The crystal heart of Aethermoor pulsed with a sickly amber glow, its once-brilliant radiance now dimmed to barely more than candlelight. Princess Lyra pressed her palm against the cool surface of the Eternal Flame's housing, feeling the irregular rhythm that had plagued the kingdom for months.
"How long do we have?" she asked without turning around.
Master Aldric, the kingdom's eldest mage, shuffled closer with his gnarled walking staff clicking against the marble floor. "Days, perhaps a week at most. The magic that has sustained our lands for a thousand years is finally failing."
Lyra closed her eyes, remembering when the crystal had blazed so bright it could be seen from the furthest villages. Now, crops withered in the fields, the protective barriers around their borders flickered, and worst of all, the healing springs that had made their people legendary for their longevity ran dry.
"There has to be something we can do," she said, finally facing the old mage. "Some ritual, some forgotten spell—"
"Child," Aldric interrupted gently, "your father and I have consulted every tome, every ancient scroll. The Eternal Flame was lit by magic we no longer understand, powered by forces that have been forgotten for centuries."
Through the tall windows of the crystal chamber, Lyra could see her kingdom spread below. Aethermoor had always been a place of wonder—floating gardens that defied gravity, buildings carved from single gemstones, bridges of solidified moonlight spanning impossible distances. But now, the floating gardens were settling to earth, the gemstone buildings were cracking, and the moonlight bridges flickered in and out of existence.
"What of the neighboring kingdoms?" Lyra asked. "Surely King Varek of the Ironlands or Queen Selene of the Coastal Realms would offer aid?"
Aldric's expression darkened. "I fear they see our weakness as opportunity. Already, Varek's armies mass at our eastern border, and Selene's ships patrol our harbors with increasing boldness."
A commotion in the corridor outside interrupted them. Heavy footsteps and the clank of armor approached at speed. Captain Thorne, head of the royal guard, burst through the crystal chamber doors.
"Your Highness," he said, breathing hard, "a messenger has arrived from the Shadowlands. He bears the mark of the Void Walkers."
Lyra and Aldric exchanged glances. The Shadowlands had been sealed beyond the northern mountains for three hundred years, ever since the last great war. The Void Walkers were beings of pure darkness who had nearly consumed the world before being banished.
"Bring him," Lyra commanded.
The messenger was unlike anything she had ever seen. Tall and gaunt, wrapped in robes that seemed to absorb light itself, his face was hidden beneath a hood that cast shadows deeper than natural darkness should allow.
"Princess of the Dying Light," the messenger spoke in a voice like wind through empty tombs, "my master extends an offer."
"I'll hear no words from the shadow realm," Aldric stepped forward, his staff beginning to glow with protective magic.
The messenger laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Your magic is weak, old man. Soon it will be nothing at all." He turned to Lyra. "My master knows of your kingdom's plight. He offers a solution."
Despite Aldric's urgent gestures to remain silent, Lyra found herself asking, "What solution?"
"The Eternal Flame can be rekindled, made stronger than ever before. Your kingdom could become a true empire, with magic enough to conquer all the lands that now threaten you."
"At what price?" Lyra demanded.
"Simple. Open the Shadowlands. Let my master's people walk free once more. In exchange, unlimited power for your realm."
"Never," Aldric snarled. "The Void Walkers nearly destroyed everything once before."
The messenger turned his hidden gaze to the failing crystal. "Look around you, mage. Destruction comes whether you choose it or not. At least this way, something survives."
"Leave," Lyra said quietly. "Tell your master the answer is no."
"As you wish," the messenger bowed mockingly. "When your people are fleeing before foreign armies and your crystal heart gives its final beat, remember this moment. We shall not offer again."
He turned and walked away, his form seeming to dissolve into shadow as he departed.
"We need another solution," Lyra said once he was gone. "And we need it soon."
Aldric nodded grimly. "There may be one path left to us. But it would require a journey to the Forgotten Isle, where the first Eternal Flame was kindled. The legends speak of a backup source, a secondary crystal that could reignite our own."
"Then we go," Lyra said without hesitation.
"The journey is perilous, and the location has been lost for centuries. Few who have sought the Forgotten Isle have ever returned."
Lyra looked once more at the dying crystal, then at the kingdom beyond the windows. "Then we'd better start looking."
## Chapter 2: The Unlikely Alliance
Three days later, Lyra stood at the harbor disguised in simple traveling clothes, a hooded cloak concealing her distinctive silver hair. Only a small group knew of her departure: Aldric, Captain Thorne, and her father, King Aldwin, who had aged years in the days since the messenger's visit.
"You should take a full guard," Thorne argued for the dozenth time.
"A large group would draw attention," Lyra replied. "Besides, we can't spare the soldiers with Varek's armies so close."
She had chosen only two companions for the journey. The first was Finn, a young scholar who had discovered the most recent references to the Forgotten Isle in the deepest archives. The second was Kira, a former thief turned royal scout, whose skills at moving unseen were legendary.
"The ship is ready," Kira reported, nodding toward a modest fishing vessel. "Captain says he can get us to the Outer Reaches, but he won't go further. Too many stories of ships that sailed into the mists and never returned."
As they prepared to board, a commotion erupted behind them. A small group of travelers was arguing with the harbor guards. Lyra recognized the accent immediately—Ironlands.
"Let us pass," a woman's voice commanded. "We have business in the Outer Reaches."
Lyra gestured for her companions to wait and moved closer to observe. The group consisted of four people: a tall woman in worn leather armor, a massive man with the distinctive red beard of the northern clans, a slight figure whose gender was impossible to determine beneath heavy robes, and most surprisingly, a young man who bore the royal crest of the Ironlands.
"Prince Marcus?" Lyra whispered to herself.
The prince of the Ironlands was arguing with the guards, insisting they had legitimate business beyond Aethermoor's waters. Lyra made a quick decision.
"Let them pass," she called