't trust me. Not yet."
She reached out, brushing the air between them. Power unspooled in slow coils—smoke and starlight.
"You are climbing a ladder you cannot see," she whispered. "And the rungs… they crack beneath your weight."
Her eyes darkened, pupils devouring gold.
"When it breaks, it will not be gentle."
She knelt and traced a shape in the ash with one fingertip. It glowed faintly, pulsing with the slow heartbeat of something old.
"You've heard whispers."
He nodded once.
"You will hear more," she said softly. "They will beg. They will lie. They will scream."
She clenched her hand into a fist. The sigil flared and vanished.
"They will try to make you forget yourself."
She looked up at him—and for one moment, exhaustion flickered behind her cold mask. A hollow patience.
"I climbed the same ladder once," she murmured. "I did not reach the top."
She stood. Her form shivered at the edges, like smoke teased by a breath.
"I won't stop you. But if you fall… you won't fall alone."
She vanished into mist and silence. But her final whisper clung to the air:
"Find me before the silence does."
---
He found her again two nights later.
At the edge of the outskirts, where cracked earth fell away to bitter plains and black thorn.
She stood on jagged rock, wind tearing at her cloak. No footprints led to her. No sound had announced her. Only inevitability.
"You followed," she said, without turning. Smooth stone. Cold water. Weight in every syllable.
He said nothing. The blade pulsed faintly at his side—uncertain.
She turned. Golden eyes catching faint starlight.
"You still don't trust me," Lyra observed. Her smile held no warmth. "Good. You shouldn't."
He stepped forward, hand brushing the hilt.
"You don't know what you're carrying," she murmured.
"I know enough."
Her smile sharpened, cruel and knowing. "No. You don't. But you will."
She glanced toward the distant ruin where Urath had fallen. "You're climbing too fast."
He stiffened.
Lyra exhaled, frost curling in the air despite no cold. "Umbros Fade," she guessed softly. "No… you're slipping into Veridiel Surge."
Her eyes narrowed. "That weapon is dragging you higher before you're ready."
Still silence.
She stepped down from the outcrop, movements fluid and dispassionate—like something that had forgotten fear long ago.
"You don't even know the ladder you're on."
She knelt in the ash, drew circles with slow precision. Each flickered, then faded.
"There are ten ranks. Ninth ranks before attaining Divine, the tenth the final rank—I think." She said, looking at him and his artifact.
Her finger touched the first circle. "Umbros Fade—awakening. They call them nova."
The second. "Veridiel Surge—soul manipulation. Soul Masters. That's me." Her eyes flicked up. "You're nearly there."
The third. "Glacien Breath. The slowing of time. Enlightened."
The fourth. "Zephyra Flux. Wings of air and speed. Ascenders."
The fifth. "Pyronis Core. A sun inside the soul, calm seas beneath. Saints."
Her hand hovered over the sixth. "Astraquill Echo. The ancient tongue sings. Ruins answer. Transcenders."
The seventh. "Starlume Essence. You make a domain from your element. Celestials."
Her finger traced a crack across the circles. "Nebulith Veil. Gates to other worlds. The divine. Bridgers."
The eighth glowed faintly. "Eclipthra Vein. You become will. Reality bends. Sacreds." Her voice softened. "My artifact holds a trace of this power. But it's not mine."
Her hand lingered over the final circle.
"And then… the Divine." Her gaze locked with his. "But what you carry… I don't think it stops there."
A long silence stretched between them.
"I live out here for a reason," she said. "The walls are full of liars. And corpses that haven't realized they're dead."
She turned, the wind lifting her hair.
"I trust them less than nothing." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But I trust you even less."
She took a step. Paused.
"You're going to change this world." Her voice was cold. Certain. "Whether you mean to or not."
She vanished.
Not into mist.
Just absence.
The blade pulsed once in his hand. The ash shifted around his boots. And far beyond the horizon, something old began to stir.