The city of Eryndor slept uneasily under a blanket of fog, its streets twisting like serpents in the dim glow of lanterns. Lyra moved silently beside Kael, the weight of the cathedral's revelations pressing down on her chest. The Dead had spoken. They had issued a warning that rang louder than any battle cry, and now the whispers of the Forgotten were no longer distant—they had begun to claw into the waking world.
"The Dead don't just speak—they teach," Kael murmured, his gaze scanning the alleyways ahead. "Every shadow, every silence… it's a language. If we can't read it, we'll be lost before the night ends."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Then we learn. Or we die trying."
The Veil hummed around her, resonating with the city's pulse. She could feel threads of energy twisting through the cobblestones, threading the city together like veins. The voices of the Forgotten were now layered over the living world, rising in discordant harmony. They spoke in tongues that bent reality, a language that shifted and folded, impossible to grasp fully—yet they imparted meaning to those attuned.
As they entered the courtyard of the abandoned tower, the air thickened. Shadows coalesced into shapes that defied logic, faces appearing and dissolving, mouths opening in silent screams. Lyra drew a deep breath, letting the Veil's energy ground her. Each movement she made, each step, felt guided by an unseen hand.
Kael stopped suddenly, raising a hand. "Listen. Not just to what they say—but how it feels."
The language of the Unseen was not spoken aloud; it was felt in the bones, in the heart, in the quiet spaces between thoughts. Lyra closed her eyes and let the sensations wash over her: fear, longing, betrayal, hope, and a fierce demand for justice. The words of the Forgotten were etched in emotion, not letters, and their meaning was urgent.
Then a shape emerged from the darkness—a figure cloaked in threads of shadow, its face obscured. Lyra's grip tightened on her sword. "Who are you?" she demanded, though she sensed the answer was not simple.
The figure's voice was a ripple through the Veil, almost unintelligible. "I am the tongue that speaks for those silenced. I carry the memory of all forgotten, and my patience is thinner than the night's mist."
Kael stepped forward. "What do you want from us?"
"To be heard. To be remembered. To be avenged." The shadows around the figure stretched, forming skeletal hands that reached toward the sky, grasping at invisible truths. "The city is a ledger, and every crime against the Forgotten has been recorded. You walk in their blood and cannot see it."
Lyra's mind raced. Each word, each movement, was a puzzle piece. The Veil pulsed, guiding her toward comprehension. "Then teach us," she said finally, voice steady. "We cannot fight what we do not understand."
The shadow-figure inclined its head, and suddenly, the courtyard was flooded with visions. Streets of fire, corridors of blood, alleys filled with screams. Faces of those erased from history twisted and wept. Lyra could feel the weight of centuries pressing on her shoulders, each vision a whisper of a debt owed.
Kael staggered, visibly shaken. "It's… too much."
Lyra placed a hand on his arm. "We carry it together. The voices will guide us if we listen."
The figure's eyes—or where they should have been—glimmered. "Every action you take from this moment will speak to the Forgotten. Fail to heed the tongues of the Unseen, and you will answer to them."
Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled, and the shadows flared outward, forming a wall of writhing, hungry shapes. Lyra swung her sword in a defensive arc